It was in these moments of silence, these moments of pure self-reflection did he truly think about his role. The moments of peace where one prepared for the coming storms the way a prepper would gather resources to survive whatever doomsday they fear, or an animal would gather food for winter. But he was not like that, no he prepared in a far different manner, his planning was that of a Killer, of a Butcher that killed daily without care. The Same way an assassin or hitman cleaned their weapons, maintaining lethal instruments daily, preparing for their usage, so did he.

His Blue-Red eyes calmly traced along the edges of his wrist blades, a cylindrical stone in hand, as he slowly began to sharpen every edge across the blades, mandibles relaxed into a neutral expression as he made sure every serration was sharp, every angle perfect, the edge as true and straight as possible, the stone gliding across the metal without even the faintest of sparks, because he did this daily, it was to be expected that his weapon was in perfect condition, yet he couldn't slack a single day, his mind refused to allow it. Then came the Shuriken, the disk rested in his hand without issue, fingers pressing to the pressure plates near the center, a calm flick of his wrist following, fingers spreading to avoid the rush of unfurling blades, the deep beaten training of a warrior allowing him to do such dangerous flourishes with an equally as dangerous weapon. The grind of stone and metal soon echoed once more, a rhythm ingrained into his mind as he seemingly felt his heartbeat in tune with it. This reminded him of his younger years, of when he and his father trained when he was alone and shunned by his people for being different.

Where other children would play, he trained simply because no one wished to be with him, shunning him for his heritage and color. Where others cried to their loved ones, he cried alone, not wishing for his mother and father to see him in such a weak state. Where others bled and begged for mercy in the arena, he simply clenched his fists and ground his knuckles raw across the jaws of his foes in the fighting pits. Where others Broke he did not. He could not break as one of the heirs, he refused to break in the face of adversity. He remembered those harsher memories so vividly, lessons that pained but hardened him, like when he faced his Blood Bond trial. The pain was so immense, the act of having one's Quills' forcibly fuzed into the thick dreadlock like appendages his species had on their heads felt like torture. Every Fleshy Strand was a sensory organ, the act of fusing them required an immense amount of heat and thin cutting to allow the flesh to combine, stranding itself into something stronger, something his kin used to sense the areas around them. If a Yautja cried out in pain, they would undo it, cutting the dreads apart and waiting for them to heal, and then they would start again. He and other young hunters had to each do it one by one, the others had forced him to go first like some sick game, wanting to see the 'Freak' and 'bastard' cry.

Yet he did not cry out, he did not beg for the Shamen to stop her work. He simply told her to go Faster. A sentence that shocked her and horrified even the other children, for to go faster was to cut and slice multiple at a time, to turn sore pain that would eventually fade, into burning agony, a pain that even elders shunned away from, and yet she complied. He simply clenched his jaws, eyes glaring at the children as she did her work because he refused to be their toy, their animal to do tricks for their amusement. The other children cried when their turn came, but he walked home alone, leaving them to their fates, his return surprising even his father with his feat of bravery and strength. Crying showed weakness, it was best to get all of it out at a young age, that was the purpose of the blood bond, to weed out insecurity and force their young to be strong… a shame the clan never planned for him to never have such petty weaknesses from the start.

Mon'Toane chuffed as he blinked and looked down at his hand, confused for a moment as he stared at a separate Shuriken now, eyes drifting to examine the other Five he has subconsciously finished off in his deep musing, his head tilting as he checked the edge of the Six blades that promised a bloody end to those that it touched, a volatile and lethal instrument few dared touch and handle, that was the weapon he held in his hand right now, a simple nod at their edge was all he gave, as he closed the temperamental weapon, resting it down with its siblings on the table.

In many cultures, keeping one's tools pristine and ready was a sign of proper warriors, the maintenance cleared the mind and brought fortune, it said. Not to Mon'toane however, for this was his job. He saw himself as every elite saw themselves, a 'Cleaner'. Their job was to make sure such outbreaks as these did not happen, and now he was to go in with others and fix it. This was his purpose as an elite, a tool for his clan to send out and wipe our Xenomorph hives and Bad Blood Encampments alike, a cure to some disease that needed to be fixed. His hand reached down to lift a hefty, segmented pack from the ground with almost religious and programmed movements, gently placing it down as he dragged a talon across the central seam of the kit, a hiss echoing as it opened to reveal dozens of tools lining its inside. He slowly pulled out a large syringe gun, fingers tapping the trigger as he reached down to tap his fingers across the dozens or so vials of clear liquids below the table on a rack of sorts, before he pulled one out. Pheromones, the same ones the serpents used to communicate with their Queen, the metal shaft plunging into it as he slowly began to pull out the liquids into the syringe. His cold eyes, a far different emotion to his normally warm ones, waited as he raised a finger to tap his claws across it, releasing the bubbles from the liquids as he did so.

The syringe gun shift, needle tip piercing into a small hole found on the side of his wrist bracer, his fingers clenching the trigger as his thumb pressed against the plunger, pushing the liquids into the scanner. A tracking syringe was the true name of this tool, meant to inject pheromones into a wrist-comp so that the hunter could track his prey with their biomasks. He placed the syringe down, fingers gently tapping and sliding across his wrist bracer, his hands sliding through symbols and patterns he memorized since his graduation into the Elite rank, calibrations to properly find the hive's queen was difficult, but his kind did this on a normal basis, this was nothing new to him at all, just another cleaning. Once done, he reached forward to examine a glowing blue cylinder, the strange device filled with a fluorescent liquid, one that would come in handy in this mission due to the liquid's corrosive nature to biomass, something the hive walls were normally formed from. Its true potential would not be used here, for it was just meant to clear walls and entrances, but maybe one day he will use it properly. His fingers glide down the surface to a familiar set of Five glass panels, all stacked vertically on the bottom of the pack, a self-destruct device built directly into the pack.

This was the Job of a cleaner, this Kit showing his nature without a single lie, a single half-truth, all the information was on display if one understood the purpose of such a kit. He was a killer, a butcher, and a savage to those that had learned too much, primitive societies, xenos, bad bloods, all of them faced a cleaner eventually in their lives, and it was usually the end of said life, for a cleaner was like Cetanu himself, a killer, the grim reaper, a specter that came to take your soul for you had seen too much to be allowed life. His mission now was to eliminate all traces of the hive, to make it so the scene was spotless, not a single trace of the wretched beasts, but perhaps the next was for bad bloods? Maybe a civilization too primitive to have advanced technology at such a 'Young' age, it mattered little to him when he was in this 'Mode' this persona so to speak. He caressed the panels softly, thinking to himself, soon. Soon it would be used in a way unlike the Liquids, or the allies and him entering the hive to fight.

Because unlike him, his allies, and most weapons and tools, when the day came. This Kit would be used to its Fullest Potential.