The Fallen moved ahead of him, taking up position on the crest of the hill overlooking the abandoned hamlet. She raised the scope of her rifle to the lenses of her helmet, sweeping the derelict ruins in the distance, making him wonder which of her four eyes she was actually using.
“You see anythin’?” he asked skeptically. The Fallen – no, the Eliksni, that was what she always asked to be called – turned her head to peer back at him. She exhaled a puff of ether as she spoke, the glittering, blue cloud jetting from her rebreather.
“House Dusk banners fly,” she replied, her voice coming through her helmet with a synthetic timbre. He could hear her insect-like mouth parts clacking together with each syllable. “They camped here, but no longer. Our task is to secure, yes?”
“Friends of yours?” he chimed, walking through the grass to kneel beside her.
“Not friends,” she replied with a hiss of escaping gas. “Dusk are lost, they follow false Kells, reject the Great Machine.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed as he shouldered his sniper rifle. “I was joking. You know what joking is, right?”
He zoomed in on the purple banners that fluttered in the breeze, the tattered fabric adorned with alien symbols, but he saw no movement. There were beacons, crates of abandoned scrap, and a busted servitor lying in what had once been the town square. Wherever the Fallen had gone, they had left in a hurry. Maybe they had encountered another wandering fireteam – Guardians ranged all over the EDZ.
There was little left of their destination other than a few burnt-out buildings, the brickwork crumbling, plant life reclaiming the empty window frames. Devrim had tasked them with surveying the area, but it looked like the action was long over. Pity. He had a brand new SMG that he’d been itching to try out.
“Let’s move in,” he said, rolling his shoulders beneath his massive pauldrons. “Devrim won’t pay up unless we do a full sweep.”
“It is Glimmer that motivates you?” his insectoid companion asked as she strode along beside him.
“Random bugs squatting in the EDZ aren’t exactly an extinction-level threat to the city,” he scoffed.
“Guardians are cynical for ones so blessed,” she replied, hopping deftly over the rusted shell of a car. “Rissborn hatched under pink skies would give all for Great Machine’s favor, yet Guardians use its Light for games and jest.”
“Have you been watching the Crucible matches again?” he asked, glancing up at her. He was tall, but Siraaks was taller, having earned the rank of captain during her time aboard a House of Winter Ketch. She had since joined Mithrax and his House of Light, and she was allied with the Vanguard now. As used to her company as he had become as of late, she was still an intimidating sight with her line rifle in hand. He had been skeptical when Saint-14 had asked him to mentor an Eliksni, but she was surprisingly good company – and resilient for one without the Light. Her long years had given her a wit and confidence that he found appealing.
“This servitor, killed by human weapons,” she muttered as she knelt beside the derelict machine. Its round hull was pocked with bullet holes and blast marks, definitely the calling card of Guardians. There was similar damage on the brickwork of the nearby structures, pieces of them chipped away by stray rounds.
“Damn, it looks like we’re out of luck,” he grumbled as he leaned inside the nearest structure briefly. It was dingy, damp, overgrown with creepers that hung from the naked support beams. “I was hoping to tangle with some Fallen today.”
“Do not be so eager to shed blood,” Siraaks chided, placing one of her four hands on his shoulder. “Not all Eliksni are like those of Salvation or the Scorn. Most are desperate, hungry for ether, and will flee if given the chance. Those with only a single life seldom wish to risk it.”
“Well, we might as well take a look around,” he sighed. “If there’s nothing of interest, I’ll mark the location for Devrim, and we can move on. You take the top, I’ll take the bottom.”
Crunching broken glass underfoot, he made his way inside, his ghost materializing beside his helmet to illuminate the room with its flashlight. It looked like this place had been an old wine cellar before the collapse. The rows of shelves were mostly empty, save for a handful of dusty bottles, their labels too faded to be legible. Wine was supposed to taste better when it had been aged, but after hundreds of years, there wouldn’t be much left…
He heard a loud thud, glancing up to see dust rain from the ceiling. Siraaks must be exploring the room above him. After clearing the cellar, he made his way up a creaking staircase, one of the rotten steps breaking beneath his bulk. He caught himself on the banner, cursing under his breath.
His arthropod companion was waiting for him as he emerged onto the upper floor, lowering her rifle as she turned to glance at him. She had taken up position at a vantage point that overlooked the square below – a hole in the building where the brick wall had collapsed. Light flooded through it, illuminating the otherwise dingy room.
There was some old furniture – a wooden coffee table and some chairs that had mostly succumbed to termites – nothing of note.
“No sign of House Dusk,” she said, exhaling a cloud of ether vapor through her rebreather. “We have time. Why not rest?”
"I guess we could take five,” he replied. He made his way over to one of the chairs, sitting down on it cautiously, its frame creaking. It quickly gave out, depositing him on his ass, the old floorboards groaning under his weight.
Siraaks laughed, a chittering sound that he found oddly endearing, leaving her perch by the jagged hole.
“Immortality is yours, yet grace still eludes you,” she chuckled.
“You don’t need grace when you can headbutt your way through a Fallen Walker,” he replied, brushing himself off as he climbed to his feet.
“This, I have seen,” she conceded. “You would be more comfortable without that heavy armor, yes?”
"Oh, is that why you wanted to take a breather?” he asked as he watched her start to shed her armor. She stripped off her chest piece, the collar adorned with soft fur, the red cloak billowing as she lay it on the floor. Next came her tasset and greaves, the Eliksni soon standing before him wearing only her carapace.
Even after seeing her like this so many times, he was still struck by how feminine she was, how the curves of her alien body strayed close enough to the familiar to ignite a fire in him. What had first been guilty curiosity had developed into appreciation over time, and he now found himself admiring the way that the sunlight made her waxy shell shine, accentuating its contours. Her thighs were near as thick around as his torso, packed with powerful muscle, her stature making her hips as wide as even his broad shoulders. Her waist tapered into an hourglass, her flat belly covered over with interlocking plates that gave her some flexibility, their dull luster almost making them look wet.
Her breasts were situated between her upper and lower pairs of arms, an unexpected but very welcome feature. They, too, were coated in the same layer of protective carapace. They weren’t as tough as they looked – her shell was surprisingly soft and flexible in places, like polymer that had been brought to the very brink of melting. Between the plates was pink, tender flesh, the gap between her thighs drawing his eyes with a magnetic power. Siraaks had been anticipating this layover, a strand of glistening fluid dangling from between a pair of puffy lips.
“Do not make Siraaks wait,” she prompted.
“The helmet stays on, huh?” he asked as he began to unbuckle the belt that held up his mark.
“Did you not say that you were hoping to tangle with some Fallen?”
“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I can make it work,” he replied as he kicked off one of his boots. He felt a little foolish standing there half-dressed, nude below the waist, but these opportunities were so few and far between. They might not have a lot of time before someone came to check in on them, or a band of Fallen scavengers spotted that downed servitor.
“I will take the top, you will take the bottom,” she said as she walked over to place a pair of hands on his pauldrons. She eased him down onto the creaking floorboards, then lowered herself, kneeling over him. With a lower hand, she reached down to brush her fingers against his pulsing erection, guiding it between her thighs, her unarmored skin as smooth as silk. That droplet of excitement finally broke, dripping to his belly, the sight making him hotter than solar fire.
With her other hand, Siraaks spread herself open, exposing her rosy loins in invitation. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on down there – could be an ovipositor or some other alien organ for all he knew – but it felt like heaven when he was inside her. She was tight, slick, hot as hell for a creature that probably had cold blood.
Slowly, teasing, she impaled herself on his throbbing shaft. Her clenching insides greeted him with delicate folds and tantalizing wrinkles, the textures gliding down his length on a sheen of her fluids as she straddled him. Her warm reaches seemed to conform to his every contour, cradling him in a glove of slippery, velvet-soft flesh. She exhaled a cloud of ether with a comely sigh, taking a moment to get accustomed to the feeling of having him inside her, his head spinning with her every gentle motion. She was heavy – pleasantly so, her weight pinning him to the floor.
“You sure you didn’t belong to the House of Devils?” he gasped, the way that her depths contracted around his member robbing him of his breath. “Cos you’re workin’ some kinda black magic.”
“Hush,” she cooed, taking his hand as she began to move gently. “Magic? No. Siraaks is no Warlock. Siraaks is soft like eggcloth, tight like fresh molt, slick like engine grease. Lie back, and let Siraaks have her fill.”
“If you say so,” he mumbled, wincing as her pace grew greedier.
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