Ashley awoke alone and in the dark. She got up and walked towards the living room. Her father and her fiancé Jim had stayed up late, talking. They had been discussing something about the Company shipping in some strange cargo, but keeping it under wraps. She could barely stay awake. It was close to 12:30 when she finally dismissed herself and went to bed. But fifteen minutes later she had awoken in a cold sweat, partly because the climatizer was on the fritz again, and partly because she had had a horrible nightmare. In the nightmare, something huge and black was chasing her, and no matter how fast she ran, it was always gaining on her. She stepped into the living room, the dream already fading fast. The other two were not there. She went to her father's bedroom and cautiously opened the door; nothing. Nobody was in there, either. And Jim had not been with her when she had woken up. "Daddy? Jim? Where are you?" she called softly.
She snapped her head around quickly. A noise! It was coming from the bathroom… She crept to the door, and ever so slowly began to turn the knob. She peered in through the crack, and saw Jim's face. He was sitting on the toilet. She was instantly relieved. But something was wrong. He was looking right at the door, but the expression on his face appeared frozen, blank, and yet longing. That's when Ashley Greene noticed the blood. The blood that dripped down the bathroom wall, the blood that was flowing freely from the back of her love's head. Someone had killed him; there was no doubt about it. She was suddenly very, very cold. She had to get out, that was for sure. But the nearest neighbors were miles away. The distress beacon! It was in the kitchen. All the colonists on Larotte were required to have one. She started for the kitchen, then froze. Another noise came from behind her. It sounded like… breathing. Then, a hiss so low, she almost didn't hear it.
She didn't even turn to look. Instead, she ran for the kitchen, slammed and locked the door behind her, and smashed the button on the distress beacon attached to the wall. She grabbed the biggest knife she could find and held it close to her. She had locked the door, but she still felt like she was in immediate danger. Alarm bells were ringing throughout her head, and the cold breeze was making her shiver… breeze? Oh, no! She thought, and turned and slammed the plexi-window shut. The doors were reinforced, too, but she didn't care. She plopped down into the corner, and waited. If the killer wanted her, he was gonna have to put up a fight. Drip. Drip. Dripdrip. She heard something dripping down next to her. Looking down, she touched it with her finger. It was viscous, like slime. The hissing came again, this time from above her. She just had time to look up before the world exploded into blackness.
Onboard the Weyland-Yutani freighter things were hectic, members of the crew and military personnel running around everywhere. In his quarters, 1st Lieutenant David Shipley sat back in his form chair, admiring the view. They were in deep space, outside all commercial channels, running as stealth as possible for a huge, clunky, commercial freighter. He had to admit, though, The Suzy was a comfortable ship. He stared at the view screen, thousands of stars moving sluggishly past, a nebula lazily drifting by. It was peaceful. It was quiet. The word he was looking for slipped in and out of Shipley's mind, a phantom, teasing his brain, letting just enough of itself poke out of the shadows to entice him into following. He had that problem often, not being able to grasp the word he wanted. Surreal, he thought. His concentration was broken, however, when there came a loud, rather infuriating knocking sound coming from his door. Without permission to enter of any kind coming from the Lieutenants lips, the young, rather lanky form of Private Douglas Hicks walked in like he owned the starship and the space it was gliding through. "Sir, the dropship is being prepared. They need us suited up and ready within the hour. Don't wanna be late!"
"Son, don't you ever walk in my room like that again, you understand me? I don't care who your great-uncle was, you are nothing more than a smelly pile of crap on the bottom of my boot!" Shipley yelled, his mouth still half-full of the nasty, synthetic, government supplied cheese he had been nibbling on. Soldiers' rations weren't what they used to be.
"Oh, and Hicks…?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Thanks. You're dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
Private Hicks left the room, and Shipley proceeded to suit up. His mind filled with images of previous rescue missions he'd been on. Most were with his current unit. Including him, there were five men going on this one. Private Douglas Hicks, Private Christopher Beaver, Private Thomas "Fader" McFadder, and 2nd Lieutenant Scott Appelwick were going down to some middle-of-nowhere P.O.S. planet called Larotte to deal with a minor infestation. Pretty regulation stuff, really, but this one didn't feel right. Something was different. Like there was a puzzle, and he had all the pieces in place, but was missing one. And the picture just didn't make sense without it. Oh well, he thought. Me being in the dark. That's nothing new. He headed for the dropship, Pulse Rifle in hand.
In the night sky over Larotte, the stars were shining brightly. The yautja spacecraft fell quickly through the atmosphere and slowed it's descent. It flitted through the giant trees and headed for the mountain range toward the north. It landed at the base of the mountain and the engines shut down. The hatch opened and the ramp lowered. The smoke cleared, and the form of a proud warrior stepped down. He was Dachande, son of Yeyinde, the true Dachande. He was the leader of this ship, and the proudest yautja warrior to ever Hunt. And nothing less could be expected, considering his bloodline.
Three other brave yautja warriors stepped out behind him. First came Kwei-Thei-de, second in command, whose name meant Sly Death. Next came the two younger Blooded warriors, Guan Ki'cti-pa (his name meant Shadow Blade) and Setg'-in-Guan, whose name meant Deadly Night. They were younger, but possessed a great deal of skill, having been taught by Dachande himself. All of the yautja on this hunt were skilled in all of their weapons, and they would need to be. For this was not an ordinary Hunt. This was not for honor alone. The oomans had been up to their old tricks again. Breeding the kainde amedha for their weapons, and disgracing a captured yautja warrior by performing bizarre scientific experiments on him. This was not purely for honor. This was a Hunt of revenge.
Dachande pulled his spear from his back and readied his shoulder cannon. The spear was his favorite weapon. He loved the graceful, yet deadly efficiency of it, it's long metal shaft coming to two bladed ends. Kwei-Thei-de also readied his shoulder cannon and spear. He checked his disc and ki'cti-pa, the deadly blades that would extend from his right gauntlet, ready to maim his prey, and watched the younger warriors check their equipment. Once they were ready, Dachande threw back his head and screamed: the Hunt was on!
In the science complex on Larotte, the scientists were preparing for the marines' arrival. Crates were being packed and unpacked, offices were being cleaned, safety systems checked. The whole complex was in a state of confusion. A scientist was busy giving orders to the cleaning crew when his com buzzed. He picked it up off of his belt and turned it on, seeing the screen come to life. Suddenly a figure appeared, covered in shadow and mystery. He puffed on a cigar, and raised a brandy glass towards the shadow that covered his face. "Yes, sir. What do you need?"
"How is the clean-up coming? Is everything ready?"
"Almost, sir. There are a few more offices, and the last of the experiments are being locked down, but that shouldn't take too long. An hour or two longer, and everything will be ready."
"Unfortunately, we don't have an hour or two. Word just came in that the marines have almost reached the complex, and when they get here, they're going to be suspicious. Especially if those specimens are in plain sight!"
"Y-yes, sir. Right away, sir!" The scientist switched off his com and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The man they all called "Kingpin" behind his back (he knew that they called him that, but he had more urgent matters to attend to) was not the man with whom to screw. And that was made clear the first, last and only time somebody tried it. The man had attempted to murder Kingpin, and got no farther than the hallway that led to his office. He was promptly captured and executed in front of everybody. The scientist shook the vision of the execution from his brain and remembered to resume yelling at the movers to be careful with the specimens. They were fragile and important. And if their stasis were to be interrupted, the results would be ugly. And deadly…
The creature knew it was alive. For it knew other things. If it knew nothing, then it was dead, but it thought. Therefor it must be alive. Its vision was distorted, dim. Its breathing was labored. It had the sensation of flying… floating. Liquid, it realized, I'm floating in liquid! It's vision cleared for just a moment, and it saw its prison. It saw the prey that lie just within its reach, and lashed out, but it's strongest blows fell short of its prey, deflected by some hard, clear substance. It hissed, a low, instinctual sound. The prey, realizing how close it had come to a painful death, ran off in terror. The creature went back to sleep.
Shipley's helmet bounced up and down on his head as the APC bounced over several rocks. He adjusted the strap and checked his pulse rifle again, making sure the magazine was in, and the safety was on. Scott Applewick looked up and smiled at Shipley. He, too, adjusted his helmet and gave Shipley the thumbs-up. Shipley returned the gesture, but he looked sick. He felt weird, like he was gonna throw up. He had been on countless missions like this before, but this one felt different. He was nervous, but everyone was. The general rule was that if you weren't nervous going into a mission like this, you weren't sane. But still, this felt different. Fader was sitting in the closest seat to the rear, looking out the back hatch. All of a sudden, he was shouting.
"There's one on our six! It's in the trees, 'bout fifteen meters back and gaining!" he had to scream to be heard over the engine and the air rushing by.
"I see it!" shouted Scott. He unstrapped his harness and knelt on the floor, readying his pulse rifle. He took careful aim, and fired, the gun in the "three-round-burst" firing mode. The howling monster fell and crashed to the ground, a hole in its chest. He knew that wouldn't stop it, though. The Xenomorph got to all fours and started running for the back of the APC, claws digging at the dirt. Scott aimed again, this time for the long, curved head. Another three rounds and the thing tumbled to lie dead, its head bleeding the acid that scorched the ground beneath.
Dachande and his small squad had been jumping from tree to tree quite speedily when they heard, rather than saw, the vehicle coming down the scraggly dirt road next to them. They also heard the Hard Meat chasing the vehicle, running through the trees like some devilish squirrel. As the vehicle came upon a patch of rocks, Dachande nodded to the others. They knew what to do. It was all part of the plan. Just before the vehicle reached the rocks, they jumped. They landed on the vehicle just as it ran over the rocks. The oomans inside didn't hear or feel the four yautja land for the noise of the huge rocks. Guan Ki'cti-pa readied his burner to blast the kainde amedha, then realized that it had already fallen from the trees. The ooman below them had hit the Hard Meat in the chest, but it was still running after them. He readied his burner again, but again, it was too late. The giant insect-like creature lay on the ground, dead.
Dachande nodded to the others. They were on their way to the complex. That was where the oomans had taken the captured yautja. Dachande extended half of his spear and held it vertically, the sharp edge of the blade in front of his face. This would make sure no branches would hit him in the face. The others did the same. No other yautja Hunting party would use such a tactic as jumping onto a moving ooman vehicle. They would rather track it and not take the chance of injury. Dachande knew, however, that risks had to be taken. He also knew that the complex had a fierce security system. There were guns outside that tracked motion and heat, and would fire at anything they saw that was both moving and hot. Having experienced these tricky ooman weapons before, they knew that they would be a problem to get around. They had also learned the hard way that the robotic guns could not be fooled by their shift-suit technology. But, due to the fact that the vehicle was moving and the engine was hot, the oomans inside would have to turn off the guns guarding whatever entrance the vehicle was using, so it would not take damage from friendly fire.
Dachande smiled to himself. Indeed, no other Hunter would use these tactics. Because no other Hunter was as smart, clever, skillful, resourceful, or deadly as he. He, who, like his father, had fought several Hard Meat queens with nothing but blades. Unlike his father, however, he had not died fighting his first one. Instead, he had conquered it, killed it, and took it's head as a trophy to hang on his wall. He had gone on to kill several more in the same fashion, exploiting their weak spot, the chink in the armor that they all wore. While the rest of his party would hold off the mindless drones that threw themselves at them, trying to protect the queen, he would have the queen all to himself. But this was different. The infestation had taken place weeks ago; there were many drones by now, all old enough to be showing the ridges in their long, misshapen skulls. This would be a hard Hunt. But that was just the way he liked it…
-Dachande
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