LotS/The Story/Puny Human Birthdays III/Survival of the Fittest

The jungle was dark and full of predators, and each and every one of them would be made to feel afraid.

The young Vlarg slipped among the branches of the low canopy, tree to tree, easing among the creepers and padding over moss in the perpetual filtered twilight of the jungle floor. His passage was soundless and swift as he tracked his prey, but the teachings of his elders thrummed through his heart and sang in his mind.

"Heed me, Youngling."

"I am no youngling! I'm a hunter grown, grandfather, better than most."

"Pah, and more arrogant than most. The Hunt is near, but you haven't survived it yet. Until the day you bring me your name, you are Youngling. You understand? Now, heed me."

"When you go to the hunt, Youngling, are you predator or prey?"

"Predator, of course. Do you insult me, grandfather? I am no prey!"

It was uncommon for a Vlarg his young age to claim his place in the Hunt, perhaps unprecedented, but the trial could wait no longer. It would be his last day that his fate would brand him as an outcast and a weakling.

Not all held by the old traditions. Many Vlarg moved from childhood to adulthood without challenge, recognized by their peers for the bloodlines they carried or the professions they chose. Healers, pilots, scientists, diplomats, sons and daughters of pure families. None saw the need for this privileged majority to tie their futures their performance in the coming of age ceremony of their ancestors.

But, not all. The aimless and the uneducated, the bastard-born and the orphans, those with no other means to show their worth. These wretches had to face the crucible to find acceptance, had to choose the purest and most savage of the old traditions. The Hunt. A cage that many enter, but only a few emerge. Those who succeed may claim a name, born again, and petition a bloodline for recognition. Only then could they be accepted.

The rest die, or are exiled. For the weak, it is the same.

The words of the old blood rang through his ears, in his blood.

"Wrong, Youngling. Wrong. Remember this well. We are all prey. We are all predators. All the creatures and the forces of this universe, and death itself tracks your footsteps. It is not by right that you occupy the top of the food chain. It is by will, by speed, by strength. By tooth and claw. It isn't enough simply to be a predator.

You must be the best."

"I will be, grandfather. Mark me on it, by the blood of our line."

"Will you? We'll see. The mothers and sires of the old blood are watching, Youngling. The line you invoke isn't yours to claim, yet. That right lies waiting in the jungle, for you or for another. Earn your name, Youngling, or whether or not you survive the Hunt you are dead to our eyes."

Again and again, the words echoed in his mind, driving him forward.

The footsteps of his prey traced the jungle floor below him, the hunter's passage nearly invisible in the undergrowth. But not quite. He was gaining on his quarry, moving silently and unseen would be more difficult on the forest floor than in the branches of the close growing trees.

There, just ahead, creeping through the ferns: his prey. His eyes grew wide, drinking in the low light, devouring every detail. The Vlarg was twice his size, and likely twice his age. A soldier, well used to the jungle, likely seeking the prestige of the Hunt to advance her career. One of the dozens creeping through the jungle. Hunting glory. Hunting validation. Hunting each other, until only one was left standing.

He slid his blades free, let them taste the air like flexing talons. He drifted closer, ever closer, until he was just above her.

Well muscled and well armed, with guns and grenades, and she moved with the ease and efficiency of a trained mercenary. She was a killer, she had seen blood on her hands and knew she would see it again. She oozed confidence in her role as a predator, seeking her prey.

But being a predator wouldn't be enough.

Because he was the best.

He dropped from the branches headfirst, a plunging mass of teeth and steel, and the red of her eyes rose to meet him just ahead of the barrel of her gun. His blades slipped across the tendons in her wrists as he twisted in the air to land in a crouch at her feet. The rifle hit the ground as he swept a blade across the back of her ankles, and she hit the ground soon after. She hissed in a breath and he snapped the hilt of his knife across her temple, silencing the shout.

He bound her arms and legs with ties from her belt and activated the tracker at her wrist. It throbbed with a dull red light, the only indicator the distress beacon was active. The officials of would come to collect her and repair the physical damage.

The encounter had taken only seconds, but the sound would draw the others to investigate. He would be ready for them. The young Vlarg slipped up into the trees, and didn't spare a glance at his fallen prey.

Her Hunt was over, but Alpha's Hunt had just begun.