2 The Pack & First Day Of Training

Walking along the streets of the city, I was once again blown away by the simplicity of Yautja life. Walk around New York and you'll see billboards, performers, the odd nutjob--but walking around a Yautja city, you won't see any of that. The world produces Hunters, the odd healer and is run by politician who want the status quo to stay as it is.

There's no advertisement. No media. No creature comforts. Life here is simple but it's also supposed to be hard and rough. Time you could spend watching whatever TV shows a Yautja would come up with, would be better spent training to become better at your pre-determined job.

Which meant Yautja cities, while filled with incredible architecture, are as bare-bones as you can get. The cities are built around the Clans that made their bases their and are made in a grid style, all surrounding the Clan's main temple/pyramid. Each house is made of a durable concrete-like substance that is an orange-red colour and durable as fuck. Only inner walls, usually bedrooms, have metal walls - walls that are treated and made to muffle sounds. Yautja hearing is sensitive as hell, after all, and from how we're trained, any sound can knock us into flight-or-fight mode.

As mother says, a Hunter must always be prepared. Even when not on the Hunt.

...See where I'm drawing the comparisons between her and Batman? But she's not the odd one among Yautja. They're all like that. At least ones that have completed training and gone on hunting excursions.

Walking through the streets wasn't something I'd done much of, being the way I am, but I had done it before. Just like all the other times, people looked to me with their beady eyes and whispered among themselves. And by whisper, I mean click their mandibles together lighter than they would if they were speaking properly - which means I could hear everything they were saying.

"Ooman* pup," one of them growled, not even trying to whisper as he looked across at me from the only form of relaxation Yautja Prime had to offer - a bar. A lot of Blooded and Unblooded who come back from excursions drink themselves silly in either celebration or to mourn for comrades lost. Because the only time a Hunter would ever let their guard down was by doing those two things, especially the younger Hunters.

(*A/n - Most Yautja call Humans, 'Oomans' or 'Ooman'. They do it for a multitude of reasons, most likely, with one of them being they probably don't know how to pronounce it properly. Or rather the translation from English to Yautja just messed up the letters and how it's spelled. Either way, it's usually used in this way by common Yautja, while I'd say more noble Yautja would correctly translate it.)

The one who'd growled was a big guy, even by the standards of this planet which only seemed to birth giants, with a surprisingly wiry frame for his height and a body covered in scars. His pale green hide was dotted with what looked like puncture wounds and by seeing his bio-helmet which was resting on his knee and the unique carvings on it, it was pretty easy to see he was a Blooded Yautja. A very experienced one.

His gnarled hands clutched a ceramic cup of strong smelling liquid and when he took a chug from it, the liquid that rolled down between his mandibles and off his chin was shimmering the purest colour of blue under the overbearing light of Yautja Prime's sun.

No idea what that is called but it's definitely alcohol, and if it gets Yautja drunk...it's a helluva lot stronger than vodka.

The aged Yautja didn't try anything and just kept giving me the stink-eye as I walked passed. Not because I'm some sort of intimidating specimen but because of the servant at my side. A female Yautja guard. You see, some female Yautja aren't born to noble Clan lines, which means they have two options - either join the males on Hunts or become guards for cities or Clan members. Because female Yautja aren't as aggressive or as eager to fight/hunt as male ones, they usually pick the latter.

Still, any male Yautja will tell you - piss off a guard and you'll get your head caved in. And because us Yautja are hardier than most, you'll survive it and have to withstand the humiliation of being put in the hospital not because you got injured on a hunt but because you quite literally fucked about and found out.

I looked up at the behemoth next to me, her blue and brown hide glittering under the sun a little, her mesh armor and the metal plates covering her broad shoulders doing little to protect her from the overwhelming heat wave currently hitting Yautja Prime.

I didn't know the guard's name and she didn't look like she was ever gonna give it to me. She looked like she'd rather be doing anything else than escorting my human-looking ass anywhere. But I knew she'd do her job - guards have their own Code of Honour, just like Hunters.

The way to the Pack training ground was a ways away from the temple I'd been raised in. Way out of the city, actually. It was nearer to the wild jungles of Yautja Prime than the city. Probably for easy access to it for training or just straight up for the instructors to throw younglings into it to see if they're learning anyway.

Walking through the city was an easy and quick affair and we quickly found ourselves in the Savannah surrounding the city. I looked around me with my normal vision before switching over to infrared and picking up some biological heat signatures in the far distance. The heatwave was messing with that faculty of my vision but heat was heat and even if it was hot outside, hotter than a Yautja, I'd still be able to see with it. Just not in as great a detail as usual.

We walked away from the city and toward the camp, my vision picking up some critters here and there - Burrow Rats, they were called. But they looked nothing like rats. They had rodent-like features but they were the size of dogs with six legs and two sinewy tails. Swift as fuck too, with teeth that could even cut Yautja skin.

Luckily for us then, that they're scavengers. Basically this world's version of vultures. Still, to hear them scuttling about was aggravating. It set me ill at ease.

"You will make the rest of the journey on your own, Youngling," the guard suddenly clicked, her spear slamming into the dry ground below as she stood as straight as the spear in her hand. I gave her a look before nodding and walking away from her - another test, no doubt. Burrow Rats are scavengers but if something is weak enough, or looks weak enough, they'll try their luck. Mother is really pushing me, huh? So be it. I won't let her or myself down.

Confidently, I strode across the plain, my feet crunching the arid earth and the pale yellow reeds and grass growing from it. I heard the rats gathering behind me but paid them no mind. I exuded as best an air of ignorance as I could.

And they fell for it.

One of them screeched, charging through a nearby bush at me. Terrible. Clumsy. Who announces their attack before an ambush? Wild fucking beasts, that's who.

With ease and grace I'd never had as a Human, I spun on my left foot and snapped my right heel around to hit the rat in the ribs. It's greasy skin caused my hit to slip a little but the majority of the force got through, causing the rat to go flying. I charged after it, catching up to it even from my post-kick position, grasping it in my clawed hands and squeezing at it's neck with brutal strength. It cracked soon after and the rat went limp. Doing as I was trained, I gripped it's head and tore it and it's spine from the rest of it's body.

I held my trophy of gore proudly, staring through the brush at the remaining rats. They skittered and scattered soon after. They'd be back, no doubt, but they'd definitely think twice before doing so.

Snorting, I shook my head. As much thinking as animals like that can do, anyway.

Grabbing the base of the trophy at the spine, I slung it over my shoulder, uncaring and unaffected by the gore splattering against my skin. A test? I'll ace it and make an impression on my new packmates. After all, any trophy is worthy of respect and honour. Especially as a youngling.

And sometimes, the best way of hunting is to let your prey come to you. I smiled wide, the sharp fangs in my mouth no doubt shining with a savage and malicious light.

. . .

{POV Switch - 3rd Person, Adiken'de}

He looked to the sun and saw it reaching ever closer to it's zenith and gave a frown with his mandibles. All of the younglings for this pack had arrived. Except one.

The Human half-breed.

Adiken'de knew he was as full-blooded Yautja as anyone from the Des'teka Clan but he couldn't help but hold some reservations. He'd heard the rumours. Of how the Matriarch, the younglings mother, had lashed out at a mate of hers because of the child - to protect it. He almost scoffed at the thought before knowing better and stopping himself.

If the Matriarch was willing to harm a Blooded Hunter for a child, she would have babied the child from then on, no? Adiken'de was sure of it. He huffed to himself. Just another youngling to whip into shape with the only lesson that worked:

Pain.

He wondered if the youngling would be able to handle the training the other Yautja had gone through. He knew Humans and how weak they were. How pitiful. If the boy had inherited anything physical from them, he'd struggle to keep up with his Pack and the lessons. In the end, Adiken'de shrugged mentally, casting the thought aside. If he was too Human, he'd die in the jungles of the world before too long.

And that's when he heard it. Walking. Calm, steady steps. Near silent but unable to hide from the experience and keen sense of a past Elite and now Leader.

He found the source of the noise and almost gave a grin. The half-breed looked exactly that. Yautja in stature and skin with the ornamental hair style but human in everything else. He had no mandibles, no quills above his eyes or on his bare chest, his head was distinctively Human shaped...Adiken'de didn't know what to make of his appearance. But at the same time, that wasn't his job.

The half-breed could be the ugliest thing training under him because one thing set him apart from the other younglings who'd arrived.

This youngling arrived alone and with Honour adorning his shoulders and in his hands.

Burrow Rats, Adiken'de easily figured out, the dark and leathery skin a telltale sign for the pests. A trophy any Blooded would laugh at if any grown Yautja had shown it so proudly. But this was a youngling. A youngling without training.

Nine skulls and spines. Nine Burrow Rats killed, all on his own. The blood and gore under his claws and the blood up and down his arms enough to tell Adiken'de that. Four of the spines were held in his hands, two a piece, the remaining five adorned his shoulders and neck. He cut a very imposing image, for a youngling.

The other younglings jostled at the arrival of the half-breed. Staring at him and his Honour, their innate aggressiveness getting the better of them as they stood and puffed their chests out at the new arrival.

Adiken'de stood back and watched, knowing what was to happen. If a Hunter cannot defend his trophies, he didn't deserve them.

One of the bigger younglings of the already arrived group strode out of the crowd and walked to the half-breed, mandibles open wide in an obvious sign of aggression. The half-breed looked at him and gave a smile - a Human smile on a Yautja was odd to see - his teeth glimmering and slick with saliva and blood. Adiken'de saw the half-breed clicking together his bigger teeth, his replacement for mandibles, "What do you want, pup?" he asked with the same soft and higher pitched grunting and clicking known to all younglings.

Only when their mandibles - or teeth in the half-breed's case - harden can they have the solidness of an adult Yautja's clicks.

The youngling who'd been called 'pup' bristled, his mandibles clicking fast and hard in frustration, "An aberration like you should have no trophies--they're for proper Yautja, like us!" he replied childishly.

"Then try and take them," he challenged before enunciating he next word, "Pup."

Adiken'de was expecting a claw match on the first day but not this fast. He guessed it would sort out the lessers from their betters, so the sooner the better. It wasn't his job to lower himself to deal with the misgivings and grievances of younglings either way. He was only here to train them.

The big one from the crowd was actually a little shorter than the half-breed, which pushed aside Adiken'de's earlier worries of the youngling inheriting too much from the Humans. He'd inherited what he needed most, it would seem. So when the normal youngling rushed the half-breed, he foolishly stepped into his opponents range and stayed their too long but the half-breed didn't attack, confusing Adiken'de. Instances later, he realised what the half-breed was doing.

The youngling lunged for the half-breed with a telegraphed attack, an overhand haymaker which the half-breed easily dodged. He dropped to the ground and struck out with his foot in a sweep, knocking the youngling's legs out from under him and without breaking motion the half-breed stood and lifted a foot up and then down, smashing his heel into the opposing youngling's face, slamming him to the ground and keeping his foot there as he pressed his downed opponent into the ground.

Not one of his trophies had left his person and touched the ground. Adiken'de nodded at the display.

The half-breed bent down and snarled, grumbling and growling, his teeth clicking together, "You have no right for this Honour. You are weak." He gave a swift and merciless kick to his opponent's face before stepping over him and pouring his eyes over the group of thirty-eight still across from him, "Do any of you deserve this Honour?"

Adiken'de looked at the youngling and had a thought.

Maybe this half-breed isn't so bad.

. . .

{POV Switch - 1st Person, Deken'de}

Seeing the Pack shrivel up at my words and gaze, I felt pride swell within me before I squashed it. Most of these younglings hadn't had the training I had. Hadn't the gifts I was born with. To get proud over this would be like getting proud over winning a fight in a bar against some drunk nobody while also being a trained and completely sober fighter.

The tall and scarred one-armed instructor clicked his mandibles together loudly - the equivalent of a Yautja shouting, really - "Alright, enough of that. Get in lines and columns! Now!" he roared at us and all of us complied. He looked to me through a mismatched pair of eyes. One a deep green, the other a murky white, "You bring Honour to your Pack, half-breed. What's your name?" he asked and I bit back the annoyance at being called a half-breed, Yautja instincts flaring up at the insult.

"Deken'de, instructor!" I answered loud and clear, posture straight and rigid and a fist to my chest in a clear display of the necessary respect expected of a youngling when they talk to their instructor.

He nodded and turned his gaze away from me and to the rest of the Pack, the youngling I'd kicked to the curb was still lying there, unconscious. He'd be fine in less than a minute with nothing injured except his scuffed ego, and the instructor knew that as he stood in front of us.

Said instructor was dressed in a leather covering for his crotch and nothing else. The same thing all of us were wearing. He paced back and forth, staring down each youngling as he passed, until the knocked-out youngling woke up. Then he barked for the kid to get up and get in line, which he did. But not before giving me the strongest glare he was capable of. See? Nothing hurt except his ego.

With him finally in line, all forty of us looked to the instructor who stared right back.

"You're not my first pack of younglings to train and you won't be the last," he huffed gruffly, "I expect two things from you all. Discipline!" he shouted and held up a single finger, "And respect!" he held up another finger. He stood in front of us like a mighty goliath, his body a map and the scars the landmarks. He was what every youngling wanted to be; an experienced Hunter who'd took everything coming at him and survived, bringing Honour to whatever Clan he was a part of. Even I looked up at the experience Yautja, feeling a burning need to become like him.

No. A burning need to become better than him. It raged like an inferno inside of me, kept inside only by my more human mind helping me curb my impulse control which begged ever so sweetly for me to just start training.

"If you give me these two things, I will mould you into proper Unblooded who will have a good chance at becoming Blooded!" he roared, mandibles flared. His words incensed the younglings around me who shuffled back and forth on their feet in their anticipation to begin their journey to become a proper Hunter. But none spoke. None clicked or flared their mandibles. None grumbled or growled.

Male Yautja at the youngling stage are known for their aggression, for their lack of impulse control. But all Yautja, regardless of age, will show respect where respect is due. And in front of an instructor, a Leader who used to be an Elite? We all gave him every drop of respect we could.

The fights and hunts this man must've gone through...it boggles the mind. To become a Leader, or even an Elite, he'd have had to clear out a Xenomorph Hive alone. No backup, no packmates--just his experience, his training and his weapons to back him up. A Yautja like this deserved respect, least of all because he was now our teacher.

He stood up even taller than he already was, barrel-like chest flexed out, "Will you give these things to me, so that I may make worthy Yautja out of you?!" he shouted out in a booming voice, followed up by a rousing roar.

Most of the time he spoke, however, he looked to me and the trophies I'd adorned myself in.

It seemed my display had attracted all the right attention I'd wanted it to. If I proved myself above my peers, even with my human-ish appearance, no self-respecting Yautja instructor would able to stop themselves from teaching me more. Pushing me harder. Making me better.

I wanted to get out into the universe. I wanted to see all it's wonders. All the worlds it has to offer. All the prey it had. And if I want to do that, I need to be good enough--no, I needed to be the best. Mother had already given me a step up on other Yautja younglings. Now, it was up to me to keep that head start.

"Give me an answer, you pack of worms!" the instructor roared and all of us roared in response. "I didn't know I was teaching pups - aren't you younglings?! Put some effort into your answer!"

I got swept away by his words and raised my hands, still holding some of my trophies in them and gave a roar that crept up from my stomach, flared in my chest and burst from my mouth like the roar of a tiger. Spurred on by my display, every other youngling roared louder and everyone was worked up into a fervour, whooping and hollering with a jittery excitement. The instructor smiled at this - his mandibles coming together and shaping themselves into a cheap imitation of a Human smile while also being ten times more menacing. He grumbled, his mandibles clicking together in the form of a Yautja belly laugh.

He clapped his only hand against his chest, the sound being more like two concrete blocks smacking together, and gained our attention, "Good. If you can't make it as Hunters, you can use those lungs to at least boast about your Clan's glory and Hunts," he said and some of the younglings bristled at the thinly veiled insult.

To boast only about your Clan's Hunts and Honour...it's the most disgraceful thing a Yautja can do. If you can only boast about your Clan and not yourself, what does that make you? A parasite. Little better than a pup.

"Bring the racks out!" the instructor ignored the aggravated younglings and called off to the side where a few younger Unblooded came from nearby tents carrying racks fitted with wristblades. The Unblooded set the racks down before returning to the massive tents. They didn't look weak, per se, but they didn't look strong either. These were Yautja who'd probably forever stay Unblooded, too unskilled to ever kill a Xenomorph to attain Blooded status. I pitied them. Such a life was one of humiliation and one destined to life out the rest of their long-lives as servants.

"Get a wristblade and fit it to your dominant arm," he said and as the younglings stood about, I took a step forward and picked up one of the simplistic wristblades. A forearm covering which held the collapsible blades and when I fit it, I flexed my forearm and the blades shot out, barely a few inches longer than my knuckles. The rest of the younglings, seeing my actions, rushed to get their own.

Relaxing my forearm, the blades shot back into the forearm protector. Looking at it, I wondered what type of Hunter I wanted to be.

There are Brawlers, people who use the wristblades exclusively. Archers who use high-tech composite bows which shoot either metal arrows or energy arrows. Swordsman who use scimitars - which aren't actually scimitars. Just bigger blades that are attached to the side of their forearm protectors. All Hunters learn the basics in every form of combat but it's up to them to pick a path of specialisation.

Honestly, I see myself as focusing more on the Brawler or Swordsman path. Wristblades and scimitars just seem...right to me. I might be ambitious and take both of the paths. It's been done before. I'd, of course, master the other weapons as much as I could, but something about getting in melee range and slicing and dicing my enemies just spoke to me on an instinctual level.

Ah, oh well, I'm getting too ahead of myself. Better to learn how to use a wristblade before I go making lofty plans to become the deadliest close-combat in the universe.

The instructor shouted for us to get back in formation again and we did.

And so our first day of training began.