The scent of blood invigorated his scenes, making his movements sharper and more precise. When the forest sharply ended however, his prey disappeared into an odd wooden structure and he did not have the time to throw his smart disc. A snarl escaped his mandibles, rumbling up from his chest, and he stomped up to the door of the house. He stared at it, its opening mechanism foreign to him, and so he thrust his hand at the wood to break it.
It snapped and swung open on its hinges, and his bio mask quickly scanned the house. A sweet aroma swirled around the pastel inside of the house, and he took quick steps into the living room where a big electronic box droned in the background. His prey stood by another living body sitting in an unstable chair. The chairs frame rocked back and forth unusually, but slowed as the person took notice of him standing there.
"Hello?" A small, feeble, female voice chirped, "Is that your friend Kenny I see?"
"No Grandmama! He killed Kenny!" His prey yelled, beginning to tug at the other ooman.
"There will be no talk of killing in a house of God, Jhonny. All that hunting business you do...breaks my heart." The ooman in the unstable chair began to rock back and forth again.
"Come on grandma, we have to run!" The younger male was frantic.
"Run? Why I haven't run since I was a little girl. Have a seat; the cookies will be done soon."
Giving up on moving the older female, his prey suddenly bolted up a flight of stairs and disappeared with the slam of another door. The predator stomped forward then, ready to engage the female and take her skull as a trophy. A quick diagnostic scan of her body though proved that she was unarmed and unfit for a kill. She was old and frail, almost deaf and half-blind. It would be dishonorable to harm an ooman in such a condition.
His prey eagerly returned to him, leaping back down the steps with a loaded weapon in hand. He let out a series of predatory clicks and stomped forward, but the old woman suddenly stood from the unstable chair with a spring in her step. She blocked his path, and to that he let out a deep growl. She wore a one-piece cloth down to her ankles with a floral pattern and she put her hands on her hips as she stared up at him.
She even pointed a finger at him as she scolded, "Now see here, there will be no roughhousing in my home! Take off your shoes before you track dirt onto my rug."
The predator tilted his head at her questionably. He was an older yautja warrior who did not spend so much time on his planet, only hunt. He had seen and experienced many things, but never did he have an ooman engage him in such a way.
"Don't tell him to take off his shoes grandma! He's a freakin alien! We have to get out of the house, now!"
"Oh, nonsense Jhonny. All foreigners are welcome under my roof. I told you that my husband came over from Scottland on a boat, didn't I? That was around 1890...Or was it 1919? Let me think…" The old lady went on babbling.
The predator set his sights back on his prey. The young oomans head would make a great trophy. His plasma cannon was aimed, three red dots appearing on the mans chest. He could have ended it there, but he liked a little more sport then some. He wanted a challenge. The ooman gripped his gun, aiming at the predator from behind his feeble relative. A sweet aroma of the house was stronger and a loud beeping erupted from another room though and his focus shifted.
The older ooman then turned to the man, flicking her fingers at him as she demanded, "Put that gun away, and I don't wish to see you with it again. Wash up and sit down at the table, the cookies are done."
His urge to kill was faltering. His curiosity with the woman had him caught. Her wrinkles. Her softness. He could see her blue-green veins through her papery white skin. Oomans aged like no yautja would ever do. Her eyes were so bright green yet wrinkles and bags surrounded them.
She turned back to the predator then, shooing him into the other room, "You too. Go sit down and I'll bring you freshly baked cookies."
The wicker chair creaked with his weight and his large frame was awkward in such small seat. His prey disappeared for a minute to return with a knife in hand. The young male ooman stared at him from across the table as he took a seat. The yautja took off his mask, attached it to his hip, and then eyed the young ooman. He could smell his fear from across the table, and the predator reveled in it.
The one he called "grandma" set a small glass container in front of him that was filled with white liquid. As the young ooman didn't appear to be brave enough to make a move, the predator decided to examine the drink. He eyed it suspiciously and then cautiously dipped one claw into the liquid. As he brought the digit to his mouth, a long snake-like tongue reached out to catch a drop of the white substance. It tasted odd, but did not seem to cause harm.
He watched as the female shuffled over and set a warm plate of food in the middle of the table. Then, she placed three empty plates down around it, one right in front of him. His eyes were on the mound of food in the middle, his mask scanning it for poison or other potential dangers. It was not a very healthy dish, yet was safe to eat.
She seated herself and then put her palms together, fingers facing the ceiling as she talked, "For this and all we are about to receive, make us truly grateful, Lord. Through Christ we pray. Amen."
He had no idea of the meaning of the words, but watched as she grabbed a piece of food from the plate. It was a thick brown circle with dots of darker brown scattered within it. It did not look very appetizing to him. The young male did not reach for what she called "cookies" either, so he came to the conclusion that they did not taste good. He sipped the white liquid in his cup instead, shifting in the small wicker chair uncomfortably.
The older woman insisted though, "Boys, I can't finish all these by myself. Eat up."
The young ooman obeyed his elder, one hand tightly gripping the knife while the other fed the circles into his mouth. The predator still did not budge.
The old female was persistent though, "Don't be shy. Everybody loves cookies. Dip it in the milk, boy."
He tilted his head at her, mandibles flexing as he watched her take a circle and dunk it into her drink before putting it in her mouth and gumming it to pieces. It was rather unappealing to him, yet he would try it. His claws seized one of the lumpy circles and he did as she had, dipping the edge into the glass of white liquid before bringing it into his mouth. He closed his jaws on the "cookie" finding that it was crunchy, but then gooey. It was warm in his mouth, and tasted sweet.
Predators had quite the appetites, and once he found that he liked the brown circles, he quickly polished off the rest. He drank down the white substance in the glass as well, and then licked his mandibles clean. He was tempted to pluck the crumbs off his plate and eat those too. His prey had never fed him before, but he was coming to like the experience.
The old lady rose from her seat to gather the empty plates, and then said, "Now you boys run along, and play nice."
As the predator stood, so did his prey. He watched the young ooman carefully, but moved towards the older female. He let his mandibles graze her cheek as he let out a little chuff, in thanks for the meal. To his surprise the ooman still did not pull away from him. She must have been blind enough only to tell that he was humanoid in appearance.
She let out a small giggle and muttered, "Such a gentlemen."
He trilled at the odd compliment, then began to stalk his prey. As he got closer to the young male, the ooman bolted and he rushed after him. He would have his head, polish his skull, and hang it on his wall. His lungs expanded with every deep breath and his muscles surged with power as he followed the ooman out of the house and back into the forest. The predator expertly weaved through the brush and trees before aiming his smartdisc and throwing it at the oomans neck. The young males head came right off and tumbled in the thin, crunchy leaves. The yautja happily collected his prize.
~El fin~ (Spanish for "the end")