Written by Werewolfbleu
Rated T
A Feast of Fools
Hard and cracked, the red earth beneath my feet could've been the dry, leathery hide of a great reptile. The heat of two stars soaked into the barren dirt, making the air so hot the sweat beading my skin evaporated within seconds. This sweltering dust bowl has been designated LV-486, but the majority of humans referred to it as the Hellpit, and only the most adept and resilient of predators called this desolate world home. Myself included. Which is why The Company hadn't sent a troop of Marines to retrieve me, but a specialized unit of sanctioned mercenaries with a unique skill set of tracking and retrieving.
"What's with the bridle contraption?"
The deep, scratchy baritone voice brought my gaze up from the desert floor. I eyed the merc with indifference. The scar running horizontally across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones was so deep that it nearly bisected his face. He got a little closer, crouching so that we were eye level and almost nose to nose. The rank odor wafting off his unwashed carcass was detectable even through the apparatus covering my nose and jaw.
I leaned away, but the magnetic restraints kept me from doing more than straightening my spine. He smirked, misreading my retreat as a sign of fear.
"Have you seen her teeth?" Rourke, the merc in charge of this outfit asked gravely, his piercing black orbs finding my violets from over his shoulder. For seven years this man has dogged my shadow, his reasons more personal than the other three mercs he'd brought with him. His men were here for a payday, but Rourke sought retribution. He glanced at the other merc still sitting way too close to me and frowned, "Back up, Mac. The Company blacklisted her for a reason."
Mac, of the disfiguring scar and who stank like a bloated corpse peered at me a little harder, unconvinced that I was a threat. I couldn't blame him. At almost five foot nothing and maybe a whopping hundred and twenty-five pounds of lean muscle, I doubted I even made a blip on his danger radar. Although his skepticism probably stemmed more from my being a female, rather than my small stature.
Mac sneered, and it deepened the severity of the scar in an ugly way. "Blacklisted? For what?"
"Dunno." Rourke shouldered the old school tranq rifle, his eyes cutting to me. "It's not our business to know." A note of deception lurked within the velvety midnight lilt of his voice, undetectable to the human ear. "Our business is to detain her, return her, and get paid."
Mac's large hand gripped my jaw, and he turned my head to get a good look at the apparatus. If not for the paralytic type poison deadening my limbs and the damn muzzle, I'd rip into his chest with tooth and claw. Mac noticed the scarring around my throat and gave a low whistle. "Shit. Rourke, have you seen the scars on her neck? Somethin' nasty tore out her throat. Chances are she can't speak anyway, so why, bridle her?"
Rourke, busy barking orders to the other two mercs, pretended not to hear his partner but the subtle tension in his body gave him away. He was keeping his personal vendetta and The Company's claim on my head tightly under wraps.
Wey-Yu broke the human genome over a century ago, and to this day their promise to 'Build Better Worlds' is nothing more than a smokescreen, allowing them the freedom to create, unnatural forms of life and use them as weapons. This, gross negligence, led to many failed experiments and the birth of countless horrors, the majority of which lost their minds or became too powerful to control. And The Company has no use for those who cannot be controlled, which led to the genocide of thousands. But a few of us, or at least those of us with the strongest will to survive, fought back and escaped.
Mac's hand left my jaw and trailed further south, a salacious smirk to his dry, cracked lips and a challenging gleam in his shit brown orbs. He cupped one of my breasts in a bruising grip, attempting to provoke a reaction out of me. Clearly, he had not taken his partners warning to heart.
I met his blood-shot eyes and stared blankly, gazing at my own reflection in his drug blown pupils. I had chin-length, straight black hair of no discernable style and eyes a bright shade of true violet. The rest of my face was hidden beneath the metal device. It started at the bridge of my nose and wrapped around my jaw before encircling my head to cover even my ears. It acted more as a muzzle than a bridle. It dulled my naturally heightened senses but didn't block them out completely. Too bad, because Mac really needed a shower.
The merc scowled at my lack of response and ventured lower, cupping my covered sex. I didn't even blink. He snarled and lost interest, getting to his feet he stretched to his full six-foot height and scratched his balls. "Bitch is chillier than an ice cube."
The tingling sensation in my fingers was fading. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on just my thumb. Move. Nothing happened. I took a deep breath. Come on, move. My thumb twitched.
I heard the slightest scuff of boots on the dry earth, his scent automatically giving him away before I even opened my eyes to stare up at him. Rourke eyed me, then flicked a quick glance at the three other mercs packing up their camp and loading the small StarStream vessel.
Rourke knelt down, a sidearm probably loaded with acidic splat rounds in his hand. "I know the tranq is wearing off, Kit," he said. My hackles rose, but I gave no outward sign of alarm. "Where are the rest of the mongrels?"
He was referring to the other hybrids or Cerulves, The Company's attempt at creating werewolves from a molotov cocktail of DNA including Xenomorphs. Mongrel was the derogatory slang term some humans referred to us by, and to be honest, they weren't wrong. We weren't wolves. We weren't Xenomorphs. We weren't even human anymore which meant we were nothing at all.
I stared at him coolly. Once we extricated ourselves from The Company, packs were formed, but others, such as myself, scattered in the wind. Of course, even if I knew where they were Rourke should've known better than to ask.
I straightened and tilted my head so he could visibly see the scar denting my neck. Unlike Mac, Rourke knew I could still speak even with the debilitating scar, but it was easier for me to sign.
He smirked, "As if I'm dumb enough to release you from those restraints."
I made no movement. Rourke wasn't stupid, he was aware the paralytic agent was wearing off, but I seriously doubted even he understood just how fast my body breaks down foreign invasions. The tranq had been a good idea. After our last run in, he learned very quickly how useless modern weaponry affected me. Plasma fire still hurt like a son of a bitch, but I'm resilient, and I heal rapidly.
Against the glaring light of the Hellpits dual suns, a black dot appeared on the edge of my vision. I blinked slowly, keeping eye contact with Rourke. A coldness swept over his nearly obsidian irises, making them distant and hard. His mind inevitably venturing back to our first encounter on Heisycs Prime. Seven years is a long time to hold onto a grudge, and even though he hid it well, it was clear the hate had festered like an open wound.
"Her name was Kelsy-" Anger flashed across his face, and he grabbed my arms in a bruising grip. "-and she was my sister." His breath hot on my face. His tone vehement and harsh. "And you killed her."
Technically, I hadn't. I'd merely stepped in to aid a fellow escapee of The Company. Another mongrel. Rourke's sister had been full of herself, thinking she was perfectly capable of taking on the malnourished juvenile male on her own. The boy, Arie had been his name, was indeed frail but by no means was he defenseless and Rourke's sister had done the one thing you never do when confronting a wild animal. Corner them. The fight ended in a matter of seconds, she likely only got a glimpse of razor sharp teeth before he tore out her jugular. I'd been attempting to pull Arie off of the dead woman, trying to keep him from feasting upon her when Rourke caught up.
I stared into Rourke's, subzero, bloodlust filled eyes and knew telling him otherwise wouldn't make a difference. Arie and I stayed together for a short time. I'd taught him better control, and together we managed to stay ahead of Rourke and his Death squad for three years. But eventually, we grew careless, thinking we'd found freedom in a small settlement on Titan, Saturn's largest moon. We were wrong and Arie paid the price. Since that time I've gone deeper into space than most explorers and hadn't found a pack of my own until I crash-landed in the smoldering sands of the Hellpit.
"Get up," Rourke growled, yanking me up. I wobbled unsteadily for a second, but the paralytic had worn off enough for me to find my center of gravity as long as I focused very hard on the muscles in my legs. Which was a real problem since Rourke looked as though he was about to shit all over his agreement with The Company, and bring me back in a coffin suit instead of alive.
In my above peripheral vision, the black dot had stretched and grown bigger. Circling. Waiting.
Luar'ka...
"Bitch," he spat. "Where's your backup now?!"
A feral grin reveals my sharp, triangular teeth, much like the sharks in the salt waters of Earth, but Rourke couldn't see it behind the muzzle. My eyes must've given it away though because he blinked and took a step back.
Breath fills my lungs. I tilt my head up to the heavens and howl the Blood Song, a cry so powerful not even the muzzle can deaden its sound.
"Shit!" Rourke takes another step back, the splat pistol raised. "Shut up!"
It's too late. From above there is an answering song, this one higher in pitch, its staggering decibels cause Rourke and the other mercs to cringe and cry out in pain. Rourke claps his hands over his ears, taking his eyes off of me for one critical second as he tries to make the unbearable agony stop.
She's my backup, bitch!
I drive my shoulder into his sternum, putting as much power behind it as I can muster. The hit costs me the little control over my legs that I'd gained. My knees hit the ground, but it had the desired effect, Rourke hit the dirt, and the splat pistol is sent skittering.
Luar'ka, the daughter of a winged race of aliens known as Avians, descended upon the other mercs like an obsidian wraith. Rourke's head shot up, eyes darting wildly as he tried to make sense of the creature shredding his team of badasses into cheap confetti.
Even for me, Luar'ka is almost too fast to see. But I see her, and she is magnificent. With a wingspan more than three times as I am tall, she commands the wind, creating currents that toss the other mercs around with the same effort a kid throws a toy soldier. The tips of her jet black feathers flush scarlet and gold, indicating she is angry, and I feel a small smile tug at the corner of lips knowing she's angered on my behalf.
"No!No!N-ah!" Mac screams, his bloodshot eyes wide. The merc cowers on the ground, hands shaking so badly he drops the carbine. Luar'ka circles, her shadow, a prelude to death, falls over him. Mac, desperate and terrified grabs the carbine and rolls over aiming up. Her snow white talons sink into his meaty chest and throat, ripping him apart before he's even chambered a round or before the scream ever leaves his throat.
Slowly, Luar'ka raises her head, her long mane of obsidian feathers have bristled, flushed scarlet at the tips. A short plumage crowns her head, and there are two distinctive primary feathers half the length of her body fluttering with an ethereal movement atop her head.
Luar'ka blinks and the oily black membrane protecting her stormy gray eyes flicks up. Rourke draws in a short breath, his muscles tensing, readying to bolt. An Avians pupils are white which has a very unsettling effect on humans.
My legs still had a jello-ish quality, but the paralytic had mostly metabolized. Sweating and breathing hard, I staggered to my feet. Luar'ka cocked her head, her pupils constricting slightly. I straightened. Luar'ka is my friend, someone I admire and deeply respect, but instinct and pride refuse to allow me to appear weak in the eyes of another predator. We held each others' gazes for a brief moment then I dipped my head in the barest of nods, letting her know I was okay.
Rourke, thinking we'd forgotten him, leaped towards the gun. He landed on his chest with a loud expulsion of air and managed to wrap his fingers around the splat pistol before Luar'ka was on him. Rourke gave a choked cry as the Avian's three-toed foot pressed into his spine, her white talons hooking into the meat of his shoulders. Rourke craned his neck to look at her and Luar'ka knelt down close to his face. To the human's credit, he didn't cry or beg for his life. Not even as Luar'ka's lipless mouth parts to reveal thin, needle-sharp teeth.
He cranes his neck more, finding my eyes. Humans are defiant creatures, even now with death staring him in the face, Rourke sneers at me. "I should've killed you when I had the chance."
Yes...
Luar'ka shrieks and deftly tears into his throat.
... you should have.
A/N: I wrote this short story in honor of Luna Silvereyes's character Luar'ka (Using an older version of the character.) which I borrowed from her amazing Yautja/Xeno story A New Hunt: Death and Rebirth. And while this short story doesn't feature any of the characters from my stories it does feature the Cerulves from my Yautja/Xeno story Dances with Werewolves. Hope you all enjoyed! And Luna girl, thanks so much for allowing me the privilege to write about Luar'ka! She is one of my favorite characters of all time ;)
