Yautja Whitelist Application
Byond ID: CCRWasHere
Marine Name Julian 'Jules' Petrov
Name of the Yautja Character you wish to play
Have you banned in the past month or are currently banned from other servers? No, and I never will.
Are you familiar with the Predator Code Of Honor? Yes. I am familiar with it, and I plan to have the Predator Honor Code open if I play Predator until I understand it even on an esoteric level.
Yautja Character Story
Please don't TL;DR it. I put a lot of effort into making this story a good read, and it also shows my command of the English language - a skill I believe to be a good indicator of competence in roleplaying.
CHAPTER ONE
Space Vietnam, Somewhere in the jungles near New Saigon, 2183
Crunch.
A sound familiar to Jall, along with most hunters: jungle brush parting beneath heavy footfalls. Five. Five humans dressed in similar uniforms, and clad in similar gray-plated armor and helmets. Military. Jall remained cloaked far above near the vegetated roof, perched still on a large tree's branch. Hanging vines draped over his shimmering form, blending him in near perfectly with the surrounding brush. He had been like this for some time, ever since discovering human tracks frequenting the area. They were always deep prints and slashed apart bushes, leaving easy-to-follow trails. They were either amateurs or overconfident to be so careless, and this group proved no different.
"God, I fucking hate jungles. Did you all know that?" one finally spoke up as he swung his machete, missing most of his swings in the darkness of the near-sunfall. An audio wavelength sidebar descended down in Jall's bio-mask's visual feedback, already at work recording the conversation.
"Yeah, Riker, we heard you the first fucking thirty times." another one responded. He looked and sounded young. His voice held a cockiness that reminded him of the Un-Blooded.
"Keep it down, you two."
"Keep it down, you two," "keep it down, you two," Jall's vocal recorder repeated itself internally as Jall replayed the audio.
"Confident. Relaxed. Experienced," Jall quietly told himself, making an effort to keep the noisy clicking of his mandibles down. "Leader."
A thundering, whooshing sound played in his mask as red, triangular sights centered itself on the human's head. An affirmative beep followed as the kill optic locked on, transmitting trajectory data to Jall's shoulder-mounted plasmacaster.
The electronic hum of the triangluar reticule droned on as Jall considered his plan of action. He engaged the magnification capability of his bio-mask, quickly flicking through the amplifications until he was completely zoomed-in on the human's face. "Ooman," Jall absentmindedly said to himself, mandibles clicking. These creatures intrigued the Yautja Hunter, and many times had Jall queried the Philosophers about their nature. "Small, but a vast array of chaotic ideas within. Like a Berserker, they are quick to manifest this inner turmoil into reality." An Elder, retired from a long experience of dealing with humans, had that to say. He claimed to have partaken firsthand in the events of ancient human history. "Tlaca, they called themselves back then - back when they wielded primitive tools, and wore feathered dresses. Their kind is still young, and yet-"
Jall disengaged his mask's zoom, and switched through his vision modes until only the patrol's weapons glowed. They held many.
"-and yet their tools of destruction have come far. Their appetite for violence, even when they held only spears, is impressive."
He recalled the words of the Philosopher carefully in his head. Too many.
The triangular reticule quickly disappeared off the human's head. Jall would wait.
"This is weird, Adan. I don't remember seeing any sort've installations or anything on this part of the maps." Female. Near the front of the group next to the now-named human leader.
"This is weird, Adan," "this is weird, Adan" Jall's vocal recorder once again repeated.
"A-dan," Jall spoke to himself, getting used to the name of his quarry. He was still perched above, out of earshot, watching the patrol like a bird of prey. He took the time to look at their appearance. He had seen the likes of them in the past: Colonial Marines. Worthy prey.
"Just keep your eyes peeled, Mei. Report anything you see or hear."
A Marine fidgeting with his rifle in the back looked cautiously about. "Y-Yeah, sarge, I... I feel like something is wrong. We should head back-"
Did this human spot him? No. Impossible. Jall was more concealed than a Serpent in the blackest shadow. Something else had startled the Marine.
One of the pack suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. A single one of his fists raised up: a signal to stop. "Do you hear that?" The group went deathly quiet, and so, too, did Jall. The Predator's instincts kicked in; his mind began to race as paranoia settled in. A human noticed it before he did: a wave of terror from a sudden, unknown source. His danger-sense flared up - WHAT were these Marines reacting to? He wildly flipped through his vision modes, and swung his head to and fro, seeking the source of this premonition.
"Uh... no? Riker, what do you hear?" Their voices were faint, now. Unfocused. This had never happened to the Yautja Hunter. Something wasn't right. There was a change in the baseline that managed to sneak up on him. It was sudden. Too sudden.
"It's too quiet."
"I don't hear anything, sarge. Nothing but our own footsteps..." the voice below continued speaking, but it was too late. Jall had already figured it out.
"I am not alone."
For a single minute, time seemed to move twice as slow. The Predator looked once more to Adan, and in the Marine's eyes he saw that look of mortal fear. The same look given to Yautja Hunters from their prey. The look you give to death itself. Before any of the Marines could move, it was over. Four shots rang violently throughout the jungle. Four bodies hit the dirt floor with a loud thud. Puppets with their strings cut. Blood exploded out from different fatal locations of the Marines' bodies. All except one.
Adan fell to his knees, but remained untouched. He scrambled to a dying comrade, but he was no longer the object of Jall's attention. Those blasts were quick. A plasmacaster? No, even faster. Someone had fired a weapon that found their marks faster than the Predator had ever seen. It had to be another Hunter. Jall switched his vision mode to identify other Yautja, and scanned the jungle trees. Nothing. All darkness, save for his own body. "How?" he rumbled low. Adan was already off, rifle in hand, and shakily darting behind a thick tree for cover. Inconsequential.
There was a more worthy prey in this arena.
CHAPTER TWO
Space Vietnam, Unnamed village deep in the jungles, 2183
Flames licked the sky. The red glow of the inferno pillared upwards as it engulfed the wooden shanty houses of the human village, threatening to spill outside the boundaries of the settlement onto the outlying jungle wall. Black, acrid smoke billowed for what seemed like miles into the sky, polluting the day as dark as itself. The area wept blazing embers as they fell from the firmament - now shadow-blanketed from the smoke - like scorched snowflakes. The loud roars of the fire supplemented the dim slaps of burning, crumbling, jungle wood - yet, still, he heard it: the sound Jall had been chasing for days to no avail. The sound of him.
It was laughter. That is what the Predator kept hearing from his prey. A snake-like, mocking "heh, heh, heh," from the bottom of a human's throat that made Jall's mandibles clench in anger. He could hear it from the burning rice-paddy village through the screams of the fire and its inhabitants; Jall had tuned his audio amplifiers to pick up the exact pitch of that horrendous, reptilian-like cackle.
Jall was cloaked, but past experience with the subject of his Hunt proved the device useless. His prey had sharp enough eyes to spot the faint shimmer from the manipulated light. The Hunter now exclusively used solid cover for concealment, even now keeping behind tree cover as he zipped tree-to-tree along the border of the village. The memory of that encounter still made his blood curl - it was Jall's first time seeing his prey in the flesh. It was right after the Colonial Marines under Adan were gunned down.
It had only been a few days ago...
Space Vietnam, Somewhere in the jungles near New Saigon, 2183
"Alan Drigger!" Adan screamed from behind cover of a thick tree. He pointed a rifle with hands still bloody from the fresh wounds of his comrades. Jall paid the angered shouts no mind, immediately centering his view on the source of sniper shots.
It wasn't another Yautja, and there weren't heat signatures, either; infrared picked up nothing. Jall flipped through every single vision mode on his bio-mask. Ultraviolet, electromagnetic, vibration, pheromone, and X-ray; even neural gave the same readings.
Nothing.
It wasn't until he tried PredTech a second time did he manage a faint glow of a mechanical weapon. It was a long rifle, and mostly covered in wood. Whoever was holding it was nonexistant as far as Jall's mask was concerned. He clicked the visual readback off entirely, now only using his natural sight to guide him.
Emerging from his concealed position, the Predator's serrated blades sprung forth from his gauntlets with a satisfying, terrible shink. Jall had used vines to naturally blend in with his surroundings, along with his cloaking device, but they parted easily as he leaped from his branchy alcove towards the far below jungle floor.
Jall landed with a heavy impact. His bulky Yautja body absorbed the shock of the long fall with a loud thump. His blood was pumping. The thrill of the Hunt; he was now giving chase. He could see where last he spotted the wood-clad weapon's location, and there he spotted the jostle of jungle brush from a silhouetted, fleeing figure.
Pulse rifle gunfire exploded behind him, and then was instantly followed by nearer, noisy pings of bullets plinking off nearby surfaces. The Predator was still cloaked - Jall had wanted to close the distance to the sniper before decloaking - and so, Adan must have mistaken the Hunter's movement for this '"Alan Drigger." A minor inconvenience.
"Heh, heh, heh,"
What? How?
He was still facing the direction he was tracking Alan Drigger, yet the laugh came from behind him!
Jall quickly spun around, his dreadlocks whipping about as he turned to face the laughter.
That's when he saw him.
Jall did not have too much experience with humans, but he knew their varied eye colors. Black, brown, green, blue...
but this human's eyes were red.
A dull red struck lifeless from some horrific experience, wretched free long ago from any mercy or kindness it might have held for the galaxy. He looked young - bordering on middle-aged - but heavy wrinkles stretched long across the sides of his eyes, mouth, and forehead, marking him an older man. Short, cropped hair of a natural gray color faded down his head. It was messy: greasy with sweat, and flaked with dried blood. The same went for his clothing: a ragged uniform similar to the Colonial Marines', and caked with jungle debris, sweat, and blood. All except for his boots, which were jet black and pristinely polished. He was smiling a psychopath's smile.
He was a few feet away from the Predator, but he stared directly at Jall's cloaked visage without any difficulty. Seeing the futility of the cloaking device, Jall disabled the cloak, and stood silently as the light manipulation shimmered off him like a flow of water down his body. He breathed loudly, letting his mandibles click together, further establishing his presence.
"4l'4N DRI6'63R," the Yautja's bio-mask's voice translator sputtered out.
"Nice fishnet, Aquaman."
Jall responded with a roar. The loud, angered shout echoed off the tall jungle trees, disturbing perched birds into flight.
Now that he was facing his opponent clearly, Jall took the chance to flip through his vision modes once again. Surely he would register on one of them?
He had just switched from infrared to neural when Drigger's face dominated Jall's field of view. Alan Drigger had closed the distance of ten feet in the span of half a second.
"WH47 -?" was all the Predator could get out before an extreme force slammed into his chest, sending him backwards, sprawling him out flat on the dirt ground. It had happened so quickly: one moment to the next, and now his head was swimming in pain, his vision twinged and blurry, and his legs sent out from under him.
"Heh, heh, heh."
At least one fractured rib. Jall willed himself through the pain and expertly stood himself up to see Drigger cracking his knuckes, and with no other weapon in sight. He had sent a Yautja Hunter in his prime - a creature twice his size in mass - flying with just his fist.
Jall dropped into a combat stance, rearing his still-extended gauntlet wristblades, ready to strike.
"Listen, this ain't happenin', chief." Drigger was unfazed. "I got places to BE. If you ain't a USCM dog, you ain't worth my time."
The mockery taunted Jall to charge. Alan Drigger was both fast and strong, but he lacked melee weaponry, and that is where the Predator held the advantage. Drigger didn't make any movement to counter the charging Yautja.
Getting within striking range, Jall began with a quick jab, aiming to impale the human with his wristblades. Alan deftly sidestepped, and - despite having an opening for a counterattack - only took a few steps back. "Do you want to die, motherfucker?" Drigger threatened as he ducked a backhand from the wristblades. He continued his insults, "Not fast enough. Too slow..." He was interrupted by a forward kick from a follow-on attack. Jall's foot connected solidly with Alan's chest, sending the human backwards. He remained standing; Drigger took the momentum of the kick, and kept steady as he slid backwards on his feet.
The human clutched his chest. Good, he was winded. The Predator wouldn't allow Alan Drigger to recover. Jall shot his hand towards a holster strapped on his thigh, his claws gripping a familar weapon. A smart disc at this close distance wasn't optimal, but it should catch the human unaware. In one swift motion, Jall raised and activated the lethal smart disc, and hurled it Drigger's way. The human's eyes widened for only a moment before narrowing, focusing on the spinning disc speeding towards him. Once again, he made no effort to move.
It happened in the blink of an eye. Where the smart disc should have sliced clean through Alan's body, instead it hung midair, still whirring its razor-sharp blades. He had caught it with his bare hands.
Alan Drigger had snatched a thrown Yautja smart disc.
"Nice Beyblade, kid. Think I'll keep it. Heh, heh." The vibrations from the disc's rotational motor ceased as Drigger deactivated the weapon. Now inert, he stuffed it in one of his pant's cargo pockets.
Jall loosed another ferocious roar as he dropped himself back into a low combat stance. He dared steal a Yautja Hunter's gear! He started stalking towards the human with a slow, methodical pace, gliding on the uneven jungle floor with ease.
"Round two? Alright..." Alan said, giving his head a tilt and popping his jaw. He reached into a back pocket and withdrew a handheld, rectangular object. "Entrenching tool. Never leave home without it. Ambush tunnels don't dig themselves, know what I mean?" Drigger stopped smiling. After gripping the object's handle, he whipped his arm out, extending the tool to its full length. The spade was stained with more than just dirt.
"A shovel?" Jall thought as he approached. Alan was treating this duel as a joke. Never before had the Hunter been so enraged, for at every turn this human was disrespecting him. Jall consciously maintained his breathing to keep his anger in check - the rumble of his mandibles clicking together afforded him some comfort. The human had stolen Yautja tech, making him Unworthy, yet Jall doubted unleashing his full armament would make a difference. Alan Drigger could see the Predator while cloaked, and because he didn't register on any visual modes, Jall would have to line up a shot with his plasmacaster manually. The human was too fast for unassisted ranged weapons, so that ruled out effective use of his plasmacaster and speargun.
Jall dashed forward, closing the gap between him and his prey. Immediately he went on the offensive: both wristblades striking inwards as a pincer attack. Once again, Drigger was too quick; he took a short hop backwards, putting him just out of reach. The Predator's wristblades clinked uselessly as they struck eachother. "You're not very good at this, Jamaican-man. I'll show you how it's done," Alan mocked as he sidestepped unto the Yautja's flank. Jall saw the entrenching tool in his periphery just in time to dodge Drigger's swing. The human's movements were like lightning. Swing after brutal swing came from the shovel-turned club, and from each battery came a block from Jall's wristblades, eliciting a clashing sound of metal-on-metal. The Predator's reactions were faster, but only barely just. Alan Drigger showed no signs of fatigue.
One mistake: a parry that lasted one more second than it should have. A second was all Alan Drigger needed.
A reverberating clank bounced inside Jall's skull as Drigger's weapon found its mark upside the Yautja's head.
Blackness closed in upon his vision as oblivion overtook his senses.
Space Vietnam, Unnamed village deep in the jungles, 2183
The radiating heat from the fire-engulfed huts were now near enough to provide Jall some comfort. He had been skirting the boundary of the settlement - through the bordering jungle - into a position that put him closest to that dreadful laughter coming from within. For the past few weeks, Jall had been tracking Alan Drigger throughout Space Vietnam, and wherever the human went, destruction followed close. Yautja Hunters ritualized their brutality, sometimes skinning and stringing up slain prey for display, but Drigger left a sadistically unrefined carnage. The skeletons of his slaughters dotted the jungle planet numerously, and he always acted alone. Alone had this one human decimated entire Marine patrols, leaving only butchered corpses to be recovered. Alone had this one human razed whole homesteads, reducing their citizens to charred, unrecognizable remains.
Alone had he bested the Predator, and mysteriously spared him.
Alan's voice rang out again in Jall's bio-mask's audio amplifier. The amplification reported that he could get no closer from along the outskirts, so Jall finally broke free from the surrounding jungle trees. Where normally his cloaked form would be tempered with furtive movement, Jall walked plainly towards the village being swallowed up in fire. A piece of weather-ragged parchment was held in his palm.
After their first encounter, Jall had woken up from his shovel-induced daze free from further harm or theft. His life was spared the fate of Alan Drigger's victims. Instead, Jall stirred from his lost duel's painful aftermath with a note: a piece of paper with human English scrawled upon it. His mask's translation software had difficulty reading the message, so Jall had stowed it away. As the Predator proceeded with his hunt for Drigger, he would periodically withdraw the note from his hunting pouch, contemplating it as he absentmindedly rolled it around in his hand.
Just as he did now.
He continued walking forward; Jall abandoned any pretense of stealth aside from his cloaking device, for Alan Drigger was immune to indirection. No - the cloak was for the villagers, whose clamors danced within the fires of the settlement like a chorus of tortured singers. Human screams mixed together with the low roars of the fire in a duet of agonizing death. Yet - still - he heard it. It mocked Jall as he held that piece of paper with the undeciphered message. He heard it whenever he looked into the horror-stricken eyes of his quarry's vanquished. He heard it when his mind swam in unconciousness during sleep. He heard it every day in his head.
"Heh, heh, heh."
CHAPTER THREE
"Spirits? I do not understand," Jall Thar'n slowly struggled out. He was a young Suckling - only a few feet tall - and unversed in the ways of speaking his people's language. A baby.
"No?" the Elder chortled as he reclined in his seat, "let me explain it this way, then, little one." Inbetween bouts of harsh physical abuse came these knowledge lessons. Jall's master was a long retired Hunter; an Elder in his wizened, old years. Heavy wrinkles sagged his once-taut skin, and his heavy muscles now had a growing weight of fat accompanying them. Such was the fate common of Yautja that took up his profession: a Philosopher; a teacher and keeper of traditions. His status as Elder still forced a demanded respect.
"Look outside, child. Speak to me of what you see." He motioned with an outstretched arm towards an open veranda. Their clan's palace's architecture was a popular one - smooth stone floors lie underneath towering walls occasionally embossed with impressive engravings. Clinging vines were groomed to fall beautifully from the lofty heights of the ceilings. The palace sat serenely in one of the planet's many lush jungles, and numerous archways led to open balconies. Jall took one such exit to view the green vistas surrounding his home.
Agaj�ya. Yautja Prime. Picturesque in its savagery. "Well? What do you see?"
"Trees?" Jall replied simply, unsure of what answer his teacher was expecting.
"Indeed, there are tress." The Philosopher had moved to meet his ward on the veranda. He looked on wistfully, his eyes seeing more of their homeworld despite the same view.
"But what else lies before you? Look at what hangs thick in the air."
"The fog?" Nearly all of Yautja Prime had a hot, brown haze that settled over it like a comfortable blanket.
"Yes. The spirits are the same as this fog: Incorporeal. Invisible, yet always surrounding us. They are the Cetanu-claimed Hunters that live on in the Great Hunt of the afterlife," the Philosopher stepped forward, continuing, "they are also the weak among our society, reaped by the Black Warrior all the same, and fit only to judge our shortfalls. Our spirits come from both walks of life, but their goal is singular. They watch over us; they guide us on our paths."
"It is an immortal ghost, a spirit. A thing to revere - but also a thing to dread, for not all our ancestors desire us glory." His pedagogic tone turned dangerous.
"There exists a breed of spirits malevolent: demons whose goals align with chaos and destruction. Hatred is their tethering anchor given weight from wrath."
"They care little for the decorums of our Hunts, and even less for our Honor Code."
"Look to your honor, pup, and guard it well. Demons are snakes: embracing them is to invite venom into your heart."
Space Vietnam, Unnamed village deep in the jungles, 2183
"The Ghost... the Ghost..."
She was an adult woman, but she sat curled up like a newborn babe, oblivious to the fiery death enclosing in upon her. "The Ghost, the Ghost is here..." she hugged her knees as she rocked back and forth, babbling to herself. A title born from fear. A label one would give a legend. Jall was cloaked, and this woman's vacant stare was not fixed on his shimmering form as he walked past. "He's here, he's here. The Ghost is here." The Predator knew she did not speak of him.
"Immortal ghost," he mumbled to himself, his mandibles clicking, echoing the words of his teacher long ago. These rice-paddy peasants were like all the others Alan Drigger had killed: they did not know the name of their destroyer, so they had entitled him a grave epithet. The Ghost was a recurrent moniker shared on frightened tongues. Alan Drigger became synonymous with doom, and his nickname likewise heralded a cursed death.
"He's come, he's here," were the last words Jall heard from the woman, for a sharp snap of burning timber crashing down to the brown-red dirt had followed close.
As he walked deeper into the village, the devastation became more apparent. Scattered human and animal corpses lie burning on the ground - their bodies a swirl of fire and smoke - in great number; their flesh bubbled and popped with grotesque hisses. Some still writhed in agony as their skin had yet to fully burn away. Most lie still, their resting places accompanied by fire-engulfed, collapsed house debris. Jall ignored them all; he was transfixed entirely on a single voice only slightly further ahead. The voice of Alan Drigger.
"How does it feel?" Drigger spoke, raising his machete. He was speaking the language of these locals fluently. A limp man was before him with a torso running bloody from long slash wounds. He was held aloft at rope-bound wrists tied to two spaced apart poles. The man's head hung low, and his breathing came in ragged, painful intakes. "How does it feel to be friends with the United Americas?" Alan waved his blade menacingly. The machete was coated fresh in blood like a brush whose painter's hand let drop into a can of crimson red.
The strung-up man spat out a cough, and wheezed, "Please, stop this!" in the same strange language. Jall's bio-mask did excellent work translating; as the two conversed, Yautja symbols quickly captioned the words in the mask's head-up display. The captive man looked up to his capturer. "We didn't help them... Please, listen to me-"
"No, I think I'm done with you." With a quick jab, Drigger impaled the the man's chest with his machete. "How does it feel? Let me listen." He leaned into the man, and pulled out the blade to the sound of a drawn-out, dying gasp.
Jall and Alan Drigger stood there for some time: Jall facing Alan, his invisible form slowly accruing a mantle of fallen ash from the burning sky, and Alan's back turned to him. Drigger had let his machete - now flowing with blood down its edge - return to his side. It dripped silently as they both simply stood there. A very light rain began to drizzle the air.
"Enjoying my handiwork?" Drigger finally said, still not turning to face the Predator behind him. "I saw you after I raided that Colonial Marine patrol along the New Mekong. I saw you, but you didn't see me. You looked intrigued with that smartgunner I chopped up. Guess her gun's target tracking didn't do her much good, huh?"
Jall disengaged his cloaking device. "WH0 4R3 Y0U?"
"Who am I?" Alan Drigger said indignantly. "That woman back there said I was a ghost," he pointed his machete towards Jall, "but she hasn't been following me for weeks now, has she?"
"So, why don't you tell me?"
"K1ll3R. BU7CH3R. D357R0Y3R." The rain had started to pick up; heavy water droplets replaced the ash in the air, and loud hissing sounds squealed from the fires beginning to die all around them.
"Not 'thief?'" Alan asked while pulling out the Yautja's smart disc from his cargo pocket. "I thought you've been trailing me to get your toy back. You can have it; I don't want the stupid thing anymore. It keeps flying back trying to kill me whenever I throw it."
"K33P 17. 1 L057 DU3L. W3 4R3 3QU4L."
"'Equal,' huh? Somehow I doubt that." He stuffed the disc away with his free hand. "Why come here, then? Why track me down?"
Why had he come here? Jall looked up to the raining sky. The downpour washed over his visor, fogging up his vision. Was it bitter vengeance that drove him to this point? Was Alan Drigger a personal crucible for him to overcome? Was it a desire to understand this human better? Did he want to be as the carrion birds, gorging upon the carnage that followed the human? Truth escaped Jall as it fled somewhere into the stars, through the smoke and through the rain clouds. Still the Predator looked up, hoping that his answer would eventually fall to settle a more graspable height. It did not, and Jall was left wondering if perhaps it ever would.
He did not find his reason above, so he would find it within. Jall knew what he was: a Blooded. A Hunter. A Yautja. These things defined him; they defined all who he was, and there - always - in the beating heart of his primal nature: an answer.
The Yautja Hunter leveled his sight back upon his enemy. "1 H4V3 C0M3 70 PR0V3 MY53LF."
"To me?"
"N0," Jall fully extended his wristblades, "70 MY53LF."
"You've come to die, retard," and without more word, Alan Drigger charged.
He quickly closed the gap between them; he got in striking range with his machete, and began the fight with a heavy downswing. Jall batted it away with his left-hand wristblade, and followed through with a jab from his right. He wasn't underestimating his opponent this time, yet Drigger still dodged the stab. Alongside the deft sidestep, Alan swiped vertically with his blade, scoring a deep gash on Jall's torso.
Jall leapt backwards a safe distance, and roared as pain exploded in his shoulder. Green blood and rainwater intermingled and glided down the Predator's body. Ferocity became the storm as its rain raged sideways and whipped across the skins of the two battling foes. The sky screamed as flashes of lightning arced above like arteries of an angry god, awashing everything with interval seconds of perfect illumination from the thunderclaps.
Wristblades had proven themselves too unwieldy against Alan Drigger's speed. Clasped to Jall's hip was a clan sword, and he had prepared it just for this moment: the moment he would once again face the human-made-equal.
"Equal," Jall said aloud. He knew Alan could not understand the language of the Hish, but he continued regardless. "I will face you as an equal - equal in more than just strength of arms." Jall reached up to grab his bio-mask's air lines. Drigger kept back, and looked on with disinterest as the Predator's mask came off with the hiss of escaping air.
"What, did you think I'd be surprised, alien?" the human spat. His tone did not betray him: Alan Drigger was truly unfazed after seeing the unmasked Yautja.
"I've lost my capacity to feel anything a long, long time ago." Drigger looked back to the man he had impaled moments prior. The dead man's blood was still fresh pouring out of him. "I killed this fool not just because he helped the United Americas," Alan gave a long look, "I ended his life to hear him die. I was at Crist�bal as a Colonial Marine back in '69, and I can still hear the screaming. I still hear the tortured gasps from those inflicted with the flesh-eating bacteria we gave them." Alan Drigger had harrowed, foggy eyes as he spoke. He continued, a thousand-yard stare dominating his countenance, "I live for that sound, and for that sound alone. I died as a Marine during Crist�bal, and was reborn as something far more terrible."
A momentary lapse of silence drifted between the two before Drigger's gaze fell upon Jall's clan sword. "Looks fancy. I could use a new machete." Water splashed from puddles beneath black, polished boots as the human made his approach. Jall slipped his bio-mask into his hunting satchel, and moved to meet his nemesis blade for blade.
CHAPTER FOUR
Space Vietnam, Unnamed village deep in the jungles, 2183
Bloodshot eyes; he couldn't sleep with the nightmares. Camo facepaint; green and black stripes fell down his face - covering it entirely. A M42A scoped rifle; it shook in his hands unless he was sighting in.
A photo of five Colonial Marines: they were smiling as they faced the camera - happy camaraderie apparent on their faces as they all wore the yellow M3 pattern personal armor of Bravo squad.
Elena Mei, Lane Riker, John Donable, Everett Ackerson, and-
and Adan 'Digger' Howard.
He didn't need to look at the picture to see it; the snapshot of his squadmates was ingrained to memory. The photo was taped inside his helmet to protect it from the jungle elements, but everytime Adan closed his eyes, he saw them all in that picture.
It had been three weeks ago. Three weeks and two days. For three weeks and two days had Adan Howard been living in this horrible new reality: the reality that all of his close friends - no, his family - were dead.
"E-Everett? Everett, stay calm. Stay with me, Everett, alright?" Howard looked down into Everett's eyes, and as Everett returned Adan's look, his eyes started to glaze over.
"I... I was-" Ackerson released a pained gasp, "I was shot..." He slowly reached up with his blood-smeared hand, and placed it around Adan's head. "I... I d-don't wanna die, s-sar... sarge..." Everett's hand fell limp, and slid down Howard's cheek leaving a bloody trail.
Lane: a direct shot to his head, John: a piercing shot to the neck, and Mei: a shot to her stomach. The Marines he swore to lead and protect all killed in one terrible minute.
And for three weeks and two days had Adan Howard been hunting the killer responsible.
Howard was the modern Rambo: he had been AWOL from his unit in his search for Alan Drigger; he slinked through the jungles of Space Vietnam alone in his pursuit for the man that ruined his life.
Drigger had responded in kind, counter-sniping with his SVD to Howard's M42A. Their engagements were methodically long and drawn out; hours were spent prone in the jungle brush, and sighting in through their rifles' scopes, scanning for any change to the baseline. Scanning for the other to slip up and give away their position. Occasionally, one would catch the glint of the sun in the other's optic lens, and make calculated shots, but neither had managed to score any fatal hits.
That would change today. The hand of a fierce storm had gripped Adan and his position, and despite wind-tossed, slapping jungle leaves and cold rain, he held his rifle firm. He was perched on a hill overlooking a village laden thick with smoke from extinguished fires, and his M42A had finally found its target. He had those evil, red eyes of Alan Drigger in his sight picture, but aligning the crosshairs proved a difficult matter. Alan was in the throes of battle with some tall, monstrous local, and - through his scope's magnification - Howard observed and waited. Revenge was only a trigger press away, and all that stood in his way was lining up the shot.
He just needed an opportunity's second. A single window to open, and thus end it all forever...
Their dance began with an over-head swing; their swords crossed cleanly with a vibrating schink of clashing metal. They recovered quickly, and started trading blows evenly one after the other. Both combatants blocked each strike with expert grace, gaining no purchase of the advantage. "You're pretty good at this," Drigger hissed as their blades cut through the falling rain. The human - just like their last bout - showed no signs of exhaustion, thus forcing Jall into action. The Yautja would not let Alan win through attrition like their previous duel.
Drigger pressed the offense, but as he felled his machete in a downward swing, Jall launched an off-hand grab that snagged the sharp edge of his opponent's weapon. Blood trickled down the Predator's clawed hand as the blade dug into his palm. Control became as shattered glass to Alan Drigger, for the unexpected move struck him briefly surprised. A brief moment was all Jall needed. A gauntleted fist slugged Alan right in his gut, stunning him - and opening up his defenses - just long enough to give Jall a follow-through with an aimed attack.
The nape of Drigger's neck was Jall's target, but as he gave a mighty heave with his clan sword, Alan pushed forward, charging and tackling down Jall before the killing blow was struck. Mud met the two grappling bodies as they tumbled to the wet ground. The choatic, close-quarters combat saw the fighters without melee weapons, so they exchanged fists in a brutal hand-to-hand brawl; their punches flew as they rolled around in the black sludge. The sight was a vicious one: a mess of tangled limbs throwing punch after grab in an attempt to pin and subdue the other. Their back-and-forth beatdowns eventually ended with a busted-and-bloody-mouth'd Alan Drigger atop the Predator, and with a large pistol in his hand - its iron sights trained on Jall's head. Both were breathing heavily.
"It's..." Drigger sputtered out, winded, "it's over, freak!"
BOOM!
Jall opened eyes he did not remember closing, and - instead of the black of death - the red of blood stained his vision. Blood that was not his.
"AUGH! MY EYE!" Alan screamed as he rolled off the Predator. The human clutched the right side of his face, and blood gushed between his fingers; blood poured like a red river under his hands as he jumped off Jall. "That damn sniper! GOD DAMN YOU, SERGEANT HOWARD!" Drigger screamed as they both stood up.
That faraway blast was not the last to interfere with their duel, for the loud roars of jet-turbine engines began to split the air. Jall turned his attention to the black, stormy sky, and saw the gray shapes of several Colonial Marine dropships beginning to invade the area. He instinctually reactivated his cloaking device, and spun back around to find that his foe had disappeared. Alan Drigger had completely vanished.
"What? How?!" the bewildered Jall asked himself. He pulled his bio-mask back out, but then remembered how useless it was to a man immune to every vision mode.
"The Ghost... the Ghost..." That woman's ramblings suddenly had all the meaning in the world. A poignant chord strummed the crescendo to the sound of descending dropships, for Jall realized with disappointment that it was over. Alan Drigger was gone.
Jall heard the barks and shouts of deploying Marines from the touched-down transports nearby. They would be upon him, soon, but Jall still stood there. A somber trance, and a grim certainty called to the Yautja that his Hunt on this planet had ended.
Jall Thar'n freed himself of his fretfulness, and set off to leave - wondering all the while of just who it was that had saved him.
EPILOGUE
Space, the outer rim, 2186
USS ALMAYER.
A human spacecraft. It was a long, hulking vessal with those words painted in white on her gray hull. Jall Thar'n stared idly at the ship as it floated in the void of space, looking at it through a porthole onboard his councilor's cloaked spaceship. He had been graciously chosen to partake in a Hunt of the dreaded R'ka with a small group of other Yautja Hunters, and so far their travels had been primarily in the outer rim.
"Al-may-er," Jall sounded out, reading the output from the translation software in his bio-mask. He was fully kitted out in his old hunting gear, and although it was starting to show wear and tear, it still held its own on Hunts. Perhaps he would have to finally swap out his armor, for while it could stand against Xenomorphs, Jall doubted it would fair well if this vessal carried Colonial Marines, for he had seen similarly-designed ships belonging to the humans.
Thinking about his gear irked him; He was forgetting something: something unimportant, yet still valuable. He had certainly not forgotten about Alan Drigger, for despite being three years ago, his Hunt of that human still dominated his thoughts. He had hoped returning to slaying the ancient, sacred R'ka would abate his fascination with the events that occured on Space Vietnam, but seeing a spacecraft of human-make brought all those memories come crashing back down.
So much was just... wrong with what happened back then. So much left unexplained, and if anything annoyed Jall more, it was questions left unanswered. When he was a child, he specifically sought out his people's Philosophers to remedy that exact vexation. His mandibles twitched. No, something else was bothering him, but what?
The Predator closed his eyes, introspectively delving into his mind. He was back there: in the jungles, and in the fire and rain. What was he missing? What was he...
He stirred with an aching head - a blow from Drigger's entrenching tool. He lost the duel, and woke up alive. Something was in his hand.
That note.
His eyes shot open. He was wearing his old hunting gear, and while his rucksack was torn around the corners, it hadn't taken any serious damage! The satchel's carrying strap ripped apart as Jall tore it from his side and unclasped it open. He flipped it upside down and shook, watching all of his stuff fall unceremoniously to the ship's brown deck. a heavy Medicomp clunked on the floor along with some hunting traps before he remembered exactly where he stuffed the paper note. It was in a small side pocket.
Miraculously, the parchment was undamaged. It was a small, square piece of folded paper in Jall's shaking hands. He hadn't seen nor heard any signs of the human-made-equal in three years. Three years, and he still could see those red eyes. Three years, and he could still hear that insidious "heh, heh, heh." His mask's translator was more up-to-date than it had been back then, so it must be able to read it now!
He read the message. There was a belief among religious Yautja - now canon law - that the gods lived lives in the flesh-and-blood. Divine incarnates that made abstraction manifest.
The message was only five words. A message from the human that had bested the Predator:
"Better luck next time, Hunter."
No.
WHAT were these Marines reacting to? He wildly flipped through his vision modes, and swung his head to and fro, seeking the source of this premonition. It had to be another Hunter. Jall switched his vision mode to identify other Yautja, and scanned the jungle trees. Nothing. All darkness."
It wasn't another Yautja, and there weren't heat signatures, either; infrared picked up nothing. Jall flipped through every single vision mode on his bio-mask. Ultraviolet, electromagnetic, vibration, pheromone, and X-ray; even neural gave the same readings.
Nothing.
He pulled his bio-mask back out, but then remembered how useless it was to a man immune to every vision mode.
Not human.
Wherever the human went, destruction followed close. Drigger left a sadistically unrefined carnage: alone had this one human decimated entire Marine patrols. Alone had this one human razed whole homesteads.
"The Ghost, the Ghost is here..." she hugged her knees as she rocked back and forth, babbling to herself. A title born from fear. A label one would give a legend.
"There exists a breed of spirits malevolent: demons whose goals align with chaos and destruction. Hatred is their tethering anchor given weight from wrath."
"I've lost my capacity to feel anything a long, long time ago." Drigger looked back to the man he had impaled. "I ended his life to hear him die." Alan Drigger had harrowed, foggy eyes as he spoke. He continued, a thousand-yard stare dominating his countenance, "I live for that sound, and for that sound alone. I died as a Marine during Crist�bal, and was reborn as something far more terrible."
Not human at all.
Describe how your Yautja acts, and how you intend to play them
Jall Thar'n is consumed by a monomaniacal obsession with finding a single human named "Alan Drigger." Not quite to kill him, but - in a strange, Ouroboric way - to understand him, and thus more about himself. This will be done by focusing on capturing lone Marine players, and abducting them to the Yautja ship. From that point, the gate is open in terms of roleplay possibilities; where other Predator players might see a Worthy Prey to slay and be done with, I aim to enhance the rounds of other players whenever I can: whether it be to interrogate and set free, forced to fight as arena combatants, or let loose on the lost colony after the Alien hijack. This is by no means an admission that I won't hunt humans and gather trophies, but rather a statement that I intend to do more with some Marines than simply try to kill them.
Regarding hunting Aliens - and hunting in general - I'd call myself robust enough to provide a good challenge to skilled players.
I'm also of the opinion that running around and acting like an attention-seeker, clown, or nuisance (not a threat) goes against the spirit of being a Predator; A Predator that racks up a balanced kill count of Marines and Xenomorphs, and then is met with "there was a Predator?!" in OOC, has performed to standard.
In your own words, describe the difference between an honor duel and a hunt
The ultimate goal of the Hunt is a simple one: to track down, kill, and harvest a trophy from a Worthy Prey. Because of what defines Prey as "Worthy," it is expected of the honorable Predator to show respect when slaying their target, for there lies only weakness in responding to strength of arms with anything but strength of arms. Striking from behind a cloaking device, using a plasmacaster to cripple before the death blow, and targeting those that cannot defend themselves are all anathema to the shame-based society of the Yautja, for being unable to kill your quarry without bringing them so low reflects that weakness upon yourself.
But, there exists an echelon that puts respect for one's foe above that even of the Worthy Prey: the honor duel. Strictly reserved for very limited situations - mainly when the honor between two Yautja are challenged, the honor duel tightens control on how two combatants may fight, for with an honor duel, it is no longer personal skill being put through the crucible of battle, but honor itself. It is a duel that can only be initiated by a Predator towards those with the capacity for honor: primarily other Yautja Hunters, but sometimes the human that has proven their might, cleverness, and understanding - never a Xenomorph, however, for they are brute beasts that are unable to grasp such noble concepts.
It is naturally fought only with melee weapons, and thus, fairness is paramount. The honor duel is usually to the death, but mercy is an option that may be given to an opponent that yields. Should a human be challenged, and should a human prevail in an honor duel, a gift is customary along with announcement to other Yautja of said human's achievement, for they are now our equal.
How do you intend on interacting with other predators during a round?
If you know my Marine character, "Jules," I enjoy talking about past operations (as seen in my Dossier); I like giving color to our pasts, for it makes the game world we play in feel more alive - more immersive, more persistant. If you've read my story, I also tell how Jall was raised under the tutelage of an Elder that interspersed knowledge lessons inbetween physical training. This comes together to give Jall a good balance between conversing with other Predators about past Hunts, personal triumphs and defeats, and the philosophies of Yautja society.
In terms of interacting with other Predator players during Hunts, because Jall was so easily humbled by a mere human, he is much more quick to assist other Hunters should they become overwhelmed, or if a joint effort is needed (such as to recover lost Yautja gear).
Otherwise, he prefers to leave other Predators to their own machinations; the traumatic experience of his time in Space Vietnam has rendered him somewhat withdrawn.
A notable exception being debating matters of the Honor Code. In his formative years, his tutors taught him on matters abstract. And, on his hunt for Alan Drigger, Jall came face-to-face with the why of things. This was something he struggled to answer, so any points on the nature of the Hunt he is eager to discuss, and to make his voice known.
Why do you want a predator whitelist?
A Predator should be a role that turns rounds into stories. They consist of players trusted by the community to adhere to a higher standard. As a United States Marine in real life, I'm expected to conduct myself in a similar fashion: to be given the opportunity of doing things the easy, fun way, but still choosing to do what's right for the betterment of myself, and for those around me. I want to be given a whitelisted role to prove myself to the community.
On a more personal reason: I love this server, and I grew up with the 1987 Predator and 1990 Predator 2. I've used those two movies as a source of both material and inspiration for making Jall Thar'n, and I had a ton of fun writing up his story. At one point, I spend an entire liberty just typing away making his backstory, and I'm more than positive actually playing as him would be even better, should I be allowed to. I've been playing Colonial Marines for a few years, so I hope I can be entrusted with being a Predator.
Do you understand that any player - donor or otherwise - can have their whitelist status revoked should they break our rules or disobey the Predator Code of Honor? Yes