Predator: Night Watch
Author's Notes:
I started this fic a long time ago, after I saw and loved Predator 2. Back then the only way I could see it was on a Region 1 DVD, and to play it on my PC without rendering all my Region 2 DVDs unplayable after 5 region changes, I had to hack both Windows 2000 (which in itself dates me, doesn't it?) via DVD Genie, and the player's firmware! Now, thankfully, there's Leawo, which merrily ignores all that region nonsense without any need for firmware wizardry.
Gene Roddenberry should really be credited with the idea of the Unit; he did propose such an entity as the basis of a TV pilot, but it was never produced, so I took the concept, mixed in a bit of Judge Dredd here an' there to bring it up to date and ran with it. I did a fair bit of research on New York; any reader who lives there knows the Lobster Place and Sword Class NYC are real. Place names, too, are accurate - for example, Van Cortlandt Park at 242nd St., Columbus Circle and the street corner where Johnny Mullins fell afoul of Sergeant Candy White and her tiny panties. :)
It's not made clear in the fic and Candy, being a lady after all, would never deign to flash them or be so salacious as to tell anyone what colour they were, but I would envisage them as being lacy, pretty and definitely pink. ;) Candy is of course an homage to RoboCop's Anne Lewis, as is her Beretta (I loved the modified version used in the RoboCop movies - that looked like one serious piece of hardware!).
I honestly don't know where Jocelyn Barton popped up (escaped?) from. Characters like her often crop up in my fics. I've no idea why.
All praise to Brie Larson, a terrific actress, and that amazing ass! I've just read there's to be a Captain Marvel sequel, yay!
I should apologise for the Terror Twins, especially Susie. Sadly, such sadistic perverts do exist. I wish they didn't.
Every time I edit this, Marie's caption for Julie gets longer. I really should leave it alone.
Some things, such as why the Predator takes the trophies he does, are what I've deduced from the movies, though I had no idea about what the first Predator did to Billy until I got the Special Edition. Gruesome but compelling viewing. Yes, Billy Davies is a tribute to him.
I've borrowed a lot from the Aliens Vs. Predator novels, a brilliant if obvious concept if ever there was one, sparked off of course by that tantalising glimpse of an Alien's skull on the trophy wall in Predator 2. AvP was a nice try, but I really think they should've just stuck with the original story. Ming-Na Wen, late of ER and Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D., could've played Machiko Noguchi.
Will I write a sequel? Hmm. I didn't deliberately leave the story open for one; that's just the way it turned out. I'll think about it.
(Update: I have thought about it, and I have started writing a sequel, set in 2031, entitled Death To Streetcat! The story is now split into chapters.)
Okay, here we go. I hope you like it.
From the Journal of Kelly McAllister, Commander of the New York Tactical Operations Unit
Start Date of Events: Wednesday 7th July, 2027
To this day, no-one knows where they come from. I wish to hell we did, so we'd know at least one place to avoid if we ever make it to the stars.
No-one has any idea what world spawned them, though we reckon it must have been unremittingly hostile, a vibrant ecosystem doubtless crammed with vicious things that killed to live, and lived to kill, and that's why they are so deadly: because they needed to be just to survive, at least until they developed technology. Then again, if they aren't the apex predators on their world, I never, ever want to meet whatever is.
No way in hell would their homeworld ever be considered a tourist attraction, that's for damn sure!
It's probably a world with higher gravity than Earth, a lot warmer, with less oxygen in an atmosphere which is probably denser than ours and is opaque to EM emissions in our visual range - either heavily forested, mountainous or both; the ease with which they climb, leap and generally move, suggesting they're perfectly at home with heights, supports the latter theory.
Theory, though, is all we have.
That, and our fervent hope that they'll never, ever come back.
Back in 2027, though, I didn't know anything about the yautja, as it's believed they call themselves. A few, a very few, people did: the remnants of a spec-ops team who tried and failed to capture one in L.A. in 1997; the CO of a rescue team who barely survived his encounter ten years before that in Central America (though rumour had it he'd died of radiation poisoning, picked up God knows how or where); bystanders in L.A. who caught no more than a glimpse and were sternly warned never to speak of even the little they knew.
But me, I didn't know shit.
Anyway. Who the hell am I, you ask? Kelly McAllister, Commander of the first incarnation of the New York Tactical Operations Unit, usually unflatteringly known as the NYTOL on the street and in official circles. Where the hell people got the L from I don't know, but...ah, what can you do?
It all began when it occurred to NY's Police Commissioner one day late in '23, early in '24 (accounts and sources differ) that the modern cop on the beat was little better-equipped than a 1920s police officer, while the criminals had moved with the times. Cops needed better armament, more sophisticated methods of communication, and greater powers of law and authority on the street - without going the Judge Dredd route, of course. They needed ways of taking down criminals that were a) more effective, b) less lethal and c) less likely to endanger bystanders - in this day and age, collateral damage was simply unacceptable.
They also needed better protection. There were far too many grieving spouses and orphaned kids in the police community. That had to stop.
The Commissioner met in secret with the Mayor, the DA, the Chief Judge and New York's Senator, plus a tech genius and a retired spec-ops soldier, and together they came up with a plan. They would create a special police unit, trained to the max, technically savvy and streetwise to boot. These officers would be a mixture of older, seasoned hands and young, fresh talent, a balance of attitudes and experience. They would utilise a combination of state-of-the-art tech and old-fashioned police work to accomplish their goal.
The direct result of this, in January '27 after a few years of discussion, planning and, primarily, secret training, was the Unit. Mainly it consisted initially of experienced officers and just a couple of rookies. Later the Unit Academy was created, drawing upon the experience of the staff to devise the courses - a combination of low- and high-tech subjects, from the latest software, hardware and techniques to old-school police work.
In the event of injury (and that issue, too, was dealt with comprehensively), every officer received extensive EMT training, even to the extent of being qualified to perform emergency surgery in the field. Too many cops in the past had died when they could have been saved, if only medical help could've arrived in time. No more. From now on, if an officer died in the field it would be because it was unavoidable and/or instant. Every Unit vehicle carried a full suite of emergency medical gear.
One Judge Dredd-type concept we did adopt: officers' weapons were DNA-keyed to Unit officers only, so a Unit officer's weapon could never be used against him/her. But no, we didn't equip them to explode like a Lawgiver; instead the gun would simply refuse to fire, delivering a fifty-kilovolt electric shock instead. Plus an online charge sheet, matched to the DNA and to facial recognition of the perp via the officer's helmet camera, would automatically be generated for:
Theft of police property, to wit: the firearm;
Attempted illegal use of a firearm;
Attempted assault on a police officer, plus a charge of attempted murder if the weapon was lethal. Essentially the perp would convict himself.
After a few dramatic on-street demos and well-publicised trials, the perps soon got the idea.
Officers would be given greater powers of law on the street, serving justice rather than the letter of the law: if a petty crook committed a petty offence, why not just fine him on the spot rather than waste time and money with arrest, arraignment, trial etc.? If a more serious offence was committed, such as criminal assault or murder, and there was immediate proof, why not just shoot the bastard?
Rape? Take a DNA swab from the victim ASAP at the scene and match it to the criminal database, then track the perp using the trace. Scan crime scenes and reproduce them in perfect fidelity using the latest holographic equipment, shades of Star Trek. Equip officers with HD cameras to record evidence and every detail of pursuit and capture, and make such footage legally admissible in court. Train deep-cover officers with protected identities to infiltrate criminal organisations and blow them apart from the inside.
Above all, use the latest IT to cut paperwork to the absolute minimum, dammit!
It took time to overcome political opposition and at first there was a major question of funding...until an unidentified benefactor stepped in to offer several million dollars to create a start-up squad. I commanded that squad.
We were an immediate hit. We operated for a trial and training period of six months...and in that time we took down more drug dealers, rapists, murderers and fraudsters than the entire NYPD. I'm proud of what we achieved.
Look, it wasn't my fault that things went so thoroughly to pieces once the Unit was officially launched! How the fuck was I supposed to know we weren't dealing with human beings?!
Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself; I tend to do that whenever I tell the tale. Can't help it.
Once we were official, we started really making a name for ourselves on the street. Dealers started to realise the Big Apple was no longer a good place for them to be. Automatic weapons, too, began appearing much less frequently when we went up against criminals...because they soon learned such weapons were useless against us.
This was because every officer in the Unit was issued with bulletproof uniforms made of a new lightweight material, a weave of synthetic spider silk and carbon fibre nanotubes. ArmorLite™ laughed at small-arms fire, AK-47s, M-16s, any 9mm round and any calibre less than .50, and it was resistant even to heavier rounds, .30-06 Accelerators or armour-piercing - and it could be made proof even against those, at the cost of reduced flexibility and increased weight.
Oh, we loved those uniforms - very comfortable, nicely warm in winter yet wonderfully cool in summer, breathing like Egyptian cotton yet more protective than Kevlar!
Knives? Forget it - no human being could exert enough strength to stab or cut through ArmorLite™, and the fabric also absorbed kinetic energy so the officer would sustain no more than a bruise. Well, you might, possibly, force the point of the blade through, but it'd only be a pinprick and not a full, lethal puncture wound; interatomic friction would stop the blade from penetrating further, plus the uniforms were in two tightly-woven layers - and the weave direction of each was at right angles to the other for added protection.
Suppose the crooks got clever - and ruthless, not to mention irresponsible - and tried to use disabling or lethal gases, chemicals or bioweapons? Equip officers with protective sealable helmets and train them in methods of chem/biohazard containment. ArmorLite™ was waterproof, fireproof, acid-resistant and was proof against all but the most lethal pathogens. If necessary, rapid-setting sealant could be applied to neck, wrists and ankles to convert the uniform into a Haz-Mat suit.
Reflecting the fact that this is the Atomic Age, the uniforms are, to some extent, radiation-resistant. We have a special issue suit with an embedded layer of metal weave which is resistant to all but the hardest gamma radiation, in case we're ever faced with a nuclear threat. A few of our officers, including myself, are trained and qualified to disarm a nuclear device. Our medical bay is fully stocked with anti-rads.
All of our vehicles are totally bulletproof, including tyres. Communications are encrypted to military standards, and every officer has a communication unit implanted, powered by the body's bioelectricity and hardened against EMP. The Unit's creators had anticipated the crooks might take a leaf out of our book and use modern tech against us, so every officer was extensively trained in IT as well; many were coding experts, and all were well-versed in the use of antiviral and firewall software. We even recruited a couple of crackers on the set-a-thief principle.
The FBI and NSA weren't too happy about our choices, but our view was that these kids were of more use in the field helping us take down crooks than languishing in jail helping no-one, and it wasn't as if we didn't keep an eye on them. They behaved...mostly. More than once they saved our lives; at one point a group of Russian crackers, experts all, decided to try their luck in the decadent West, set up shop in New York, recognised the Unit as their biggest threat - and tried to take us out.
They failed. Hoo boy, did they fail. They were no match for our IT defence team. They never even came close to cracking our security. On the contrary, our boys cracked them. Cracked them? More like blew them apart!
It's not often the police are credited with saving the life of a perp, but one time we did. Sherman, set the Way-Back Machine, for Day 9 of Unit operations...
New York City, corner of West 4th St. and Bank St.
Day 9
Mmm, she looks good. Cute li'l thing. I like blondes...long as the carpet matches the curtains, fuckin' hate fakers.
What was it that dyke bitch told me once? The fuck was her name...oh, yeah, Tammy. Fine bitch, yeah, what a fuckin' waste of a tasty piece of ass...what'd she tell me - check the eyebrows? Yeah, that was it...yep, her eyebrows are blonde, so she's real alright...first bitch I ever screwed was blonde, loved it when she screamed an' bled from her cunt, musta been a virgin, couldn't have been more than 17...ah, fuck it, who cared how young the bitch was? Girl's got a cunt, she'll want a cock to go up it, and damn, bitch, I got a real fine cock just waitin' for you...
Better grab her piece 'fore I grab her ass, though, she's a cop, after all...
It could be said that Sergeant Candy White had been a little careless in allowing a perp, one Johnny Mullins, to grab her gun. But then again one had to give him credit for choosing his moment perfectly: she had her hands full, a hot dog in one and a Coke in the other. The moment she turned away from the stall he rushed in and grabbed it, brandishing it and snarling, "You're mine, cop!"
Her reaction wasn't quite what he expected. She just sighed and took a bite of the hot dog. "Mmm, I love HP Sauce, I'm so glad we started importing it." Then she seemed to take notice of the situation. "Oh, you've got my gun. Johnny, I really would put that down if I were you."
"What -?"
"Don't you keep up with the news? Johnny, I'm not a Blue, not NYPD. I'm a sergeant in the New York Tactical Operations Unit. That's a whole different ball game."
"A cop's a cop," he spat.
She startled him by smiling gently. "Johnny, right now the HD camera in my helmet is recording everything you say and do. You've already been ID'd by the facial recognition software, as if I hadn't already recognised you, and automatically charged with theft and illegal possession of a police officer's firearm, and all the evidence we need is right here," she tapped the helmet. "In fact, you're under arrest on those charges. So if you'll just -"
"Bitch, I'm holdin' a gun on you! What part of that don't you get?!"
Candy sighed again. "The part where you think I'm in any danger from you. I guarantee you I'm not."
He laughed, but nervously. He was starting to think there was something seriously wrong here. "What, it's not loaded or somethin'?"
Now she laughed. "Who's stupid enough to carry an unloaded gun? Oh, no, it's fully loaded, Johnny - Beretta M9A3 semi in 9mm Parabellum, choice of single shot or 3-shot bursts, 17 rounds in the clip, one in the chamber. It's a perfectly good gun, very reliable and pretty accurate."
(Standard Unit policy was and is for serving officers to carry non-lethal firearms, so an ordinary member of the public might wonder why Sergeant White was carrying a Beretta M9A3, a lethal firearm if ever there was one. The reason was quite simple: to give a few perps the 'opportunity' in the early days of Unit operations to grab a Unit officer's gun and thus demonstrate in graphic fashion exactly what would happen if they tried to fire. It wasn't long before a perp did just that, and Johnny Mullins was the third of only five perps to do so.)
"No, the gun itself is fine, it's just that you can't fire it," she finished.
"The fuck use is a gun you can't fire?!" he protested.
She rolled her eyes. He still didn't get it. Clearly he hadn't kept up with the news, else he'd know about the two perps before him who'd made the same mistake. "I mean, you can't fire it, Johnny. The sensor in the grip has already sampled your DNA and recognised that you're not me. The safety interlock won't let it fire unless I'm holding it."
"Aw, come on! You're bluffin'! That's like somethin' outa - outa Judge Dredd or somethin'!"
"That is where we got the idea," she admitted, "but science fact has caught up with science fiction in the world of law enforcement, Johnny. At this point, Unit regulations require me to warn you: if you attempt to fire that weapon, not only will it not fire, it'll deliver a fifty-kilovolt electric shock and drop you where you stand." She was no longer joking around.
His laugh was now hysterical. "Now you are bluffin'! So here's what we're gonna do: first, I shoot you in the leg," he aimed, "an' drag you into that alley over there, then I get that fancy uniform an' those tiny panties offa you an' I get me a piece o' fine cop ass!" he grinned lasciviously. "See if you can live up to that porn star name o' yours!"
"That just adds threatening behaviour, intent to wound, intent to kidnap, intent to assault and intent to rape to the charge sheet, Johnny," she told him quietly, calmly (whilst ruefully wishing her Dad had watched more porn in his youth; he was genuinely shocked when a friend told him about the porn actress he'd inadvertently named his baby girl after, but he couldn't change it because his wife liked it!). "You're in enough trouble as it is. Please stop this while you still can. Put it down."
"Fuck you, bitch cunt!" he screamed.
Candy just smiled again, but dangerously now. "You. Wish." She shrugged. "Meh. You're right: fuck this. Go ahead. Go ahead and try to shoot me. Having given you fair warning, creep, I now owe you nothing!" She was angry now. "Do it, if you've got the balls! Do it!"
He pulled the trigger, fury suffusing his features, anger overriding his judgement that there was definitely somethin' off here.
Candy was as surprised as he was by what happened next: the weapon emitted two short bleeps and a longer one in a lower tone, blip-blip-beeeep, and a click signified the engagement of the safety. "Hmm. That's odd," she frowned. "Oh, well. I'll have it checked when I'm not busy. Now -"
He did drop the gun, but whipped out a jackknife instead.
"Oh, come on!" she moaned, really exasperated now. "Possession of a bladed weapon in public with a blade longer than the permitted length of 10cm. You're just rackin' 'em up today, aren't you? Johnny, please, you can't hurt me with that! My uniform is -"
Johnny closed in and thrust into her belly, intending in his fury to just gut this mouthy stuck-up cop bitch, never mind raping her, but to his shock the blade simply stopped dead. The point, though lovingly kept needle-sharp, didn't even penetrate.
("By this point I'd really had enough," Candy later confessed, "though I realise and accept that I did overreact, sir. I apologise. It won't happen again."
The Commander merely shrugged. "Early days, Candy. We need to get used to the new ways as much as the perps do. Internal Affairs aren't even writing it up; they've dismissed it as self-defence. After all, he did try to kill you.")
"- proof against bladed weapons and small-arms fire," she continued as he gaped like a gaffed fish, then snarled, "Is it my turn now?" She gave him a karate strike that knocked him off his feet. Before he could recover (as much from the shock that this tiny li'l cutie had knocked him off his feet as from the actual blow), she flipped him onto his front, grabbed his left wrist, wrenched his arm to bring his wrists together, and sprayed them with a rapid-setting adhesive, which formed a flexible restraint that was much kinder to the skin than a zip tie but equally beyond human strength to break.
"You, asshole, are under arrest! What part of that don't you get?!"
A bystander had decided to be helpful and offer to hand Candy her gun, but before the man could pick it up she called, "Sir, please don't touch it - only Unit officers are authorised to handle our weapons, especially lethal ones; you don't want even a minor fine, I'm sure. Thanks very much for your kind offer, but I can manage. He's not going anywhere...well, he is, but only to Base with me and a courtroom soon after," she added, smiling.
"Oh, sorry, officer," the man flustered, hurriedly backing away from the gun.
Candy smiled warmly at him. "That's quite all right, sir, no harm done. No offence meant, none taken. I've got it," she finished, holstering it.
She proceeded to read Johnny his rights under the Revised Miranda Act of 2027, as ratified by the Laws of the City and the State of New York:
"You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be recorded by the HD camera in my helmet and added to the evidence already obtained by like means, and can and will be used as evidence against you in a court of law.
"For the record, and by the Regulations of the New York Tactical Operations Unit in which I serve, I hereby identify myself as Sergeant Candy White, officer number NYTOU-Zero-One-Dash-Six, making arrest on John Mullins, known colloquially as 'Johnny'.
"You have the right to an attorney, and the right to have your attorney present during questioning. If you do not have an attorney or cannot afford one, an attorney will be provided free of charge by the State of New York, before questioning if you so request. You are entitled to one phone call or contact via electronic media, but I am required to advise you that electronic communications are not privileged - that is, a police officer will be present to monitor them. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"
A pained snarl was his only answer.
Candy sighed. "C'mon, Johnny, work with me here. I repeat for the record as required by the Revised Miranda Act of 2027, by the Laws of the State of New York and by the Regulations of the New York Tactical Operations Unit in which I serve: do you understand these rights as I have read them to you? The State recognises that not every individual possesses the same powers of comprehension, and thus I will fully explain, without prejudice and without patronising you, anything you do not understand."
He finally surrendered. "Yeah, I get it."
"Do you have anything to say at this time? If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you have the right to stop answering at any time. Please remember you are being recorded in real-time HD vision and audio."
Johnny chuckled wryly. "I got a lot I'd like to say, but I got a feeling it'd just make things worse."
She chuckled too, picturing it. "You're probably right. Best to retain your right to remain silent, huh? Okay," she helped him up, "this way. Base, this is Officer 01-6 reporting in. I have a suspected felon in custody: Johnny Mullins. En route, ETA ten-minus."
"Base copies, Candy; come on in."
He frowned as she briskly bundled him into her car. "'Suspected'?"
Candy chuckled again. "Ever hear of 'innocent until proven guilty', Johnny? Even with the HD A/V evidence which, technically, does prove your guilt as it was recorded in real time, with time stamps and everything, legally speaking you are still only a suspect until your case has been heard and you're tried and convicted before a court of your peers. That's the law." She started the car, and they were on their way.
He shrugged. "Fair enough." Then he tried, as so many perps had before him, to play a sympathy angle. "Look, lady, I've had a real bad time lately -"
But, as cops everywhere have heard it all before, she stopped him with a look and said only, "Tell it to the judge, Johnny. I'm just the cop bringing you in. Speaking of...Base, 01-6 here. Um, something odd happened during the arrest: the perp tried to shoot me with my gun, but it didn't shock him, just engaged the safety. Could you pull up its diagnostics for me, find out what's wrong?"
"Sure," Operator Tina McIntyre answered brightly. "Let's see...firearm issued to 01-6 at start of officer's duty shift...okay...anomalous DNA trace, weapon no longer in officer's possession - oh. Oh, so that's it. No, the gun checks out perfectly, it's the perp who's got the problem. Candy, you might just have saved the guy's life."
Cop and perp were united in their "Huh?!"
New York Tactical Operations Unit Base, Manhattan
Interrogation 1, half an hour later
"A what?" Johnny wondered.
"Heart murmur," Senior Sergeant Duane Holmes told him. "It's an irregularity in your heartbeat. It makes you extremely vulnerable to tasers - if the gun had shocked you, it probably would've killed you. The problem was identified years ago, and the last thing cops want is to have a perp die on us just 'cause he's got a dodgy ticker." He looked wry. "Hey, look at it from our point of view: you wouldn't believe the amount of paperwork involved when a perp dies in police custody, plus we can't try a dead suspect, can we?"
Johnny had to laugh at that.
"So our lab boys got smart: they built sensors into our guns which check the perp's vital signs to see whether he actually can stand a taser shock. If they pick up a medical condition like the one you've got, the gun doesn't do the taser thing, it just locks up."
"So," Johnny quavered, "so I'm...sick? There's somethin' wrong?"
"Yeah," Duane confirmed, "but the good news is, it's treatable." He passed Johnny's phone to him (all relevant evidence having been obtained from it already) and showed him an online text file. "That site contains all the details, and our resident M.D. has drawn up a prescription and healthy life plan for you. Follow it, take the pills, and you should live a reasonably long healthy life." He looked stern. "Provided you go straight and don't make a habit of tryin' to rape and kill cops, that is...especially Unit cops," he growled. "Our CO takes a very dim view of that sorta thing."
In the end he received only a hefty fine and a short jail sentence - because Candy, ever warm-hearted even towards perps, decided to drop the charge of attempted rape. "Well, Your Honour, it's not as if he actually tried to rape me. He could've been just saying that, to try to intimidate me. So there's no real proof that he ever actually intended to commit such an act, is there?
"And it's not, it can't be, illegal to just think about raping a woman, because this isn't a police state, not 1984. Okay, it's weird and freaky for anyone to think that, it's obviously morally wrong to think that, but it mustn't be made illegal to think it. That's way too dangerous, Your Honour. We are police officers, not thought police. The day we become that is the day I hand in my badge, I swear to God."
Homer Surillo, Chief Judge of the City of New York, smiled gently at this forthright, earnest and above all dedicated officer of the Law, impressed by her sense of justice and moved by her compassion. The combination made her the ideal cop, and she was far from unique in the Unit.
We were so right to create the Unit, he thought delightedly, not for the first time or the last. Best Goddamn thing I ever did. Apart from marrying Samantha, that is...
"You're absolutely right, Sergeant, and wise beyond your years. It would indeed set a dangerous precedent. No, I believe you're erring on the side of justice here, rather than blindly following the letter of the law. Meting out justice, not punishment per se, is the sacred purpose of our judicial system, and so long as we have decent, dedicated officers such as your good self upholding our laws," she blushed and smiled at the warm praise, "then justice will be well served indeed. Innocent and guilty alike will get what they deserve - no more, no less."
Candy grinned. "Works for me, Your Honour!"
(For the record, when he was sentenced the judge offered Johnny a chance to cut his custodial sentence even further with volunteer work; he accepted and thus served less than four months, released early to help out at a homeless shelter. The staff were very pleased to see him even though he was theoretically a criminal, as they were always short on volunteers. Seeing the sense of behaving himself, Johnny did his job, did it quite well, and caused no trouble whatsoever. He even apologised to Candy, who warmly told him he was already forgiven.
Justice, indeed.)
One of our more famous successes in the field, one we liked to talk about at parties, involved a rookie dealing with a couple of would-be rapists threatening to kill the woman they'd abducted if he came any closer. So he didn't. What he did do seemed almost insulting: he apparently fired into the air way over their heads, yawned - and, in apparent indifference, turned away, to tend to an injured civilian who'd tried to help the woman. They had time only for a brief WTF moment before they discovered what he'd really done.
The rookie had launched a drone into the air which scanned the perps and the victim, differentiated between them via pheromone sensors - and then fired two taser darts, disabling them with no effect whatsoever on the woman. As they collapsed, the drone followed up by launching Stickies, capsules of highly adhesive goop which enveloped the perps to completely immobilise them, trussing them up like chickens à la Spider-Man. A Sticky hardened rapidly on contact with air, dissolving in atmospheric moisture after a couple of hours...by which time, of course, they were safely in custody and, just to be green, the goop could be treated chemically, for compaction and reuse, or recycled into carbon-friendly animal feed.
It was the rookie's casual throwaway attitude which sold the story, though; he simply trusted the tech to do its job, which of course it did. The Unit's mantra was, in fact, Trust The Tech. Not that this meant we relied exclusively on it to do our jobs for us; we weren't that stupid. Even the best tech, which ours surely was, can fail, and occasionally it did. Very occasionally.
But that never stopped us.
Which brings me to the night it all went to shit.
I can only speculate how it started. Our contact in U.S. Space Command (yes, we had one, though strictly speaking we weren't supposed to, but one of our operators had a Friend With Benefits serving at Vandenberg AFB) told us that all they and NORAD detected at the time was an apparent meteor that brushed Earth's atmosphere before flitting off on its merry way to who knows where. It read as non-metallic and quite small, just a random piece of space débris. Of course we know now that it was none of those things.
It wasn't a meteor.
It wasn't small, or non-metallic.
It wasn't débris of any kind.
And it sure as hell wasn't random.
Aboard the yos'fel-esh, the landing pod, descending in HALO mode
The Hunter braced himself for impact. He had proven himself last season against the kainde amedha, the Hard Meat, killing two and taking no more than minor wounds; his thwei flowed only briefly and he didn't let it or the brief pain stop him. He had been Blooded by his mentor, Swift Kill, the fastest warrior the yautja had ever known; Hard Meat fell like rain before his flashing blade and he seldom used a burner. He was a figure of awe among the yautja; Young Blood was honoured to be his student.
Now, he had been granted the honour of hunting the pyode amedha, the ultimate Soft Meat (or so it was said). Ooman was the yautja word for them, close to their own name for themselves.
He was warned by Swift Kill: Do not underestimate them. Yes, they are small and weak in body compared to us. Yes, their endurance is inferior, as are their weapons. But a Hunter who is certain of his victory is a dead Hunter. The pyode amedha are cunning, crafty and have a true fighting spirit, which makes up for their deficiencies in other areas. That is why their trophies are so prized, because often they are hard-earned, young one. Swift Kill then adopted a sombre air, surprising his student, and told him quietly, Not all Hunters have returned from the Blue World. Most, but not all.
Remember that, novice.
Young Blood swore he would.
Enough reminiscence, he decided firmly. Impact in ssken yveks, shvo, tsih -
The pod hit. The impact was hard, but he endured easily, taking pleasure in the knowledge. Perhaps the Hunt would be equally easy.
Or perhaps not, he chided himself, recalling his mentor's wise words. It begins.
He engaged the rhh-kosh, the shiftsuit. A Hunter who allowed his prey to see him coming was a fool...most likely a dead one.
He would not be so foolish.
The dwellings of the pyode amedha rose up before him as he left the pod before it silently self-destructed, leaving no identifiable traces. He leapt, his claws easily securing purchase on the rough artificial stone the oomans were known to use in construction. He would climb, establish a base of operations...and then the Hunt would truly begin.