LotS/The Story/Puny Human Birthdays III

<tabber>

Intro=
"Adnan Zebra, return to consciousness immediately or be violently reduced to your inferior human elements!" 

The bellowing voice shattered into Adrian Zanfran's nostalgic dreams of a lost world of gloves and polite applause. He jerked awake abruptly, nearly toppling from his chair as he swung his head up from the surface of his desk. He must have fallen asleep in the office again, working late into the night on his latest research project for the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might.

He grimaced to think of the caliber and variety of doomsday weapons Kwix would unleash on him for missing another evening at home and tried to focus his eyes on the shouting red apparition projecting from the holographic screen in front of him.

"Uhm. Yes, Overlord, I'm awake" Adrian muttered blearily, "though I think my elements are the same as --"

"Cease your foolish mumbling, valued underling! Your mindless babble is as insufferable as your human stench! Focus your feeble attentions on my superior Rylattu conversation topic!"

"Er, yes Overlord, what can I do for you? The new manuscript won't be ready for -"

"Your puny excuses are of no interest to me, Aardvark! You will evacuate your office and attend to the overlords at once! If you are delayed by your inferior stink-beast listening comprehension you will be disintegrated along with your amusingly puny office!"

"Be right there."

The holographic face of Barp Sek Bul blinked out, and Adrian released a heavy breath. He stood and yawned, stretching his writhing tentacles overhead with a satisfying pop of his back. He plucked and pulled at the wrinkles in his shirt with his suction cups, and brushed down his hair, wondering what the sudden meeting was about. He hadn't been summoned to a full meeting of the overlords since the modest success of his birthday initiative, when they had thankfully decided not to do anything unpleasant or fatal to him after a long deliberation.

Since then, under Barp's sole direction, his modest contributions to the company had built into a satisfying catalogue of titles for the (inferior) human reader. Adrian glanced over at the wall of covers representing his legacy, a line of holographic images ending in his proudest work to date. The biography of a true human legend.

He smiled and stepped out from behind his desk, and the device on the floor caught his eye.

A number of individual elements of the device struck him at once. The squat and garish design of its casing. The abundance of wires coiling between canisters of colorful liquids. The crackling hum beginning to audibly fill the air. The glowing Rylattu numerals playing over its bulbous display, counting down to zero.

Adrian screamed.

He threw open the door to his small office with a snap of his tentacle and fled down the hall in a frantic burst of speed, making it twenty yards before the doomsday device went off.

A sound like the cracking of a whip snapped at the air behind him and the hair all over his body stood on end as a ripple of eerie purple light swept down the hallway and through his body. He spasmed, stunned, and dropped to his knees as a roar like crashing waves beat at his ears and his tingling skin attempted to crawl off his bones.

As his hearing returned, Adrian discovered he was still screaming in a high breathless wail. He snapped his mouth shut and stood up, turning to discover a perfect spherical void at the end of the hall where his office had once been. Purple energy was crackling and fuzzing over the crisp edges of the walls framing the void. In the very center, a purple globe of light was slowly fading away like an after image.

His little office was gone.

Adrian hadn't felt such hurt and indignation since his future wife had shot off both his arms and they'd been replaced with his admittedly superior tentacles. That office had represented his years of accomplishment, hard work, and success in avoiding senseless vaporization!

He sighed and stomped down the corridor, navigating toward the meeting room as he imagined all the mementos that had just been… he didn't know what. Imploded? Atomized, maybe? It was hard to say.

He reached the end of a passage, and a large door swept open to reveal the very meeting room he had been led to on his first day with the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might.

The chairs around the long oval table were occupied by the various overlords, with Barp at the head. Belligerent faces of many hues turned to glower and shout a chorus of insults and demands at him as he entered.

"There's the dawdling stink-beast!"

"Pathetic weakling! Perhaps his puny legs gave out on the way!"

"We should remove the disgusting appendages and replace them with superior Rylattu prosthetics!"

This was a fairly standard greeting. Adrian nodded to each of the overlords, making pleasantries that were lost amongst the shouts despite his raised tone.

"Antarn! Explain your wretched tardiness," Barp demanded from the head of the table, slamming a fist against its surface to silence the other overlords.

"Well, you blew up my office with me inside," Adrian pointed out.

"Your office was inferior! While amusingly small and appropriate for containing your unpleasant human odor, a disgusting employee of your caliber deserves a larger working space in which to destroy his subordinates," Barp shouted, and there was a chorus of agreement from the overlords.

"Of course Overlord," Adrian began, "it's just that my personal belongings… wait, larger space? Underlings? What underlings?"

"His feeble human mind can't understand the concept of an underling," a blue female shouted.

"Preposterous stink-beast!"

"No, no, I understand," Adrian assured them hurriedly lest they decide he needed an object lesson, "but I don't have anyone working under me. Or with me, I'm the only one in the human literature department."

"No longer!" Barp said, "Your laughable efforts to wring money from the miserable human species have resulted in a superior swell of profits! The Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might has dominated the inconsequential human publishing market with our mighty products! The recent biography of the revolting ape %name% is dominating the human readership and crushing the insignificant human publishing houses and their foolish drivel. The stupid book you wrote is a supreme example of Rylattu superiority!"

Adrian's brow furrowed as he struggled to parse the strings of competing adjectives. He had the sense he was being praised, but it was sometimes hard to tell.

"So," he ventured, "the %name% biography is doing… well? You're happy with it?"

"We are satisfied to have again demonstrated our superiority in yet another field," Barp agreed, "your worth as a freelance human is evident."

"Thank you, I --"

"So, we have hired a second freelance human to assist you in continuing our domination of the stink-beast market. His name is Kek Jel Henderson. You will report to your new, superior office and begin training him to help you expand our line of ultimate human-crushing publications."

"There are other freelance humans? I'm... being promoted?"

"Silence Agate!" Barp screamed, "Report to your new office immediately or be disintegrated! Congratulations on the mighty success of your feeble human efforts!"

Adrian hurried from the room, trailing thank-yous as the overlords began brandishing various oversized weaponry and firing energy bolts and praise in his general direction.

A promotion! He couldn't wait to tell Kwix. |-|

History Lesson=
"Welcome to the Human History Museum, and thank you for your patronage. I am the robotic simulacrum of President George Washington, my very features modeled after a human whose barbaric superstitions in life would surely cause him to regard my existence as a form of demonry. Though a leader of humans in an era of your history that had little to no impact on the galaxy or anyone in it, President Washington is well remembered to this day, largely in thanks to his image gracing one of the human race's most cherished and venerated icons: money. 

"As your guide today, it will be my honor to lead you through our annual featured exhibit: A Galaxy at War, Heroes of the Centurian Conflict. (So named, you will note, despite the fact that human space comprises only a fraction of the galaxy in question.)

"Much like its name, the exhibit is a classic example of the human predisposition towards self importance and hyperbolic declaration. Over the course of the human-centric war, other civilizations were making historic strides in art and science in the meantime, none of which will find any mention here at the Human History Museum. Let us begin!

"The most recent in a millenias-old tradition of pointless human on human violence, the Centurian Conflict was characterized by monstrous acts of bloodshed and disregard for life. As the victors of the conflict, the Sian Empire has the privilege of declaring their most accomplished murderers the heroes of the period. It is these compelling figures that shall be the feature of our tour today, and central among them the most accomplished murderer of all. %name%! (-?run subroutine `~holdforapplause')

"To your left you will observe a fragment of the hull of the Child of Heaven, one-time personal luxury liner of the late Princess Illaria. Beloved of the group of humans who identify as citizens of Sian, it is here that her life was first put in mortal danger by the Centurians, another civilization of humans which was arbitrarily distinct from the Sian group. It is here that a Sian pilot by the name of %name% first comes to historical significance as %he% affected the escape of the Princess, in the meantime heroically ending many dozens of human lives with a chilling lack of compunction or mercy. Please do glance to the right of each exhibit for a holographic with further information. Shall we move on?

"Here to your right is a replica of the battle-mech King Telemachus piloted as a child. After a crash landing on the human planet Gallea, the Princess and her protector consulted the local human monarch and together made the decision that the safest place for a developing human child was at the heart of a series of what would prove to be the most insane and horrific battles in recent history. They were of course proved correct, as he survived the conflict and went on to rule in his father's place. What permanent trauma could have resulted from the casual chainsaw murder of hundreds of his fellow organisms that defined his childhood? Surely none. But, we are getting ahead of ourselves. Please, no touching. Follow me!

"Ahead, we have a holographic recreation of the battle of Capek Major. Though thousands of robots were corrupted and destroyed in this human conflict, this morbid display is their only memory. In the scramble for political allies among the humans, the Princess, the captain and the child saw fit to petition TALOS for the aid of their advanced robotics. The assumption that robots should be constructs and forced to fight for human interests is consistent through history and is regretfully not unique to this conflict.

"It is during the course of their journeys across Capek that they encountered a warrior in the classic tradition of humanity. Ragnar. On the wall to the right you will observe a holographic overview of his cybernetic enhancements. A murderous, intellectually stunted brute, he was immediately welcomed into the closest confidence of the Princess and her companions. A true human hero, he would go on to perform a wide range of atrocities with a sociopathic abandon second only to that later displayed by %name% %himself%.

"Ah, a true pleasure. We shall pause here a moment. This is an exact replica of the robotic companion and close confidant of Princess Illaria. Though his meticulous engineering is truly a marvel, it is his programming that made him a true hero. When first joining the company of the Princess at the behest of Grand Fabricator Wilex, he initially voiced concern at the wisdom and frank illegality of pointlessly thrusting a child into a gruesome conflict. This and other objections were curtailed at the urging of Illaria's heroic companion, %name%, when %he% insisted that Lu Bu override his ethical programming and support their decision. We can only wonder how many human lives may have been saved if this loyal paragon of robotics was heeded to the fullest from the very start! Something to ponder.

"Soon after the compromise of Lu Bu we enter a difficult period for the designated heroes of the Sian Empire, wherein %name% failed in %his% only real responsibility and allowed the political figurehead to be captured. To review the impact of this period, we move into the Drekchester and Hyperia exhibit rooms. In the former you will observe a variety of weaponry and insignia associated with the Blood Alley Gang. In the latter, a retrospective on Vince Vortex and a selection of retired battle armor once seen in the Twisted Steel Champion Tournament. Though unimportant even within the context of the human conflict itself, these exhibits highlight moments from the travails of the companions of the human Princess as they fumbled through their inefficient attempts to recover her.

"Eventually successful, the Princess and her companions became involved in political and legal intrigue that the curators of the Human History Museum have not included in the Heroes of the Centurian Conflict exhibit, as they were worried that the subject matter was too dry to hold the attention of the average human museum-goer. As I see some of the humans in the group losing focus while listening to my brief overview, we'll move quickly forward to a portion of the exhibit with corpses and genitalia in it. Go on ahead through here to the Cythera room, and I will meet the group up at the other side where we'll visit the Illaria Memorial Gardens.

Following, there will be a great deal of Sian propaganda and an exhibit detailing the final days of the war where we'll gloss over the distasteful genocide of the Centurian people and instead drop you off in the Gift Shop." |-|

Origin=
Kaanaar soars above the streets, the updrafts flowing over and through him, a chemical symphony lifting him and carrying him through the sky. The endless song of his city. 

His form shimmers, deforms, reassembles. A humanoid figure cutting through the sky on massive red wings, throwing his shadow wide.

There isn't a citizen in the city who doesn't look up to the sky and know his silhouette against the moonlight means protection. Means they're safe.

And not a criminal who doesn't feel his shadow pass over with dread.

This is his city.

A familiar tingle drifts across him, tugging at his awareness. Something in his city was calling to him, something familiar. Something chemical, and cold.

Realization hits him like a freight ship, and memories flood back from a nearly forgotten age. A time of simple black and whites and of sudden upheaval and fear. A time of a city undefended.

A time of origins.

---

It's a quiet night in the big city, and the streets were full of those with nowhere else to go.

The poor, the disenfranchised. The cops, the crooks. Dark alleys, dark dealings. Plots and plans. The potential for violence, for disorder. A big city. Quiet, sure, but simmering. Ready to boil.

And through it all, unmarked, a Smythe transport carrying unknown cargo from the city lab to a secure holding facility drifts through the streets. A quiet run, a short trip, and then the cargo would be safely aboard a ship and headed offplanet.

For the Sussurran security on board, it's meant to be an easy gig. A paying job for a newcomer to the city, veteran of one of the galaxy's endless battlegrounds. A warrior ready to lay down arms, and live a quiet life.

But nothing is ever so simple.

Someone wants that cargo. And someone is willing to pay a high price to get it. Enough to afford a mercenary like Shiver.

The icy blast roars over the transport like a sudden storm, freezing it to the street and icing over the engines. They smoke, flare out. The transport is dead.

The security guard inside the transport checks his transparent containment suit for cracks, and checks the cargo for leaks. So far so good, but there's a hammering coming from outside the transport. Shouts, gunfire, and silence.

The rear hatch of the transport frosts over, the temperature inside the compartment dropping dramatically. The guard raises his sidearm and waits, but nothing can prepare him for the violence in store. The hatch shatters, brittle as candy glass, clattering into frozen shards. A howling wind slams through and knocks the guard to the ground, the gun flying from his hand.

The icy wind dies down, and a woman in a terrifying battle suit steps through, pure cold swirling around her hands.

The guard struggles to his feet, feeling himself swirling out of his breached containment suit. He struggles to place himself between the assailant and his cargo, battlefield memories battering him.

"Stand aside, peon," the woman's voice demands. Her suit makes it mechanical, low, menacing, "I just want the compound."

And he'll always wonder why, that first time, he didn't step aside. Whether it was honor, or ethics, or instinct. But he doesn't move aside. He gathers his vapor together, and forms a blade.

"Suit yourself," the woman laughs, and as he lunges she directs the stunning force of her cold gauntlets in a devastating blast that freezes and shatters his transparent suit and blasts him into a swirling, disoriented cloud around the cargo container.

And so he feels it right away when the container cracks in the cold of the blast. Feels the experimental compound hiss out and mingle with his gaseous form. Feels it unravel him, reshape him.

He feels every molecule of his essence being torn apart, reshaped, reborn.

And then, Kaanaar feels the city.

---

The veteran hero draws in the particulate evidence of Shiver's mischief, ponders it, and banks lower. Triangulating her location. Formulating a plan.

Shiver won't be dealing with a rookie hero this time.

It's time she learns whose city this is. Once and for all. |-|

Happy Birthday To Me=
It was Keegon's tenth birthday. 

The walls were decorated and beribboned, festooned with balloons and bedecked with crepe paper and signs of all shapes and sizes.

The couch had been moved from the center of the room to the wall, to allow for the rowdy play of children.

The floors had been swept and polished, and the curtains drawn back to let in all the sun and cheer the room.

A table had been laid out with a colorful cloth, the one with the spaceships on it that Keegon had been allowed to pick special from the store. On top, on the one side, a space for presents. On the other, bowls of chips and candies and (optimistically) carrots and fruits, plates of cheese and crackers, and a great big cake right in the very center.

The day before his birthday, Keegon had sat at the table before it was covered in snacks and cakes and cloth. With a stack of papers and a box of markers and a pile of envelopes he had made out the invitations to the party. It was his birthday, so he had wanted to do them himself. Especially as his parents were always at the lab, and never had time for things like that.

"It's Keegon's tenth birthday!" the cards had said, in block letters, in a word bubble spoken by a dinosaur. And everyone had gotten one. A card for each boy and each girl in the class, placed on each and every desk. He'd arrived at school early, to make sure he'd have time, and left school right on time to rush home and wait.

And wait.

And no one had come.

So Keegon sat on the couch by the wall, and he looked out the window as the cheery sun went down.

He hoped, a little, that maybe he had written down the wrong time. But in time, the world outside the window was dark and all it showed him was a reflection of his own forlorn face and a big empty room with the balloons and the table with a big empty spot for presents, and he didn't want to look anymore.

So he closed his eyes, and after a while he dozed.

He awoke with a start, some time later, at a sound he couldn't recall hearing.

"Hello?" he said, and looked around. The room was empty and dark, the curtains were closed, the snacks put away. There was no one there, and nothing made a sound. But as Keegon eased off the couch, he saw the gift on the table.

It was a red box, with a big silver bow. Perhaps, he thought, his parents had gotten him a gift to lift his spirits and left it before rushing off to the lab.

He went to the table and pulled at the ribbon until it came apart. He pulled the lid off the box and peered inside, and saw an odd little watch on a long copper chain sitting on top of a folded slip of paper. He lifted the round little watch by the chain, and as it rotated slowly in the air, he saw that there were no numbers at all on its face. In little letters, it said "TOO SOON" on the left, and "TOO LATE" on the right, and there was a thin silver arm that shivered indecisively between the two.

Keegon frowned at the curious watch, and slipped it in his pocket. He pulled the folded paper from the bottom of the box, and this is what it said:

Keegon,

Hope you had a spiffing birthday! As you can see, someone came. And someone brought a gift. So that was all right after all, wasn't it.

Remember to carry the watch, it's more useful that way.

Best,
Keegon

He brought them both to his room, and for days was much too confused to remember to be sad, but in time accepted that some things just happen and we don't always know why, and forgot about it.

But he remembered to carry the watch.

---

It was Keegon's 15th birthday.

He was in the nurse's office, and the walls didn't have any decorations at all, unless one counted the quite large poster about sexual health. It had been designed to be more alarming than informative, so Keegon looked out the window instead. Life was alarming enough without threatening posters.

His lip was bloodied and the bruises on his face were just starting to color enough to prove that he would be all yellows and purples the following morning, and one of his eyes was likely to swell shut. His feet were propped up on the nurse's desk, because the nurse was away and Keegon found that being beaten around the face on his birthday had made him a bit rough and belligerent.

"DING!", went the watch in the pocket of his jacket, which it had never done before, and Keegon startled so violently he kicked a mug and a picture frame off the top of the desk and they crashed to the floor as the door to the nurse's office swung open.

"I'm so sorry," Keegon began as he leapt from the chair to pick up the pieces of the mug, and then looked again and said, "Hold on, you're not the nurse."

"No," said the man striding into the room, "that's true. I am just on time though, glad that little bugger still works! Have a seat, no worries about that."

The man kicked the bits of mug nonchalantly under the desk and eased into the chair. He was wearing some sort of absurd outfit made of leather and hoses and a flight-cap with goggles. He looked something of a cross between a comic adventurer and an ordinary lunatic, who was also perhaps an enthusiast of classic aviation.

"You're...not the nurse," Keegon said again, because it seemed a safe option.

"Yes," agreed the man again, "I'm more of a guide in a troubled time. A counselor to help you through a rough spot, you might say."

"A guidance counselor?" Keegon hazarded, as the man rummaged through the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a silver flask from under some papers. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

"As you like," the man said, and frowned at the poster on the wall, "Ye gods, I'd forgotten about that. Nightmares for years. So, young Keegon, it's your birthday, isn't it? Why are you in the nurse's with your face all mashed in?"

Keegon's already colorful face flushed a darker shade of purple.

"Davidson," he muttered, "he said mum and dad were nutters and that the incident at the university was probably their fault, so my birthday gift was that they were gone. So I thumped him one in the eye."

The man grunted.

"Cracking! Sounds alright so far, then what?"

"Well then he and Pelton beat the shit out of me, didn't they."

"Ah, well that's not as good," the man sighed, and took another pull on the flask, "Well, what would you like to happen next?"

"Principal said I'd get detention, on account of I started it. Then he sent me here."

"I didn't ask what was going to happen next," the man said sternly, and leaned forward in the chair to point at Keegon from across the desk, "I asked what you'd like to happen."

"What I'd like," Keegon said, "is my mum and dad back. And for Davidson and Pelton to never have been born."

"There we are! Didn't remember those two anyway, probably said the same thing at your age. Can't fix the lab accident though, sorry. Some things are the way they are," the man sighed, and stood from the desk to brush himself off, "I'll be off then. Happy Birthday, Keegon! Chin up."

The man tucked the flash into his belt, and strode from the room.

Keegon looked after him for a moment, and then frowned, wondering why he was loitering around in the nurse's office. He was feeling quite well, actually. Upset stomach? No, that wasn't right.

So shrugged, got up, and went off to class.

---

It was Keegon's 25th birthday.

He was sitting at the bar, nursing a whiskey, and the little pocket watch was sitting on the bar in front of him. Face up, its silver needle was wavering uncertainly, as it always did, as it had been for hours. One way or the other, back and forth. But today, it wavered a little less each time as it slowly sought the the sliver of green just at the center point between "TOO SOON" and "TOO LATE." It slipped across one way, faltered, and tipped the other. And then, at last, it stopped.

DING.

The stool next to him scooted out, and a man in an eccentric adventurer's outfit slid into it.

"Ah. Thought you'd turn up this year," Keegon said, and held up two fingers to the bartender, "still a drinker I assume?"

"Course I am," said the man as he clapped Keegon on the back like an old friend, "but you don't seem at all surprised. Figured it out then, have you? Get into the old notes in the lab? Gearing up to chase them into the void and all?"

"Too right. That and the face in the mirror became quite familiar, I must say."

"Well, seems this'll be the last time I'll be looking after myself in this timeline then! Worth drinking to," the man said, and raised his whiskey to toast. Keegon smiled at himself, and clinked the glass.

"I think I've almost got the device working. The watch helped me calibrate, of course," Keegon said, "Any advice?"

The man drained his glass, and thought it over for a while.

"None of my own. But I'll tell you what I told me, and I have the feeling I knew what I was talking about because I've more hands leftover than I did then, you know," he said.

"...sure. What did I say?"

"I said, 'stay bloody well away from Rak-Thun Prime' and I shook my hook hand in my face. And what do you know," the man raised both his hands up and wiggled his fingers.

"Good enough for me," Keegon said, and felt that he had very little left to say to himself.

The man, likely sensing the same, scooted back his stool, got up, and left the bar.

DING.

Keegon frowned and glanced down at the watch, then looked up as a man with a hook for a hand sat down on the stool next to him.

"I know, I was already here. Rak-Thun Prime, got it," Keegon said, and bought them both a whiskey for their birthday. |-|

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. |-|

Titanomachy=
The mood was grim in the production room of "Devastation Rex Destroys the Universe". Collars were unbuttoned, faces were sweaty and grim, and the air itself tasted of stale coffee.

The conference table was full. The Legal and PR heads, Katya and Parsons respectively, were sitting at the head of the table. To their left was Grolman from accounting, and to their right was the director, credited as "b. Noble" on the show. No one at the table ever called him that. They just called him Brant. On bad days and behind his back, the crew usually called him "that bastard" but none of the crew were invited to the meeting.

All three writers were in a row on one of the long sides. There was the Piscarian, the one with the glasses, and the last one. Her name might have been something that started with an M, but no one in the room remembered or cared. Writers didn't pull a lot of weight on a reality show like D.R.D.t.U. and they were only at the table in case the producer suddenly needed to shift some blame for the ratings. The writers had mostly stayed quiet and hoped no one would notice them long enough to ask why a reality show needed three writers.

Facing the writers, like a firing squad, were the four studio executives. Studio Executives A, B, C, and D. No one had asked their names. No one wanted to know, they just wanted the executives to stop being mad go back to corporate. The studio executives were not happy, and so no one was happy. The studio executives were not happy, so everyone was trapped in the room, at the table, forever.

On the other side of the studio executives, and at the far end of the table, opposite Katya from legal, was Emeret, the producer, desperately eying the writers.

And that was everybody.

The holographic screen that dominated the far side of the room were scrolling numbers, and the numbers weren't good.

These god damned numbers," said Studio Executive C to the room, "are NOT good."

No one rushed to say anything. He had said this many times.

"The Vince Vortex brand is riding on this, this is supposed to be the dedication episode for his birthday. Do you people not get this?" said Studio Executive A, "The man is dead, you want to kill his brand too? Is that what you want? You want to ruin a dead man's birthday?"

"No," said Emeret, with his head in his hands, "no, we don't."

"The, uh, the issue," Brant hazarded, "is that people just aren't enjoying the show. Nobody wants to tune in to see a big robot stepping on empty buildings. I can only jazz it up so much visually. Everyone knows there's nobody in there."

"What about if the buildings are full? People like that. Life and death stuff gets ratings," said Studio Executive D, and the other executives nodded along. She was right.

"No. No random murders. I know what the show is called, but Rex can't deliberately go around killing random people," Katya said, "not without contractual agreements. We'd get our pants sued off."

"We can't afford to have our pants sued off," Grolman pointed out, "At this rate we won't even be able to afford pants."

"I can't say it I love the idea either. It's very concerning for our image," said Parsons, because he was from PR and his job was to be concerned about every idea before the viewers could be concerned about it.

"These numbers are not GOOD, people," snapped Studio Executive C. He slapped his hands on the table and the writer who had glasses cringed down a little further into his seat.

"The Twisted Steel Champion Tournament got good numbers," Studio Executive B said, her tone letting everyone know that her idea was about to fix everything, "Why don't you just be more like that? Look at what they did on Twisted Steel and do that. They got GREAT numbers."

Everyone at the table who wasn't a Studio Executive took a breath and tried to think of ways to explain why this didn't make any sense without sounding condescending enough to lose their jobs. Everyone besides Emeret, who was quietly crying into his hands and making the Piscarian writer very uncomfortable.

It was Brant who broke the silence.

"In Twisted Steel, it was exciting because the fighters were fighting equal opponents. There was a thrill, rooting for one side or the other, not knowing who would win," he said, "and the fighters all had contracts. They could die and we were all in the clear."

"Well let's do that, get a fighter and have them sign a contract," said Studio Executive A, "and then we'll have the big robot kill them and boom, big numbers. Big ratings!"

"I have concerns about that," said Parsons, "that would look more like an execution than a fight, really."\

"Plus, who would sign up for that? There needs to be something in it for the fighter," Katya put in, "besides a horrible death I mean."

"Um, well," said the writer whose name might start with M, to the astonishment of the other two writers, and faltered when the focus of the room turned towards her.

"Well? Well what?" demanded Studio Executive D.

"Well," she started again, as her face slowly started to turn purple, "I was thinking, what if it WAS a fair fight? What if we just found someone really, um, really big. And they could fight."

The room was silent.

"Like Twisted Steel?" she squeaked out.

The writer who was a Piscarian and the writer who had glasses tried to somehow distance themselves without physically moving enough to draw attention.

The Studio Executives looked around the table expectantly, waiting for the objection.

Emeret and Brant were sharing the look of two drowning men suddenly feeling sand under their feet.

"Marcy--" Emeret began.

"Karen," said the writer whose name didn't start with an M after all.

"Karen, how much do we pay you?"

---

Katya and Parsons watched the live feed of the final episode of "Devastation Rex Destroys the Universe."

They watched as Devastation Rex and Great Big Rye began to brawl.

They watched as the fighters ignored the boundaries of the staging area and drifted towards civilization as they exchanged blows like meteors hitting and fell like earthquakes.

They watched as the fight stumbled into a major city.

They watched as the buildings were flattened underfoot, and the populace swarmed and fled.

They watched as the military arrived and began to lay down fire to stop the fight.

They watched as the two giant fighters started swatting military craft from the air.

"Well, better draft up a resignation," Katya said.

"Yeah," Parsons said.

They turned off the feed. </tabber>