The Tuskless Hunter (Predator short)

[Elheru Aran]

Well, got some inspiration earlier from AvP...

Let me know what y'all think, eh? Incidentally, this is just the prologue to what I'm envisioning as a short story...

*********************

PROLOGUE

Inky black claws sliced through the air, sparking off the muscular alien’s metallic armour. Clawface twisted out of the way of the snarling xenomorph’s blows, parrying deftly with his twin wrist-claws. The humid jungle air went cold for a second as the kiande amendhe—‘hard meat’, in the tongue of Clawface’s people—lanced its razor-sharp tail at him. More nimbly than you would think considering his great bulk, Clawface leapt above the jab and as he landed, three darts sliced their way through the alien’s torso. It roared, slashed futilely at Clawface, and as he pinned it to the wall with his combi-stick, flung its tail in a last blow at its opponent.

Through some unfortunate happenstance, the edge of the tail penetrated Clawface’s abdomen, and he reeled back in shock, clutching his belly as fluorescent blood leaked out between his fingers. It was by no means a fatal blow—not to Clawface, at least. His bloodline, on the other hand, would not continue, for the now-deceased xenomorph had unwittingly castrated him, run its edged tail through Clawface’s gonads. Behind his one-eyed mask—the left eye glinted with an unearthly icy blue tone, while his right eye was the normal muted tone of Predator helmets’ visors—mandibles yawned in agony, and as he staggered through the ruined door of the decrepit room he was in, pain etched every line of his body.

Up against the wall, in a gruesome parody of the crucifix hanging about her neck, a woman writhed in pain. Seeing Clawface, she pleaded, knowing not his alien descent, “M-mercy… kill… me… please…”

Clawface ignored the white woman’s appeal for mercy, and instead with a twitch of his mutilated left mandible, his mask’s vision switched to thermal imaging. A xenomorph youngling was within her chest, gestating—and hatching.

With a shower of blood, as she jerked gruesomely, it burst forth; Clawface’s hand darted forth, and yet before he had reached the end of his arm he knew that he had missed it. The flesh-colored chestburster snarled obscenely as it landed in a mass of bedclothes, from the torn and befouled bed lying in a shambles at one side of the room.

Reaching behind one of his chest armour plates, he pulled out a wicked dagger; painfully making his way to the rumpled heap of cloth upon the floor, he prepared to draw them back and stab whatever he found within, when a sudden squeal startled him.

Hobbling back outside to retrieve his combi-stick, he reached out with it and twitched aside the cloth. Before his shocked eyes, he saw the source for the squeal—the chestburster writhed in the hands of a young boy, merely a toddler, who was slowly breaking it, a look of infantile anger upon his face. With an audible >snap<, its spine suddenly gave, and with a final lash of its tail it expired. The child flung it aside, shouted “Bad! Bad!” after it.

Clawface gazed at the youngling, and as it looked up at him, defiantly, a grating rasp issued from beneath his mask—his version of a chuckle. <So the pyode amendhe youngling is a strong one, then?> He reached out a scaly hand, and caressed the child’s head, his pain forgotten for a moment. The boy, momentarily intimidated by the cold metal visage above him, stared for a second and then resolutely thumped Clawface’s arm with his small fists. The Yautja cocked his head, squatted down upon his haunches, and detached some hoses from his mask, then pulled it off.

The child stared at Clawface’s fanged maw, flanked by torn mandibles and a massive scar along the left side of his face. The eyes, one dark and unblinking, the other milky white, stared inquisitively at the infant. He hissed-- <You are not afraid, are you? No, I did not think so…>

Under the unblinking stars in the California night sky, a human hand reached out and turned off the red hologram.

In the warm, humid environs of a Yautja hunting ship, many light-years across the galaxy, a clawed hand reached out, and turned off an identical hologram.

Two faces turned outwards, gazing at the stars. Tusk-less, his visage human behind tattoos and a large scar on his forehead, was unemotional. Clawface’s mandibles, the tips worn after many years of the Hunt, were unreadable.

And Tusk-less put his wristguards into a bag, pulled on the unfamiliar human clothing, and began walking down the road towards the great city in the distance.

[LadyTevar]

Now this is interesting indeed. I say run with it and see how this Ugly Duckling tale goes.

[Shroom Man 777]

Oh crap. That was awesome, dude.

And it's wrist-blades, BTW.

[Elheru Aran]

Thanks for the comments... so does anybody have any ideas, hmm?

[Lindar]

Thanks for the comments... so does anybody have any ideas, hmm?

He needs a pet!?

[Elheru Aran]

More...

As always, input appreciated!

****************************

Many great conveyances, hulking masses of metal upon rubber wheels, hurtled down the road as he proceeded. Having been instructed that these were merely the human method of moving passengers, cargo and materials over land, he paid them no heed. It was then a surprise when one of them braked alongside him and pulled over on the shoulder, forcing him to jump aside nimbly to avoid being crushed.

The entrance hatch popped open, and a head poked out, wearing a curious billed cap. The human called out in a tongue unknown to Tuskless, yet strangely familiar—“Hey, ya need a ride into town?”

Tuskless cocked his head curiously, but once the human gestured to the large flat open box behind the closed box within which he and the person piloting the conveyance were sitting, he comprehended. He carefully placed his bag into the box so that his armour wouldn’t clank, and jumped lithely into it, then nodded to the humans, and they set off.

As they rode, the air ruffled through Tuskless’ braids. He remembered, as in a dim memory, the days of his growing up on the Hunt craft…


Clawface took the pyode amendhe youngling to the pickup point. The other Yautja, returning with their various trophies—many Hard Meat parts, and some lion or leopard skins—gave him featureless looks through their masks, but said nothing. Once the ship settled down on the hard earth of the mission yard, the others entered without a backward glance.

He looked down at the child. <Do you want to come with me, youngling? Shall you learn the ways of the Yautja and come on the Hunt when you are of age?>

The boy, wide-eyed, nodded mutely, not understanding a word but Clawface’s gesture towards the ship made it obvious. They stepped onto the ramp, only to be stopped by an Elder. The old one hissed, <What are you doing, Clawface? The youngling is not of us. He may not come on the Hunt.>

<Old one, I cannot spread my seed; the kiande amendhe I took has seen to that. This way, some of my Hunt shall live on. And, old one, he is a strong youngling—he killed a kiande amendhe youngling, with but his hands. >

The elder growled in thought. Finally, he snarled, <So be it, Clawface. But he is yours alone, and he shall not mingle with our young. If he lives, then he lives; if he dies, he dies.>

He then stepped aside and permitted Clawface and the boy to enter.

The next few years were a huge blur… receiving a mask so he could survive in the higher-oxygen atmosphere of the Yautja craft… having his quarters cooled so he wouldn’t dehydrate from the warmth of the ship’s interior… being constantly shoved about by the younger Hunters, who would then get snarled at by Clawface, who usually had to make sure he wasn’t hurt by the great strength of the Yautja.

The day he received his first piece of armour was a great honor, a vivid memory. The Hunt craft had stopped upon one of the Yautja worlds to collect kiande amendhe eggs to seed upon deserted worlds in order that they could come back and seek their prey. He was but ten cycles old.

An egg had burst open; the stasis field upon its canister had apparently failed. The facehugger within leaped out at an Elder; the youngling, who had been sent to fetch Clawface’s throwing disc, instinctively stepped forwards and flung the edged blade. It bisected the facehugger in a spray of acid and buried itself in the wall across from him.

The Elder twitched his carved mandibles and peered beadily at the youngling, who quickly pulled off his mask and bent his head respectfully.

The old one held out his hand, and a hunter quickly picked up the dead facehugger, ripped off a leg, and placed it within his hand. When the youngling saw the old one extend his other hand, he awkwardly disconnected the oxygen scrubber tube from his mask and placed the mask in the Elder’s grasp.

A squeeze upon the facehugger’s leg dripped acid upon the forehead of the mask; a few minutes of careful drawing with the claw produced a glyph.

Obeying a gesture from one of the hunters by the Elder, the boy advanced forwards cautiously. Aside from a narrowing of the eyes and a clenching of the jaw, there was no sign of pain upon his face as the xenomorph blood etched the same glyph permanently into his forehead.

Tuskless felt his forehead and the smooth scar tissue of the glyph, stretched and tightened by growth, was yet there. They slowed down as they passed a large sign—“Welcome to Los Angles, California”. Pulling over, the human got out and, leaning on the side of the box, he said apologetically, “Sorry… my buddy Jerry up front, he doesn’t think you look too good. We don’t want the cops bothering us, ya know? No offense, but you’ll have to walk the rest of the way…”

Tuskless tried out some of the language which he had learnt by eavesdropping upon conversations when the Hunt ship passed by Earth—“Oh-kayy.”

The human nodded, relieved, and was getting back into the cab of the pickup when he turned and inquired, “Say, that’s a weird accent you’ve got there… where ya from?”

He blinked, puzzled, and tried out another set of words—“Au-straah-laa?”

“Oh, Aussie, are you? Well, best of luck to ya, mate!” And they set off, leaving Tuskless standing by the road, clutching his bag, bewildered.

[Kuja]

Huh. I kind of like it. sort of parallels one of my own ideas for a Predator story. I'll be keeping an eye on this.

[Shroom Man 777]

Crikey!

So...can we see him kill everyone now?

[LadyTevar]

Fantastic job. Keep it coming, I want to see where you take this.

[Crazedwraith]

Sweet. An interesting and well executed concept.

[Shroom Man 777]

Fantastic job. Keep it coming, I want to see where you take this.

Ya know, I never really thought you were the type who liked Predators and Aliens and all. For some reason...

[Elheru Aran]

Chapter 3...

*********************
Many hours later, Tuskless was in the great city. Under the sky, which was beginning to brighten with sunrise in the distance, buildings of steel and glass towered; he himself was in a poorer area, littered with refuse and the leavings of human existence. Dark-skinned young males, wearing bright-colored baggy clothing, loitered about the place, occasionally bursting out with some peculiar chanting—“Yo, fo’ shizzle ma dizzle!” and variations thereof.

Tuskless ignored them, and continued upon his way, seemingly oblivious but actually receiving all that he saw and heard and categorizing the information of his new world in his memory. Hefting his bag upon his shoulder, he passed a large, low garishly painted conveyance, covered with profligate amounts of extraneous polished metal, against which a group of the dark young males were leaning, bobbing their heads to more of the chanting, which was apparently issuing from some kind of communicator within the conveyance. He gave the males a contemptuous look—in only a few minutes of walking through this area of the city he had already heard more than enough of the chanting than he ever desired to hear again, and furthermore their garb was obnoxious in its excess of cloth.

As he passed, a voice shouted at his back—“Hey, what da hell iz ya doin', nig? Don't diss us, or it's yo' ass! all ye damn hood ratz…”

He halted, and turned his head slowly, the slick braids of a warrior sliding across his shoulders. Tired, irritated, he chose the briefest course of action: he lifted up his fist, and then slowly raised his middle finger (he presumed that was an insulting gesture, as at one crossing of the road he had seen that used multiple times as he strove to avoid speeding conveyances). Dropping his hand, with a disdainful fling of his hair, he stepped forwards.

And when he heard an angry shout, and a hand grabbed the strap of his bag, he likewise gripped the shoulder strap and thrust forwards, simultaneously leaning forwards and kicking backwards sharply. The breath whoofed out of his assailant, whose grip was promptly tore loose as he was flung backwards at high speed, bowling over one of his confederates, who were coming to his aid.

Tuskless snarled, and dropping his bag fumbled with the zipper; but, clothes flapping, the blacks were upon him. He reached out and grabbed, with both hands, a huge fistful of cloth—not all cloth, his right hand had a fair amount of dreadlocks, and that unfortunate squalled as he was flung aside. A large, powerful foot impacted another’s face; grabbing one in a headlock, he leapt up and thumped his knee into the head of the guy besides him, who was reaching into his jacket for some weapon. Nimbly, the young warrior returned to his feet, and with a twist of his arm and a thrust of his knee, the last of his attackers was bent backwards into a bow, with an agonizing >crrrrrrack!<.

Releasing the twitching body, he bent to open his bag. He rummaged within, and pulled out a knife, corroded and covered with dried, encrusted ichor. About to put it back, he paused…

The day of his first hunt had been one of great pride.

Being only fifteen, he was yet small, but incredibly athletic, and much more nimble than the normally fast Yautja young. His sculptured body, lithe under its load of leather youngling’s armour and his helmet, flashed through the undergrowth of a Hunt planet. In the trees, using his superior strength and experience, Clawface leapt through the arboreal canopy.

They came upon a clearing, and hearing a sibilant hiss in his earbud, the youngling—for he had not a formal name yet—instantly stopped stock still. Then another hiss issued forth—across from him, in a clump of bushes. A clawed limb reached out, and parted the branches, as an evilly formed head ventured forth. The slit-pupilled eye of the dinosauroid blinked not as it gazed about the clearing. Eventually, the rest of it appeared—eight feet in height, two powerful hind legs with razor-sharp killing claws, and a thick, corded tail stretching out behind it.

The boy moved not still, until a guttural rasp in his earbud sounded-- <Go, youngling.>

Slowly—oh ever so slowly—he drew his blade, dulled to prevent chance reflections, with an edge dangerous enough that one could cut their fingers off and not know it till they saw the blood spewing.

A branch snapped in the canopy, and Clawface, cloaked, tumbled out, bellowing profanities in the Yautja tongue. The dinosauroid snarled, and leaped—and the youngling met him mid-leap, turning off his cloak in flight.

His feet, held together firmly, struck directly into its trachea, crushing the cartilage. It gasped, gurgled, and struck out like lightning with its foot, claw held forth to disembowel the boy in an instant.

The child twitched aside, and with a sweep did to the great creature what it had hoped to inflict upon him—emptied its abdomen. As steaming intestines spilled upon the jungle floor, it gurgled mightily, and in a weak, futile last gesture, lashed out with its claws. The boy simply held out his hand grabbed the claw. When he felt it shudder, he waited a moment and then bent to his task.

Clawface materialized, cloak crackling as it dissolved about him, and the youngling knelt, removed his helmet, and offered forth the dinosauroid’s skull, still dripping gore. The Yatja’s mighty hand stretched forth and lifted the skull; his featureless helmeted visage inspected it minutely, and then observed the corpse, which was already being attended to by the insects. He bent his head to the boy, and returned the skull to the youngling’s eager grasp.

They cloaked, and leapt off into the jungle, heading back to the dropship.

And he dropped the knife back into the bag as flashing red and blue lights rounded the corner, and males dressed in blue leaped out of their conveyances, leveled hand weapons of some sort, and shouted menacingly. He stood, spread his hands out to his sides as they advanced…

[Lindar]

*claps* awww the poor thing! He's got no idea does he?

[LadyTevar]

Oh god.. the cops see the stuff inside that bag and they'll go ballistic.

[Shroom Man 777]

Dizzle ma shizzle ma nipple ya wigger! Word. Dat muthafuckin sheeit biotch!

Dinosaurs. Predators. Gangstas getting their asses kicked, awesome!

[CaptainChewbacca]

How old was he when he was taken by the Lijuta?

[Elheru Aran]

How old was he when he was taken by the Lijuta?

About one and a half, why?

Incidentally, if you're wondering about the time frame, the child was taken sometime in this decade; he returns about twenty-two years later. I don't think there'd be *too* many advances in that time frame...

[CaptainChewbacca]

How old was he when he was taken by the Lijuta?

About one and a half, why?

Incidentally, if you're wondering about the time frame, the child was taken sometime in this decade; he returns about twenty-two years later. I don't think there'd be *too* many advances in that time frame...

Well, I was just trying to figure out how he showed himself to be brave or whatever made them take him. Where was he taken from, also?

[Kuja]

Rock. On.

[Crazedwraith]

Rock. On.

Dit. To.

[Elheru Aran]

Well, I was just trying to figure out how he showed himself to be brave or whatever made them take him. Where was he taken from, also?

A mission/medical station in the Congo jungle; the Predators basically fucked up, dropped some xenomorph eggs on Earth by accident, and were cleaning up-- used it as an opportunity to have a little Hunt of their own. The way I see it, since Clawface was castrated by the xenomorph's last strike, and the boy was able to kill the chestburster with his bare hands (I reckon since the chestburster was a baby, its skeleton hadn't hardened yet), Clawface saw an opportunity to survive in some way, so he adopted the boy and raised him as a Yautja (incidentally, Lijuta? Where'd that come from?).

[Dartzap]

Very good so far El!

perhaps after this short story, you can get back to your others? yes?

[Junghalli]

Incidentally, if you're wondering about the time frame, the child was taken sometime in this decade; he returns about twenty-two years later. I don't think there'd be *too* many advances in that time frame...

From the intro I figured it was going to be set around the same time period as the Alien movies.

[Elheru Aran]

Incidentally, if you're wondering about the time frame, the child was taken sometime in this decade; he returns about twenty-two years later. I don't think there'd be *too* many advances in that time frame...

From the intro I figured it was going to be set around the same time period as the Alien movies.

Er. Well, aside from their space travel and some weapons and flight technology, Alien-verse never really struck me as being particularly far advanced above our current level of technology... I always thought of this story as being somewhat in the near future anyway. Alien is what, 2100's? 2200's?

[Jason von Evil]

Elheru, keep this up and you'll become the next Stravo. Damn fine story. I wonder what his mask looks like.

Reminds me of these Starcraft fanfics were a Protoss would find a Terran child (who would have psionic powers) and raise him to be a zealot. I was tempted to write one myself.