You see some pretty messed up stuff out here.  I remember when becoming a United Space Colonial Marine was a dream...  It's a nightmare...  Like I said, you see some pretty messed up stuff...  This is even more so true as a part of my unit, "The Hunters."  Being the best of the best of the best, we get set up with most Hellish assignments, but mainly, we hunt and exterminate threats to colonies...  Of course, this is usually a xenomorph infestation on the most godforsaken planet or a loose predator hunting party.  The really fun stuff is saved for scientific research colonies...  That's where we get to see the most messed up stuff:  pred-aliens, xenoborgs, and the failed experiments...  I guess if you can stand to see your best friend's face melt off from the bio-acid of a xenomorph without splattering your brains across the twenty other xenomorphs surrounding your unit, you can stomache to see someone else's best friend attempted to be infused with a predator or a xenomorph...  Or both...
	Our orders have us heading for another waste of company resources: Stallios Delta Ten.  It seems that company got some distress signal and immediately changed our orders from the usual bug hunt on a possibly inhabital planet to this barren waste colony.  Looks like we have another bug hunt, but this one is much more important for some reason.  That was about a month ago.
	We awoke from hypersleep yesterday at o'six-hundred to begin landing preparations.  We're planned to set down tomorrow at eleven-hundred and seek any survivors and kill anything else that moves.  The usual bug hunt.  Oh, and a supply cruiser was also sent to meet us here.  New supplies, fresh all-nutritious slop, and a prototype rifle:  The Beat Rifle.  Supposedly, this is going to replace the pulse rifle.  I'm not a fan of the name.  I guess someone was just trying to play off the idea of "pulse."  It's kind of nice, 150 rounds per clip, reload is said to be smoother than the pulse rifle, multiple grenade type capabilities, built in motion sensor and floodlight, laser targeting guidance, it's not supposed to jam like the pulse rifle does occasionally, and there's not much additional weight.  Problem is that none of us marines want to try it out.  We're just so used to the pulse rifle that I guess we don't trust this new gun with our lives.  They've got one for each of us on this unit, and our orders suggest we use 'em, but none of us want to go without the pulse rifle.  Captain ordered that one of us use it, so we drew straws.  Harris came up short, which is good for the unit.  He's not much of a shot with the pulse rifle compared to the rest of us.
	Tomorrow may be our last day to live, so I'd better get some sleep.  Tomorrow, we hunt.

*******

	Thu-thwump...  Noise.  Thu-thwump...  Promise of blood.  Thu-thwump...  Queen's blood.  Thu-thwump...  Thu-thump...  No...  Thu-thump, thu-thwump, thu-thwump.  My blood...  Must be free!  Thu-thwump-thu-thwump-thu-thwump-thu-thwump-CRACK!  Free!!!
	The xenomorph escaped the science officers chest in a violent burst of blood and bone, screaching with its first victory.  Leaping from the man's chest, it landed with cat-like grace upon the organic compound that covered the floor.  Then it shook the blood and gore from its body, wanting to see.  The praetorians were close.  Too close.  It ran.  The others would come after the abomination.  Somehow, this alien was not of the brood; with its own mind, it would not listen to the queen's orders.  Such was treason.  The penalty: Death.
	Of all their studies, Humans had declared that their race was quite simple.  Queens lived to breed and birth facehuggers.  Facehuggers found hosts to birth a xenomorph or praetorian.  Praetorians guarded the queen and xenomorphs lived to serve, building their hive and seeking hosts for the facehuggers.  This one was different.  This one did not live to serve.  This xenomorph was a hunter.  This xenomorph lived for still a sole purpose however.  The hunt.

********

	The ship hummed quietly, a slight side effect of the cloaking generator.  Yikthmak toyed with his spear as the three others gazed out the main viewport at the USCM Carrier.  They were completely unaware of the Predators.  He purred a series of clicks to the others, as such was their way of speach.
	[We did not anticipant this fortune.]  The others turned toward their leader.  [Many more trophies now await us.]  The youngest of the others nodded in agreement, while the others turned back to the viewport.  [We shall fight them on the battle grounds below, and we shall gain victory over the Red-Bloods as we fight against the Black-Ones!]  The youngest, nearly as ambitious as Yikthmak himself, pounded upon his chest and roared approval.  The other two still had no words.
	[We are the Hunters!]  Yikthmak called out, pounding on his chest and calling to Mylikad, their holy god of the hunt.

********