Disclaimer: Predator is owned by Twentieth Century Fox, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I can't have a bit o' fun with the characters. Any resemblance to oomans and yautja, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Act IV
Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most.
If one were to have met Beck Messer on the last day of his life, one would have called the local mental institution. They, in turn, would have sent a white van with a padded interior and driven by one muscle-bound nurse; his accomplices would be toting a white canvas jacket with extra-long sleeves that would wrap all the way around with strong leather restraints. The jacket's metal buckles would be gleaming while sedative-filled syringes twinkled in the afternoon light. Shiny hypodermic needles, all snug and quiet in their crisp plastic packets, would be plucked out, inserted into syringes, and plunged into the pulsing bloodstream of any future patient.
It would take just one call, a single telephone call, to halt a further descent into madness, but no one was there to obstruct the mad plight of Beck Messer or call the local insanity lounge. It was unfortunate, yet it was all for the best. Really.
xXx
"One for Ny'rath and one for me, two for Ny'rath and three for me…" Ghiz's droning count went on and on as he piled the skulls and spines in separate heaps. Ny'rath was busy stringing up the bodies from the rafters, carefully checking each for any wayward signs of yautja presence; it would not be good to have curious oomans checking up on certain anomalies they might find during an investigation.
It was a successful hunt. The two were not expecting such a prime hunting ground. The location was perfect; far enough from the metropolitan area to remain isolated, and out of earshot of nosy neighbors. It was also a very secluded place, hardly used, and shunned by the basic, everyday ooman constantly seen in the sprawling urban areas. They had their prey to thank for their success. Unfortunately, he was still at large.
"Finished up there?" asked Ghiz.
"Almost, I have to string one more up, and then we can check out the latest trail of our wayward prey," said Ny'rath. "Make sure you remember which pile belongs to you and which pile is mine—I hope you're not cheating on the count."
"Hey, no worries, the count is fair," said Ghiz as he rearranged the piles one more time, tallying again the number of skulls in Ny'rath's heap after putting in the correct number of skulls and vertebral columns.
After they were done with their grisly work, the two hunters left the smoldering warehouse. Ghiz hid the trophies in one of the abandoned structures as they made their way back to the busy metropolitan center. They followed the faint trail of their elusive prey.
"This male has more lives than the feline denizens of Ulthar put together!" said Ny'rath. "I'm surprised he's still alive and functioning. He's making this little hunt a bit tough for us."
"Well, isn't that what hunting pyode amedha is all about? They're clever in the most unexpected ways; they make a dull hunt exciting, especially the ones trained specifically to kill other oomans. Take, for instance, the stories of hunters that met their demise at the hands of oomans." Ghiz scanned the area before him and found traces of their prey's heat signature.
"You don't believe in those myths of the bloodthirsty ooman, do you?" Ny'rath adjusted his mask and ran his talons over the newly acquired gouges made by erratic bullets.
"Myths always have a grain of truth in them; why do you think the older hunters told those horrible stories on the days leading to our Blooding hunt?"
"I thought they were to keep us awake at night, keeping us off-balance so we wouldn't be able to concentrate on the next day's training," said Ny'rath as he waited for one of Ghiz's inane explanation.
"No, the stories were meant as little bits of wisdom; albeit gory and horrible bits of wisdom. Even the little tales the very young tell each other during play-hunting offers gruesome nibbles of wisdom and lessons learned the hard way," explained Ghiz.
"You must enjoy making the young unblooded hunters uncomfortable with your gore-encrusted nuggets of wisdom," said Ny'rath as he shook his head.
"I must admit I do," said Ghiz.
They traveled through the growing cacophony of traffic snarls and ooman chatter. Their light bending figures vaulted over the spaces interrupting the buildings they were using to navigate the city blocks, and the disturbing impacts they made on each roof caused some concern for those who noticed. As for the rest, they remained oblivious: little puffs of plaster dust fell on heaving bodies in the act of sexual play, while a smattering of plaster flakes seasoned someone's mashed potatoes as it sat on the stove.
The city spoke to the predators with its scents, permeating the smoggy afternoon with the caustic fragrance of rancid food and half a day's body sweat wafting from each open window. Aromatic cuisines of countless cultures soaked the air, luring the empty stomachs of pedestrians with their gastronomic siren song. Life still went on, regardless of the aliens that traveled through the urban environment.
xXx
The Fates were never kind to Messer. As they wove the thread that outlined his life, they giggled while they added two more threads to the tattered tapestry of poor Messer's life. The two threads glowed with the phosphorescent hue of alien life, edging closer to his thread; soon they would all join.
Messer was not thinking. In fact, he was running on mental fumes. He ran and ran, casting a look backwards just in case. Keeping one hand in his coat pocket and reassured by the touch of the revolver, he careened through the streets of the city. His destination was a nebulous outline in his frazzled mind. He stumbled into pedestrians, narrowly missed elderly citizens on their aluminum walkers, and jostled angry teenagers, but he never stopped to reply to the furious curses or acknowledge the aluminum walkers flung in his wake. Messer's hours were numbered, and deep in his roiling gut, he knew: fear began to overtake his sanity.
xXx
The urban sprawl was alive, electrified by the people that ate, drank, shat, and died within it. Most of the time, humans were undaunted by the soulless steel and glass edifices that interrupted the skyline and formed the walls of their concrete and asphalt maze, and as they breathed in the smog, they prayed for the day to end, day's end, the time when the lucky majority could go home. Even rats in a maze returned to their cages after each experiment.
Strangely, some chose to stay in the city that night for the sake of entertainment. Sports enthusiasts cheered their favorite teams and opera-goers were treated to a fantastic opera of defiant warrior maidens, incest, magic swords, and tragic gods; did I mention incest?
The opera company was ecstatic; their production of 'The Valkyrie' was unprecedented. The first two acts unfolded without a hitch or a hiccup, but luck could only carry this production so far. Perhaps the loss of luck began with a pair of surfers moonlighting as security guards; in the interval between acts two and three, the two surf buds left for their break, leaving the dressing rooms unguarded for a brief time.
Outside, Beck Messer scampered around, looking for a way in through the barrier set up to discourage the non-paying opera-goers from getting a free show; maybe he could escape this nightmare if he hid in a place filled with people. Unfortunately, all of the doors were locked. Messer would have to find another hiding place. Shoving his hand into his pants pocket, he found the opera tickets he was going to give to the late Mr. Rufrano. Messer tried to stifle a cry of relief as he went to the box office to present his ticket. Messer was safe for the moment, but there was still that nagging little voice that told him to head for the dressing rooms and as far away from the brooding storm of trouble that followed at his heels.
What occurred during that lovely evening in that energetic city of dreams rarely fulfilled and usually broken, would go down in the annals of tabloid history as the weirdest opera night since the Marx Brothers' riotous version of Verdi's 'Il Trovatore.' The unfortunate few who witnessed the event--and told their story to anybody who would listen and pay the right amount--went into involuntary hiding, their whereabouts unknown.
The majority who were there denied what they saw, and the experts agreed with them. It's also equally important to point out that the house lights, or any form of adequate illumination, were not fully lit once the incident began. So, in essence, the whole incredible event occurred in a sort of murky chaos; the only time everything was clearly seen, or adequately illuminated, was right before the infamous 'involuntary audience participation feature.' Nevertheless, everything was swept under the convenient rug of mass hysteria, including the reviews, both good and bad, of the operatic production.
It was too bad the evening news did not record the whole mess. We would have gotten a kick out of it.
xXx
"Go'ort!"
"Ny'rath! I didn't know you'd be here tonight. Ghiz still tagging along with you?" said Go'ort.
"Unfortunately, yes, hanging around and waiting for my scraps. I can't get rid of him that easily," Ny'rath said.
"I heard that!" said Ghiz as he leapt down from a ledge. "Ny'rath can't get it through his thick skull that he's the one waiting for my scraps. He's also jealous of my success."
"What sort of success is he jealous about?" asked Go'ort
"Ny'rath is jealous because I attract most of the females."
"Yes, that's true, you do attract females, but they're usually the angry ones, brandishing spears and ki'cti-pa, roaring for your blood, and all too willing to ram their fists into your face." Ny'rath rolled his eyes and whispered to Go'ort, "I'll tell you all about it later. It's a sad story, but you'll laugh your mandibles off."
All three hunters stood in the shadows, their figures dim and nearly invisible to the inattentive human. Earlier, Go'ort had seen the shadowy figure of the male the other hunters were tracking, wondering what to make of him. Go'ort made up his mind to follow closely just to see what the ooman was doing. The curious hunter arrived at the opera, but the screeching din emanating from the open-air stage assailed his ears like a rampaging wave of hard meat: it was unfortunate his mask did not have an auditory filter. Thinking it was audibly safer to wait outside at a safe distance, Go'ort waited for the cacophony to end; until Ghiz's and Ny'rath's arrival surprised him.
"The male was acting funny, and he looked as if he saw something he shouldn't have seen, so I followed him over to this loud arena. I would have bagged him, but a little voice kept telling me to wait, and sure enough you two show up," chattered Go'ort.
"We got here just in time. I waited all day to get this soft meat. When I'm through with him, there'll be nothing left for this planet's carrion worms to chew on," said Ghiz.
"Well, I'll leave the hunting to you both. By the way, Kla'a'tu says hi," said Go'ort as he climbed up a nearby building and bounded away.
xXx
Messer was enjoying his good luck. The dressing rooms were the perfect place to hide, and he found one that was just right, except the singer occupying it. He managed to shove the shrill and hysterical soprano into the closet, but not before acquiring her costume.
He tried on the suit of mail and breastplate, laughing grimly at his predicament. Messer nearly burst into tears when he saw himself in the full-length mirror, and after he placed the winged helmet on his head and lifted up the spear, he began to weep in earnest. It was all a part of the Valkyrie's costume, and it would have to do for what he was planning that night; that is, to hide like a scared little rabbit in the main body of the Valkyrie chorus and lip sync. Thank goodness he was roughly the same size as the soprano, minus the boobies: the costume fit him perfectly. Luckily, the dim backstage lighting allowed the shadows to completely hide the new actor playing Brunnhilde. A poor stage assistant never noticed the switch.
As he stepped out of the dressing room, Messer found himself accosted by the stage assistant who frantically pulled him towards the stage, telling him to wait for the cue to enter with Sieglinde. Sieglinde? Then that would make Messer the main Valkyrie, Brunnhilde, the titular hero of the entire darn piece. It was just his luck to make a major fool of himself in public, in grand operatic style. He knew opera, but he didn't know how to sing it.
From backstage, Messer could hear the aggressive thrumming of the woodwinds and slashing violins as they began 'The Ride of the Valkyries,' the infamous prelude to act three of the opera. Soon, the quick bursts of the horns would interrupt the trilling with their signature galloping rhythm, lending an aura of storm wracked peaks, screaming wild horses carrying their riders, the chaos of countless battlefields, and the sonorous din of thunderous night. A few movie buffs in the audience would whisper amongst themselves about a certain movie, making snide comments about attack helicopters, mornings with napalm, and how some guy named Charlie didn't surf.
The two surfer guards were still on their break, watching the last act of the opera unfold from the back, where all the shadows gathered and pooled beneath the barrier. The guards did not notice the two new audience members that climbed over the fence; the loud music obscured what little sound the hunters made as they stepped lightly, heading for backstage. And no, they didn't have backstage passes. They didn't need them.
xXx
When the first Valkyrie began her keening call, Ghiz and Ny'rath were getting the auditory equivalent of a slasher flick. Fortunately, they managed to tune out the more strident and piercing sounds emanating from the stage.
"Do they ever shut up? I know they talk a lot, but do they have to tell the whole universe all about their singing prowess?" grunted Ghiz as he poked around backstage.
"What was that? I didn't hear you," said Ny'rath as he emerged from an empty dressing room.
"I think I see our little prey over there. He's in armor and he's carrying a spear!" clicked Ghiz.
An ominous, rapid-fire clicking was heard above the orchestral maelstrom; Messer had heard that sound before, but he couldn't place it. Messer felt the world crumble beneath him as he turned to see his worst nightmare come true, and to top it all off, the stagehands paid no heed to the hulking figures slowly emerging from the shadows. Beck Messer forgot everything and leapt onstage, ignoring the hysterical assistant who tried to call him back into the wings.
Messer, as Brunnhilde, entered before his cue, and the other Valkyries on stage nearly faltered in their chorus, but the conductor urged them on, cajoling and threatening them to sing as if their very lives depended on it. The singer playing Sieglinde stormed off in a fit of anger, calling Brunnhilde a '#!$! cow' and shouting expletives that made the stagehands blush. Still, the hunters pursued their prey, and from the chaos of backstage, they stepped onto the dramatically lit stage of the final act of the opera. The bass-baritone playing the god Wotan turned around just in time to see the gigantic figures of Ghiz and Ny'rath appear behind him. He smiled a vacuous smile, promptly dropped his spear, and took off for parts unknown.
Ghiz and Ny'rath now found themselves on the opera stage with nine Valkyries singing and one frightened prey huddling in their midst. Both hunters looked at each other, and then they peered at the murmuring crowd of humans watching them from the darkened arena.
"Hey, I thought the giants only made their appearance in the first opera and not in the second," said one stagehand.
"I guess the director's making another one of his aesthetically stupid statements. You know? The artsy-fartsy kind where we all go 'Huh?' and the only ones who get it are his artsy-fartsy friends," replied another.
"What the heck are they wearing?" cried the costume designer.
The stage director began pulling out clumps of his own hair in despair.
The conductor looked up at the sudden hush of the singers' voices and the faltering performance of his orchestra. Being the consummate professional, he ignored the strange duo that had appeared, attracted the attention of his orchestra by tapping his baton on the music stand of the concertmaster, and yelled at the singers onstage to continue: "I didn't tell you harpies to stop singing!"
Ghiz bellowed a roar of challenge to the now-singing Valkyries, brandishing his spear in an awesome display of fury while he slowly advanced on the cowering group of singers.
"Gnarly, dude! The giants got spears and magic helmets!" said one of the surfers/security guards.
"Spears and magic helmets, you say? Where's the wabbit?"
"Kill the ooman!" trumpeted Ny'rath as he threw his smart disc at the Valkyries.
Luckily for the singers, the lethal disc clipped the tips off their winged helmets and the blades on their spearheads. The Valkyries took one horrified look at each other and then ran screaming into the wings. They left the poor conductor in a near apoplectic fit and Messer trying to dodge Ghiz, who had lunged towards his prey as soon as the singers abandoned the stage.
Breaking his baton in frustration, the conductor screamed over the frantically playing orchestra, "Come back here and sing! The show isn't done yet! Sing it, you fools!"
One soprano had the temerity to talk back as she fled, "Sing it yourself, asshole!"
Messer scuttled over to the orchestra pit, then leapt into the brass section, sending the hapless trombone section tumbling from their chairs. Ghiz followed by leaping into the percussion section and subsequently diving feet first into the percussionists' prized timpani. The drum gave way beneath his weight, and a few of the audience members and horrified instrumentalists were briefly rewarded with the sight of a large, snarling humanoid caught in the bowl of a large copper drum. With a scathing yowl, Ghiz leapt out of the drum and thrashed his way through the orchestra.
Violins and violas were tossed in the air as Ny'rath joined the fracas. The audience began to scramble from their seats, screaming hysterically and pointing at the giants that smashed their way through the orchestra pit. Messer shoved aside any audience member that got in his way. At times, he used them as obstacles, tossing them or pushing them towards his pursuers, buying time for his escape from Ghiz and Ny'rath.
"Hey, it's audience participation time!" yelled the security guards. They weren't lifting a finger to help with crowd control.
xXx
"They're all in a frenzy to get out of our way!" yelled Ghiz as he dodged a screaming female.
"There's our little prey over there; he's still holding a spear!" cried Ny'rath. The maddened throng of humans was thinning as most of the opera-goers made it to the exits. The two hunters had seen Messer duck behind a large wooden partition that covered one of the many emergency exits, but as they slammed their way through the flimsy barricade, they found themselves in a murky corridor, and a shadowy figure huddled at the end. Sounds of exasperation and gasps emanated from the still form.
"Don't get too close," advised Ny'rath as he saw the form jump up suddenly.
"What do you want from me? What! Are you angry because I shot you in the ass? Do you want a bandage for your little boo-boo?" yelled Messer as he shook with anger and fear, but mostly with fear tinged with encroaching insanity.
"Was that meant to be a roar of defiance?" asked Ghiz.
Scampering noises and a whistling in the air heralded the arrival of a poorly thrown spear which Ghiz caught easily. He broke the spear in two, snorting at its poor construction and lack of balance. "Is that all you have?" roared Ghiz. Just then a shot rang out, and a bullet zipped by, narrowly missing one of Ghiz's dreadlocks. "That does it!" snarled the hunter as he pounced.
Messer didn't have time to fire another round as the dark bulk of the creature erupted from the darkness and brought him down with a crushing blow. He saw stars for a moment, and then the black gulfs of encroaching darkness swallowed him up.
xXx
Unconsciousness was unmercifully long, and pain pierced the fog that engulfed Messer's brain. The haze before his eyes cleared momentarily to reveal the Hell he was in; the room he occupied was covered with skulls of all shapes and sizes, and their dark, empty sockets all stared at him, grinning with the secret, morbid joke shared by the dead. Still adjusting to the dim light of the room, he peered across the room and came face to face with the twin harbingers of his doom. The creatures were not wearing their masks, and the sight of their faces was enough to make Messer mewl wordlessly. But the sight that really pushed Messer over the edge was the one seen through the small porthole behind the creatures; the earth looked very small from his standpoint, and it was dwindling rapidly.
"I thought this hunt would never end. I'm glad we're off that dirtball," sighed Ny'rath as he slouched lazily against the wall. "Well, what's next?"
Chuckling, Ghiz looked up with a mischievous glimmer in his yellow eyes, eyes as yellow as the mustard in Hell's pantry. "I guess it's time for some creative butchery. Pass me that gel."
That's opera, folks!
The End
