The Tuskless Hunter (Predator short)

[CaptainChewbacca]

This hasn't happened, before, but I had a dream last night where I was the Tuskless Hunter tracking xenomorphs in my hometown. No fanfic has done that to me, so keep up the writing.

[Elheru Aran]

.....Seriously?

I'm highly complimented...

Right now I'm winding up my school, moving out of my dorm, but I'll definitely get cracking on the story before long. I've already got some pretty good ideas of what's going to happen... so just keep an eye on this, eh?

[CaptainChewbacca]

.....Seriously?

I'm highly complimented...

Right now I'm winding up my school, moving out of my dorm, but I'll definitely get cracking on the story before long. I've already got some pretty good ideas of what's going to happen... so just keep an eye on this, eh?

I will, and believe me, I truly did have this dream last night, due largely to your fanfic I believe.

[Trekdestroyer]

Ok, I like what I see...and I encourage you to continue and who knows what might happen!

[Darth Lucifer]

Wow...very well written. A very enjoyable read.

[Elheru Aran]

Just a short update on the situation. I've been able to knock out a fair few more chapters here, and hopefully they'll be satisfactory. I may be able to post them come mid-June; I'll be going overseas for 2 weeks on Wednesday, so I'll be (obviously) highly unavailable. However, rest assured that this tale is being worked on, and may actually reach completion... perhaps even with illustrations!

~Elheru

[Elheru Aran]

At long last...

Enjoy, people!

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

Tuskless sat silently, brooding, hands handcuffed behind his back through the bars of the LAPD holding pen. His eyes, sharp in their intent, roamed about the holding pen, flashing over the various delinquents that the big-footed blue-coated gentry had brought in during the evening. Some were playing cards; others, in flagrant violation of the ‘No Smoking’ signs clearly plastered across the walls, were puffing away. Most were catching a bit of sleep, as the night had been long and it was gone day.

The men in blue had flung him to the ground, held their weapons to his head, and read something incomphrensible to him off a small yellow card before handcuffing his hands behind his back. One carefully lifted his bag and carried it to the hood of one of the white-and-blue painted conveyances with the flashing lights.

Sergeant Moody, a thirty-year veteran of the LAPD, had seen many oddities in his career but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of truly alien technology that he saw within the perp’s bag. The strange helmet that apparently was designed to cover the wearer’s face, the large wristguards (one with a set of spring-loaded blades), the heavy plating… everything in there… he hastily zipped it up, fast as he could, and threw it into the trunk of his police cruiser, making perfunctory excuses as to its contents.

Several hours later at the station, the bag’s contents spread across a desk and numbered, the police captain frowned mightily and gave Moody and Lt. Mutagh sharp looks before speaking, slowly and heavily, “Okay. Nobody breathes a whisper of this to anybody. Or I’ll have your badges here on this desk before the hour’s out. No excuses.”

Dismissing Moody and Mutagh, he picked up the helmet; staring at its skull-like visage, he tucked a bright cherry lollipop into his jaw and shifted it (he was trying to quit smoking). Quietly, he uttered, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well, Horatio…” Our captain was a lover of the Bard, apparently.

But the moment passed; tossing the helmet back onto the desk, he went back to his desk, rummaged through a drawer before pulling out a business card with a phone number scribbled on the back. Picking up the phone, he punched in the number and placed a call…

Day had passed. Tuskless had decided nothing was going to happen and was dozing for the moment, as the holding cell was presently empty (for a wonder). The door banged open, and instantly his eyes were open and muscles tensed, prepared for action. In stumbled a hopped-up maniac, filthy hair flying as he jumped back at the door, screaming unintelligible profanities at the officers who had thrust him within and were now going into the men’s room, disgusted expressions on their faces as they held their hands well away from their bodies.

Tuskless shrugged (the gesture was shared between the Yautja and humans) and eased back into his seat, unconsciously finding the established most comfortable position. His eyes remained sharp upon the crackhead, who was meanwhile staggering about the holding cell, mumbling inanely, brain thoroughly fried by his habit. Yet, somehow, unerringly his eye fell upon the sole other occupant of the cell-- Tuskless. He giggled inanely, advanced upon Tuskless, and inquired hysterically whether he had any rocks? for he could sure do with a fix!

All he received was a cold stare. The addict snapped; he charged at Tuskless… only to fall flat upon his face. A bench had been standing near Tuskless, and but a twitch of his foot was sufficient to send it into his barely-worthy adversary’s path. As he squalled, the guards fell upon him and escorted him out of the cell.

Tuskless rolled his eyes, eased back into comfort, and resumed dozing.

The door shutting startled the captain awake, and he dropped his feet down from the desk with a dull thud. He gave the new arrivals suspicious glances, and inquired just as suspiciously what their names were. The two black-suited gentlemen-- one young and black, the other aged and white-- looked at each other, expressions unreadable behind identical black sunglasses. The white one turned to him finally and stated flatly, “I am Agent Jay. This is Agent Kay. Where is this prisoner of yours? We would like to have a little talk with him. Oh, and who else is aware of him and the accompanying evidence?”

The captain blinked, mind still sleep-dulled, but to buy a little time he grabbed a lollipop-- watermelon this time-- and tucked it into his jaw. Easing back, he pulled out the card with the number that he had called earlier and held it up-- “I don’t recognize either of you. Another guy, way back, gave this to me… but ya know, he did have that black suit too… you wouldn’t happen to know him, would ya?”

Jay plucked the card from the captain’s grasp and gestured peremptorily for him to call Murphy and Mutagh into the office, which he did. Meanwhile, Kay carefully inspected each piece of Tuskless’ equipment, and then slid it into a large specimen bag. When Mutagh and Murphy were in the office, Jay quizzed them rigorously upon what they had seen of Tuskless and the alien equipment-- his eyebrow lifted when Murphy described how Tuskless had wiped the pavement with no less than five gangstas-- and then thanked them, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a strange device somewhat like a thick pen. “Please look directly at the red light…”

Through the police station, actinic flashes illuminated the rooms as other black-suited men carefully made sure that all officers and inmates’ memories were precisely wiped and replaced with innocuous recollections of their supposed experiences up to that point. Two agents discovered the holding cell, unlocked Tuskless (who, though bewildered, had been told of these men in black and therefore did not resist) and escorted him outside to a waiting vehicle.

Less than a hour later, Tuskless was plunked down hard into a seat before a table, in a empty room with a large mirror along one wall, a single lightbulb illuminating the chamber. Jay and Kay walked in, Kay lugging the bag; silently, they set up another table, and laid out the alien devices (Tuskless raged silently at these pyode amendhe touching HIS hunting equipment).

Finally, they pulled chairs out, took off their sunglasses and tucked them in their jackets, and Kay pulled out a small device from within his jacket that he unfolded and set up on the table. They then both put miniaturized headsets on, and crossed their legs.

Jay spoke first-- in English, and the device on the table spoke forth in Yautja-- <Are you not from the Liutja?>

<Ah! You know of the Hunters, then?> Tuskless eagerly demanded.

<Not so fast! You are pyode amendhe, like us, are you not? How is it one such as you joined the Liutja?>

Tuskless glared at Jay, and snarled, <Yautja. Do not make that mistake again.> He continued speaking, <I may be pyode amendhe on my skin and in my face, but I wear the braids of the Hunt, and I have taken much Hard Meat, much Soft Meat, and along my wall are skulls from fifty-six different planets! I am the Tuskless One, son of Clawface. Do not tell me you have not heard of me!>

<Yes, that may be so, but obviously you are no longer with the Liutja-- my apologies, Yautja-- why is this?>

Tuskless turned stoic and shrugged, face blank. Kay spoke-- <Well, Tuskless-- that’s your name, right? Right? Well, we’ll call you that anyway-- why are you here on Earth? Why not out hunting?>

Nothing.

They kept trying for two hours, but aside from the initial revelation of Tuskless’ identity, they gained nothing. The young human, forehead glyph stark against the tattooed background of his face, revealed nothing.

Finally, frustration evident even upon their normally unmoved faces, they departed, Kay complaining bitterly to the weary Jay. Tuskless inspected his equipment minutely, across the distance separating them. He began to get up from his chair, but with a sudden slam of energy he was flung back on his seat, as though a huge hand slapped him down. An automated voice, pleasantly feminine, uttered in perfect Yautja, <Please do not leave your seat. State your need and we will send an agent to see to it that your need is met. Thank you.>

Tuskless snarled menacingly in response, and with a click that sounded vaguely like a computerized shrug, the voice was gone. He settled back and brooded. Never, since the first time he had hunted the Hard Meat, had he been separated from his weapons…

[CaptainChewbacca]

Fascinating. Was the cop supposed to be Danny glover from Pred2, or from Lethal Weapon?

[Elheru Aran]

Fascinating. Was the cop supposed to be Danny glover from Pred2, or from Lethal Weapon?

Well, if that'd been him, wouldn't you think he'd have recognized the hardware sooner and had a few questions for Tuskless? Nope, the clue's right there... hint: lollipop. And no, it's not Telly Savalas.

[Shroom Man 777]

...Wow. Although hopefully Jay and Kay won't be as comedic as they were in the MIB movies, since I'd prefer this fic stay serious and all that.

[Elheru Aran]

Mm... only one response since Chewie? Tch. Oh well-- here's more!

##########################

He went down to the planet’s surface with two comrades, grudgingly earned; they were younger than he, as those of an age with him were disdainful of hunting with a pyode amendhe and had taken their Hard Meat long since. Tuskless wished he could hunt with his peers, but conceded that until he earned that right, he would have to do so according with his station. It had only been through much dint of persuasion that he had convinced the Elders to allow him to go through with this final stage in his maturation as an Yautja.

As per the age-old customs of the Yautja, he and his comrades carried but their wristblades, rations, knives, a cloak and a self-destruct charge. Three combi-sticks and a shoulder plasma-caster had been bound in the high canopy of a tree on the planet, with a locator beacon that would broadcast twice per night and once per day. The kiande amendhe were seeded about the tree. There were eighteen eggs.

Tuskless-- still known as ‘youngling’, as Clawface had not seen fit yet to give him a name-- Crak’la and Throatcut (so named for his preferred method of killing) descended in drop pods. If they navigated correctly, they could reach the tree in three days. The Hard Meat would hatch at approximately the same time their drop pods hit ground (they were engineered to crack when they sensed the impact of the pods’ landing). Whether the facehuggers seeded some of the native beasts within that time was another story, but the Yautja left such things to nature. There were plenty of worlds infested by the kiande amendhe if some young fools wished to go up against full-grown Hard Meat on their own.

The youngling stepped out of his still-sizzling drop pod, and immediately cloaked. Switching his helmet vision to ultraviolet sighting, he located Crak’la, with Throatcut climbing up the tree beneath him. A few nimble leaps brought them together in the heights of the looming jungle tree; they hunched over Crak’la, who had the locator for the beacon (which was set to broadcast when they landed) running. He pointed, <North by northeast, beyond those hills.>

<So, Pyode, can you keep up, then?> Throatcut jeered, deliberately using the nickname that the youngling hated the most, labeling him as though he was a creature to hunt. He bade his peace--though he seethed inwardly-- and they leaped off through the forest, cloaks rippling through the air. The casual observer might not have seen anything that could not be ascribed to leaves rustling in the breeze, or heat blooms from the hot and humid atmosphere.

Later that evening they met up before a fire that Crak’la carefully built, Throatcut wearing the still-gory dappled hide of some beast of the forest. The youngling frowned; he did not reckon it quite sporting to collect some other beast when the object was to harvest Hard Meat and earn their rights as an adult of the Yautja. Mentally, he shrugged-- if Throatcut wanted to waste his energy by collecting useless trophies, so be it.

After a short meal consisting of the less-than-tasty, but nourishing, rations that they had brought with them heated above the small fire, Crak’la bounded into the upper reaches of a large tree nearby, to keep an eye on their surroundings and prevent any surprises; the youngling and Throatcut found large branches, curled up and slept.

The next day was much like the last, except they had a furious argument about the direction they were supposed to head in; the youngling wanted to go direct, through the hills, while Throatcut wanted to avoid the extra exertion and bypass them. Eventually Crak’la weighted in on Throatcut’s side, and they went around the hills. When they bedded down-- with the boy as the watcher this time-- nobody slept. The facehuggers had had ample time to lay their eggs.

The dawn of the third day brought into sight their objective. The boy tightened his armour, as did Crak’la and Throatcut. Constantly switching vision modes as they advanced cautiously through the trees, wristblades out and held at the ready-- and Throatcut roared as a xenomorph leaped out of the darkness at him, bowling him over.

The next few seconds were a whirlwind of black claws, shiny-toothed snaps, darting tails, and flying acid. The youngling rose up from his ready crouch, rammed his wristblades through the forehead of a xenomorph leaping directly at him, as Crak’la beheaded another with a backhanded sweep of his blades; Throatcut leaped to his feet, having dealt with his Hard Meat, and flung his knife. It spun through the air, missing the youngling’s head by a braid’s width, and buried itself in the torso of a leaping kiande amendhe.

Crak’la howled-- they spun-- and beheld fluorescent green blood splattering about the place as a xenomorph snarled, and drove its tail deeper through the unfortunate youngster’s body. The youngling leaped, and with a sweep of his wristblades-- he thanked the gods that Clawface had been distinguished enough to afford acid-proof blades-- severed the alien’s tail. It snarled at him and darted its claws at his face; sidestepping, he drove a knife through its guts, and snapping his wrist back, the claws extended further, then driving his arm forward, the claws went through the side of the kiande amendhe’s head and out the other side.

Yanking his hand back, the xenomorph collapsed; Throatcut rushed over to Crak’la, and began asking him in rapid-fire Yautja of his condition. The boy snarled, <He’s had a kiande amendhe poke its tail through his guts. How do you think he is?!>

<Pyode, what are you saying? He is my friend! He is about to die!>

<This is the Hunt. If he cannot make it, so be it. I am sad, but we must press on. Crak’la?>

The wounded Yautja pulled his mask off, coughed up green blood, and yawned his mandibles wide, in pain-- <Yes. Leave me. I will attract the rest of the kiande amendhe, draw them away from you.>

Tuskless did a quick count; six xenomorphs laid on the jungle floor. <Twelve remain. Are you sure, Crak’la?>

Crak’la snarled-- <Yes, yes… go, get to the tree. Get the cannon and get out of the way-- I will use this when I feel there are enough kiande amendhe around for me to get rid of most of them…> and he caressed the self-destruct, on his left wristguard. The cover sprang open, and he began programming in numbers. He looked up and coughed-- <I will not set it off till you fire a shot from the cannon through the trees. You will have five katuun after that to get out of the way. Good hunting, brothers!>

The two of them responded in unison, touching the faceplates of their helmets-- <Good hunting in the Homeland, brother.>

They leapt away through the trees. Crak’la pulled himself over to the base of another and leaned back against it, snarling as the cut-off tail through his guts was twitched by a root in the way. His eyes fell to the counter on his wristguard, and with an effort he placed his finger upon the activation button. He would wait-- and meanwhile, he heard the kiande amendhe snarling, saw their teeth glittering in the darkness closing about him…

The youngling was the first to spot the prizes, dangling from a high limb of a stately giant of the forest. Almost immediately afterwards, Throatcut saw the plasma-caster and combi-sticks as well. They ran with renewed vigor, and kiande amendhe flowed out from the trees about them in a flood of black carapace!

Swift bounds brought them into the canopy of nearby trees; with a shout and a flash of his arm, the youngling severed a vine, and swung gracefully towards their destination. Sunlight suddenly shattered off a throwing disc, humming through the air, flung from Throatcut‘s hand; the boy roared impotently as it severed his vine, and he fell towards the seething mass of kiande amendhe below.

Twisting lithely in the air, he resorted to a trick of his own-- he rifled forwards his left arm and sprang a second set of wristblades. Falling among the Hard Meat, his arms and feet twisted into a blur of motion as he dealt out death.

Escaping the press of snarling bodies with a powerful leap, he rested in the fork of a tree, panting, and counted the bodies-- and parts thereof-- lying on the forest floor. Four down, and that left eight.

Hearing a bellowing, and Throatcut snarling in Yautja at his adversaries, he jumped through the canopy to a position where he could see his opponent-- no longer a comrade, for he had brought a weapon not permitted by the Hunt rules for passage rites (never mind that the boy’s second set of wristblades was not strictly kosher).

Throatcut was flailing away, clearly tiring-- streaks of fluorescent blood ran across his chest, and hoarse rasps of breath came from underneath the freshly-clawed mask. The youngling watched coldly for a moment, and then leaped, snared a vine, and climbed upwards, entering the great tree. His motion registered upon the thermal vision of Throatcut’s mask-- with a final slash, the Yautja youngling put paid to one of the Hard Meat (making it so five were left) and jumped up into the tree.

With a few powerful bounds, the stronger Yautja was on a level with the boy. Climbing up the opposite side of the tree, Throatcut hissed, <Pyode, have you no shame? First you abandon Crak’la, then you use a second set of wristblades? I shall enjoy spreading your skull before the Elders!>

<And does your honor extend itself to your flying blade?>

Throatcut did not respond, for they had reached the top limb. A rapid looking about by both revealed their objectives-- they leaped, grappled for a moment, and then both seized combi-sticks. A yank severed the sticks from the threads binding them to their branches, and a massive clang resounded through the forest as the boy and Throatcut went at it.

Combi-stick fighting is a fascinating blend of blade and staff forms, as the spear ends of the stick are razor-sharp, capable of penetrating stiff concrete when propelled with the strength of the Yautja. And as the stick is seven feet long when fully extended, it makes for a most useful staff weapon-- never mind the wristblades that an Yautja is never without, and often employs to devastating effect along with his wielding of the combi-stick.

One can then imagine how Throatcut and the human youngling fought-- first a great banging and clanging as they struck with the sticks, and then the youngling, knowing that Throatcut was more powerful than he by far, darts his wristblades when he sees an opening. A swift parry, and the youngling bends backwards, parallel to the branch they were balancing upon, as the glittering tip of Throatcut’s stick lanced past his face. He overbalances-- a swift kick of the leg-- and Throatcut, his feet cut out from under him, falls, seizing the branch with a hand as he falls.

The impact shakes the tree; the boy jammed his combi-stick down with such force that it came through the bottom side of the branch and came down straddle-legged upon the branch, with a hiss of pain but knowing that had he not slowed his impact with the combi-stick he would be in even more pain.

But he had no time to think about it, as Throatcut, his position precarious, flung his stick, and the boy twitched aside as blood flew from the sudden slash in his side. He yowled, scrabbled against the branch, and fell.

A desperate grab as he came down proved fortuitous-- he seized hold of his combi-stick’s spearhead, protruding through the bottom of the branch, and with a jerk that almost brought his arms out of their socket, his fall was brought to a halt. Just in time-- the kiande amendhe had finally scaled the tree, and were making leaps from lower branches, coming near their dangling feet.

Tuskless swung himself into a position where he could grab the branch he was dangling from with his feet, and twisted himself onto it. Once his feet were set, he leaped and grabbed a higher branch, and with a deft twist of his body flung himself upon it. A quick stab at his mask, and the optics zoomed in on the body of Crak'la, ripped apart by the kiande amendhe, its wristguard shattered. Beneath his mask, his eyes narrowed, and he hissed in frustration; and then he suddenly remembered the ancient rules of the Hunt—and Throatcut leaped at him, snarling.

Somehow he had regained his footing and climbed up to the youngling's level; a powerful swing opened up the boy's shoulder, and he stepped forwards as the human staggered backwards. He snarled, <Pyode.>

<Yes?> The youngling continued backing away, feet searching for a firm grasp upon the limb, eyes never leaving Throatcut's masked visage.

<You die. Now,> and he matched action to word, thrusting his arm forwards with a blow that would've gone through the weaker human torso like a knife through plastic wrap—but he punctured empty air. The youngling had merely stepped to the side, into thin air… above the branch to which the shoulder cannon was bound.

Throatcut roared, desperation and anger coloring his tones, and leapt—but too late. The boy had struck the cannon from the thin cord holding it to the limb, and slapped it upon the shoulder mount, activating his helmet tracking systems simultaneously. A casual leap backwards, and he stabbed his blades into the great trunk of the tree to keep his balance, cannon locked in unerringly upon Throatcut.

The craven young Yautja began pleading for his life—but no avail. In accordance with Hunt law, he surrendered his wristblades, helmet, armour, and even his clothing. The boy—nay, a full-fledged male by Yautja custom and rule now—left him but a small loincloth. As the pick-up ship roared into position above the tree, the man backed carefully onto its ramp, and jeered—"Who shall die now? Perhaps if you live, we shall return one day—make sure you live, then, and perhaps you shall be able to fight with honor then!"

Below, the kiande amendhe hissed as they began scaling the tree…

The elders received Crak'la's helmet with sadness—he had been one of the brighter young Hunters, if not one of the most intelligent—and were properly scornful when they heard of Throatcut's treachery. Clawface was greatly pleased—but the man sensed some disturbance in his surrogate parent's words of approval.

[CaptainChewbacca]

Well-done. The detective is Ving Rhaimes as Kojak, then?

[Shroom Man 777]

Did I ever tell you guys how I really really really like this fic?

[Elheru Aran]

Well-done. The detective is Ving Rhaimes as Kojak, then?

Excellent.

And your compliment is welcome, Shroomy...

And without further ado, unto the story!

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He jerked awake, hearing the smooth, modulated voice of the computer talking to him in perfect Yautja again—but not from a speaker this time. His eyes narrowed as they locked upon a petite pale young lady, wearing a dark, shimmering cloak hung about her shoulders, upon which a great mass of braids and the occasional bead laid, and strangely enough, chewing gum, snapping it loudly—and then they widened with shock when he saw the acid-etched scar in her forehead.

Insolently blowing an enormous bubble, she inquired, <Well, are you going to get up from there, or are you just going to sit there?>

He gave her a piercing stare in return, and grudgingly got up from the seat—no mysterious force slammed him back this time—and gestured to his equipment. <I suppose I am free to wear it here, then?>

He towered above her, but she shrugged, lumpy shoulders raising the glittery fabric of her cloak, and told him, <Do as you please. Your bag is on the floor under the table. But whatever you do, be quick about it. You have been granted resident alien status, contingent upon your good behavior under my supervision. I have even less desire to be your baby-sitter than I have to work here, so shall we get this over with soonest?>

He bristled at her sarcastically condescending tone, but decided to ignore her forthwith as he placed his armour upon his body, clamped his wristguards upon his arms, tucked an assortment of rather lethal-looking daggers about his body, decided to leave the shoulder-cannon alone for the moment, and finally, his hands caressed the familiar curves of his helmet mask as he snuggled it into position upon his head. A thrust of his tongue, and vision mode was engaged; a quick clench of the muscles upon the left side of his jaw, and he flipped through the ranges of vision available till he settled upon ultraviolet imaging. With a silent tilt of his head, he indicated that he was ready, and she shrugged and walked down the hallway with a flip of her cloak.

Following in silence, he observed her as he would any potential adversary. The cloak covered much; whether those lumps on her shoulders were natural or hidden armour, he could not say. But the scar on her forehead was an Yautja glyph, and he half-brought his hand up to his head, remembering his own. And she wore the braids as well, which he found exceedingly strange, as she was female—though warrior females were certainly not unknown, one of her size would not be a fighter, surely? Might it have to do with her being pyode amendhe? No, his mind snarled—if she is pyode amendhe, then so are you, but you are not—you are Yautja!

The boy—nay, man--had decided to pursue Clawface, and find why he was disturbed. One day he mustered up the courage, and crossing his spartan quarters, rapped upon his parent's door. <Honorable father, may I enter?>

The door opened silently, and Clawface was likewise silent, working upon an attachment for his wristguards—some kind of las-blaster, the boy tentatively presumed. He knelt upon his comfortable, well-used knee pillow that he had heard many a tale of glory, of great Hunts long bygone upon. But he shook himself—'twas not the time for such. He spoke up, struggling to get past the indoctrinated behavior code that he had learned since he was but a small one-- <Honorable father, f-forgive the presumption in talking to you before you grant me the privilege, but I-I must know. What bothers you so?>

Clawface sighed, his mandibles sagging slightly. He bent his gaze—which would be fierce to most beings, but to the boy, 'twas readable— to meet the boy's, and asked with difficulty, <Do thee consider thyself a true member of the Yautja, my son?>

<Of course, honorable father. Why would I not?>

<I have told you of the way I found you, and adopted you as my own, have I not?>

At the man's silent acquiescence, he hawked and spat expertly into the waste receptacle in the corner—his species' version of clearing their throats—and continued, <You need never fear that you will ever not be my own, but alas, the Elders are divided. While you were hunting the kiande amendhe, they were debating. Many long hours passed in their chamber as I awaited without.>

<Debating what, honorable father?>

<Whether you may or may not remain among us as one of the Yautja, my son.>

<What must I do, honorable father?>

Clawface silently picked up his wristguard and fumbled with it, his thick, scaly fingers being uncooperative in connecting the delicate join of circuitries (he had been using waldoes before). The male reached out, and his thinner, skin-covered fingers with their peculiarly useless flat claws on the end nimbly connected the circuits together, and added an extra join that would insure redundancy. Clawface nodded approvingly, and as he covered the exposed electronics and clipped the wristguard upon his left arm he went on slowly and carefully, <You must prove to the Elders that you are one of us indeed. You must hunt the pyode amendhe of your kind, and bring back trophies. No longer, then, will you be pyode amendhe—you will be Yautja in truth, in their hearts as well as yours and mine.>

[CaptainChewbacca]

I do not understand the term "pyode amendhe." Is it 'honored prey' or what?

[Elheru Aran]

I do not understand the term "pyode amendhe." Is it 'honored prey' or what?

"Soft Meat". "kiande amendhe" ('amendha' is another spelling) is their term for xenomorphs, "Hard Meat". Humans get a particular title because of their unusual ingenuity and their willingness to fight back, apparently, while xenomorphs get the 'Hard Meat' designation because, well, they're Aliens... don't ask-- I got most of my sources here from the comic books, as those are more or less the only sources on Predator society aside from what glimpses are discernible from the movies.

[LadyTevar]

I do not understand the term "pyode amendhe." Is it 'honored prey' or what?

"Soft Meat". "kiande amendhe" ('amendha' is another spelling) is their term for xenomorphs, "Hard Meat". Humans get a particular title because of their unusual ingenuity and their willingness to fight back, apparently, while xenomorphs get the 'Hard Meat' designation because, well, they're Aliens... don't ask-- I got most of my sources here from the comic books, as those are more or less the only sources on Predator society aside from what glimpses are discernible from the movies.

Kiande amendha because of the exoskeleton, I'd always thought.

Pyode amendhe is considered a tougher creature to hunt, possibly because we are sentient, and the Xenomorphs are hive minded.

[Sidewinder]

It seems that Tuskless was instructed not to resist the men in black. May I assume the Yautja have had dealings with MIB? If so, when did it occur, and what kind of agreement, if any, was made between the Yautja and MIB?

Would Tuskless be allowed to hunt humans under certain conditions, e.g., hunt Osama bin Laden and other criminals wanted dead or alive? Or would he risk becoming the subject of an MIB manhunt if he did so?

[Shroom Man 777]

Kiande amendha because of the exoskeleton, I'd always thought.

Pyode amendhe is considered a tougher creature to hunt, possibly because we are sentient, and the Xenomorphs are hive minded.

And because we've got fancy doohickeys that make us more or less even with them. The Yatuja kind of respect us, and I think that hunting humans is a rather rare event for them or something. *shrugs*

[Elheru Aran]

Update.

ALL my stories got put on a CD from my old computer. On the way, somehow or other, they got corrupted. So I'm gonna have to start anew on what I had going. And they were all pretty damn good too...

[Shroom Man 777]

Well, you can always salvage Tuskless from this thread

Really helps if you have multiple backups. Post them on the 'net, put 'em in a CD when moving, and then mailing some to yourself via a gmail account.