Summary: The Berserker marked you as his prey, sparing you while others fell. Whispers said you had bewitched the beast, but in truth, his ritual was not a game of death, it was a bond.
The air was thick with heat, heavy with the smell of rot and damp leaves.
You had grown used to the sounds of the jungle by now, the shrieks of unseen birds, the rustle of unseen creatures, the constant reminder that nothing here was ever still.
But what haunted you most were the silences, the way everything seemed to hold its breath when he was near.
The Berserker.
You had first seen him when the others were picked off.
Men and women with guns and training had fallen in minutes, gutted or shot through as if they were toys.
Yet every time you stood exposed, heart hammering, he let you go. He would stand there, vast and armoured, his mandibles twitching as if amused, then he would vanish back into the trees.
At first, you thought it luck, then mockery, then perhaps some cruel experiment. But by the fourth time he spared you, you knew it was something else.
And so did the others.
“You are marked,” whispered one of the survivors, eyes wide with fear. “He hunts you but never kills you. He will not stop. You belong to him now.”
You had laughed bitterly at the idea.
“I belong to no one.”
Yet deep down, part of you knew. He had chosen you.
It came to a head on the sixth encounter.
You had been running from one of the smaller hounds, panting and bleeding from a cut across your arm.
The creature lunged, but before its jaws closed on your throat, a plasma bolt ripped it apart.
You stumbled back, staring as the Berserker stepped into the clearing. His size blotted out the sun above, his mask gleaming. He stepped closer, his weapon lowering as he loomed over you.
Your hands shook as you gripped a stone for defence.
“Why?” you demanded, breath ragged. “Why do you keep saving me?”
He tilted his head, the red beams of his mask scanning your face. He gave a low, clicking growl.
Then he touched his chest with one clawed hand, then pointed it at you.
“Mine.”
The word was guttural, broken, yet clear.
Your heart stopped.
He had spoken.
A claim.
You took a step back, trembling.
“I am not yours,” you said, though the way your voice wavered betrayed you.
He stalked forward another step, and again said, firmer this time.
“Mine.”
You ran away.
That night, you dreamt of him.
Not of claws tearing you apart, but of the strange protection he had given you.
Of the way he had pulled you back from death, time and time again. You hated the way your body remembered the safety of that moment, as if some ancient instinct whispered that you were safer with him than with your own kind.
Days passed, and you learned the truth of his ritual.
He shadowed you from the trees, never letting you out of his sight. When another human tried to strike you down for slowing the group, his corpse was strung up in the branches before the hour ended. When water was scarce, you awoke to find a gourd left near your camp.
Always from him.
Always silent.
Finally, you confronted him. You walked into the clearing where he waited, arms folded as if expecting you.
“Why me?” you demanded. “What makes me different? There are others stronger, faster, smarter.”
His mandibles spread, not in threat but in something almost like a smile. He stepped closer and crouched, lowering himself so his mask was level with your face.
With surprising gentleness, he raised a clawed finger and tapped it against your chest.
“Heart,” he rasped. Then he tapped his own. “Same.”
You froze.
He was not just hunting you. He was recognising something.
The others began to fear you more than him. Whispers followed you, mutterings that you were in league with the monster.
One night, a desperate survivor tried to slit your throat in your sleep. He never got the chance. The Berserker tore him apart before your eyes, then turned to you with a low hiss.
“Safe,” he said, gesturing to you, then to himself.
You swallowed hard, staring at him.
“With you?”
He nodded once.
Something in you gave way then. Against all reason, all sense, you stepped forward and placed your hand on his arm. The armour was rough under your fingers, but the warmth under it was real.
He stilled, as if stunned that you dared to touch him, then slowly, he curled his massive hand around yours.
For the first time since your abduction, you did not feel alone.
The ritual of the hunt ended not with death, but with choice. When the final battle came, and the others either died or fled, you stood beside him. And when the fires burned out, and silence claimed the jungle, he did not leave you.
He lifted you into his arms, careful and deliberate, and when you asked in a whisper.
“Where now?”
“Together.” he answered simply.
And though the stars above seemed cold, you believed him.
