Between jagged, frozen peaks, in a snowswept valley, rests the Weyland-Yutani colony of Byblos on the Outer Rim world of Osiris. Like many such distant colonies, Byblos is entirely self-sufficient, its colonists tough and proud—and like many such colonies, it fell quickly to the xenomorph menace. Its last gasp for help, a distress signal, was sent out a few hours before the blizzard set in. Now its fate is all but sealed, with roving hordes of xenomorphs occupying Byblos' halls and chambers, and powerful icy winds ravaging the colony grounds. A small contingent of survivors have fortified a position in a panic room, hoping to hold out until rescue arrives.
The nearest USCM vessel which had picked up the signal, the USS
Halcyon, was over three days away. Another vessel was instead the first to respond, the
Setg'in Kjuhte, a
yautja craft from a distant galaxy. It had deployed one elite, two blooded, and four young bloods, and at this very moment, Chiva Yin'tekai, one of the blooded, perches atop an icy precipice overlooking Byblos.
Chiva is apprentice to Adjudicator Ka'rik'na Yin'tekai. While adjudicator training consists mostly of lectures, he is still required to attend the Hunts, if only to become stronger, for he will eventually be expected to enforce the Code of Honor and hunt bad bloods, some of whom were once clan elites.
His breathing is steady, but he hears nothing except for the howling wind. The sheets of snow which fall at precipitous rates form a curtain blocking vision past more than a few dozen meters. A few colony floodlights still shine through the weather, guiding Chiva to his goal.
In his ear he hear's the elite, Vor'mekta Dai-shui, speak. "Kv'var-de, watch the pass entrance. Chiva, move around the back of the colony. I am bringing the young bloods through the front portals, and I wish for both of you to block the escape routes. Not one
r'ka shall escape our Hunt."
In a burst of speed, Chiva drops from his perch and onto colony grounds. He dashes across the snow, a blurry streak, between snow-topped buildings with barely exposed metal walls, and in one powerful jump, clambers onto a roof. To a human, it would have looked supernatural.
Chiva pauses as he takes stock. The serpents will know he is here, and yet he does not feel their presence. It could be the snow playing havoc with his senses, but he is fairly certain this means they are distracted. "Vor'mekta," he says, "Have you already moved in?" There is a crackle of static and then a curt response in the negative.
It must be human colonists, somehow alive despite the degree of serpent infestation. One must applaud their tenacity; Chiva is aware that most such colonists are not warriors, so to have survived the serpents for this long is an achievement, a testament to their will. "I'm moving in," he says.
He drops from the roof towards the rear of the colony's outermost buildings, kicking up a flurry of powder snow as he lands heavily on the grounds. He strikes the door with his armored elbow, only to be surprised at the sturdy resistance the door gives. He quickly searches the building's surface and spots a control panel. Clearing it of snow, he cuts and pulses a series of wires with the practiced ease of one who has performed the same motions many times.
The door swings open with a loud creak. Almost immediately, a large black figure, a younger serpent, pounces from the hallway, its razor teeth bared and claws at ready. Chiva dodges laconically and the serpent's surprise swipe only manages to scrape his armor. The
yautja draws his scimitar and cuts in one motion. Green, steaming blood splatters across the metal and snow, melting both in equal measure. The serpent screeches and dashes off beyond the veil of snowfall.
Chiva clicks his mandibles. He is bemused about prey running from him, but doubts the serpent would make it further than Kv'var-de. Entering the building with his scimitar at the ready, he begins his room-by-room sweep. Kitchens, bunks, storage, showers, lounges—all in disarray, their furniture torn and scattered across the ground. After a dozen minutes of searching, he comes upon a hallway. Black, gooey, alien weeds coat the walls, ceiling, and floor here like mold. He can hear screeches in the distance, discordant and many. Vor'mekta must have begun the assault with the young bloods already.
Strapped to nests by web-like strands of resin are several dozen humans, mangled and with gaping, gory holes in their chests. They are all clearly engineers, doctors, or scientists, without a single warrior among them. The serpents never cared for honor, nor distinguished between worthy and innocent prey. Chiva shakes his head in disgust.
Pattering and soft footsteps sound in the hallways. Two serpents stalk Chiva from the shadows and are waiting to pounce. The
yautja merely stretches his shoulders, steps forward, and brandishes his scimitar. "Come. Let's not delay."
Two dead serpents and a bad cut later, Chiva steps into an empty meeting hall, blood oozing from his deep wound. There is a podium, arrayed in front of which are many tables and chairs, most overturned. Across the hall the
yautja hears a screaming voice. Human.
Chiva activates his cloak, immediately vanishing from sight.
Quickly crossing the distance in a matter of seconds, Chiva comes to a stop at the podium. Around a corner he sees two humans, one clutching another fallen one, the latter who was suffering severe spasms and foaming at the mouth, eyes in shock from pain. With a sudden jerk, the spasming human's chest blows outwards, splattering the nearby vicinity with viscera. A serpent larva scurries from the resultant wound, fleeing under the tables and chairs of the hall.
The former human screams even louder as their partner goes limp.
Almost on cue, a mature serpent drops from unseen heights at the far end of the hall. It swivels its head at the remaining human, who stumbles back, reaching for a nonexistent weapon. The serpent charges.
As the serpent pounces, the
yautja steps between it and its intended victim, deactivates his cloak, and swipes with his scimitar. The clean cleave, mixed with the serpent's momentum, lops off several steaming limbs. As the mangled creature attempts to drag itself to safety, Chiva steps close and ends the creature with a swipe to the head.
The human scrambles to their feet and flees to a back room.
A certain silence falls upon the hall as Chiva meditatively stands and watches its doorways for serpents attempting to flee the Hunt. A few minutes pass. Eventually, one of the doors open and Vor'mekta appears, completely uninjured but otherwise covered in grime.
"Elite," says Chiva, bowing his head.
"How was your Hunt?" asks Vor'mekta. "I have slain a dozen, and the young ones have killed half their number between them."
"Three. And I have this wound to show for it." He points to his cut. "Also, I should inform you that some
oomans have survived the
r'ka. They are in the back."
"Indeed?" As Vor'mekta speaks this, no fewer than eight humans appear from behind the podium, one of whom was the human Chiva rescued. Half of them carry rifles, which are held at the ready but not aimed at the two
yautja. They whisper among themselves in frightened voices, their eyes darting between the two alien creatures.
Vor'mekta clicks his mandibles. "Four more worthy prey. Good practice for the young bloods. Shall I call them over?"
Chiva shakes his head. "The
oomans held fast against a superior force of
r'ka. They have won an honorable victory and earned their freedom."
"Spoken like a true adjudicator's apprentice," says Vor'mekta, shaking his head. "The
oomans and
r'ka—they are not
yautja, they cannot understand us. Your mercy is wasted on them. But very well Chiva, we'll let them be."
Stepping away from the exit, Vor'mekta sardonically and exaggeratedly gestures at the door. Chiva too points at the door, beckoning at the humans. With any luck, the humans will understand.
And it seems that luck holds. The gaggle of colonists slowly advance across the hall, keeping a tight formation as they move between the two hulking
yautja. Eventually, as they near the exit, there is sudden motion from under a table. The serpent larva from earlier appears from its hiding spot and scurries across the open floor.
Two of the humans with rifles move in panic and shoot at the larva. The staccato of gunfire fills the hall for a brief second, until the larva flops and dies in a pool of steaming gore.
Chiva flares his mandibles. "I see I was mistaken; these
oomans have no honor, slaying a defenseless child. Elite, call the young bloods, we'll make worthy prey of the
oomans yet."