A soundless, cynically-dispassionate voice which doesn't seem to have a source broadly tells every New Hire within a few hundred feet, <Be on your alert for mid-sized hostile creatures. They are very fast and have highly corrosive bodily fluids. As expected, we are operating on splendid intelligence.> It's a broadcast without any receptive element, one-way, not even able to tell if anyone else can hear it.

In the room Alloran has just cleared jumpers lie dead, cleaved in half. Stronger-looking webbed up humans have been cut loose and are stirring, but others have recent sliced throats and were stabbed between the ribs.

Alloran himself, outside, is vaguely disconnected or dissociated from his body. There are pain signals, intense but not weighted as they probably should be, and a certain intent satisfaction in fighting.

He's killed one xenomorph outright and maimed another, a pair that had spit off a few minutes ahead of the collective noun for xenomorphs. The live one is a bad sight, gashed and with a hand and foot severed, still a hazard to the unwary. Alloran is not looking a whole lot better, its blood eating through his fur and skin. The last third of his tail is curled weirdly with bone showing and the blade looking ready to fall off. The smell is not good.

They are kind of circling each other as Alloran gauges whether it's better to try to pull back and attempt to use the unfamiliar equipment made for human hands that he's got on his back, or close to trample it. One stalk eye is making sure of where he steps. The other is listing, splashed and useless.