Nameless

Intermission / Interloper?

177 days enduring this ooman.

The rest of the staff were mostly gone. Day by day, for the last 10, the activity in his enclosure was declining. Today it was just her. Just Her.

In the past few days, the Hunter would spend hours by himself after the first visit of the day - which would usually consist of a couple of staff members.

He was quite sure they didn't follow a routine anymore (but for Her). They would come at different hours. Their stay had irregular durations. The Hunter could not recognize some steps in their work. It was almost like they were lacking direction.

Everything felt quite random. It was, actually, quite random.

He was not prepared by the impact this change of scenario would have on his mind.

There was relief at first. His body was not being disgustingly abused anymore. But again, his limits had been so outstretched that the physical torture of it all paled in comparison to how disturbing the lack of stability felt.

The yautja was not one to lie to himself - when he realized he actually expected the abuse, that not suffering was unsettling - not because he liked it (far, far from it), but because of the anxiety that would engulf him in its place.

The constant abuse - he knew what to expect. He didn't fear what he knew. He could brace himself. Steel his mind.

Breathe through it all.

But now... he didn't know when the next blow would come. Which in turn made him wonder about what his captors were planning.

The unknown was crushing him.

Maybe they would build up his health (again), just to make it crumble (would he be awake next time? Probably. Most likely).

The Hunter had placed the foundations of his sanity on structure, in order to keep his mind from crashing.

What he could do if not grab the first realizable thing he could find?

(Reliable? What was that concept again?)

He was constantly on edge now, his mind running wild trying to predict how the day would go.

Also unexpected was how the lack of targets to hate opened holes in his resolve, who had been fueled by hatred and a never-ceasing wish to avenge his honor. To clean the stain of weakness.

Faceless targets. Other. Easy to hate. It was not personal (at least not for most of the oomans). He just despised the race, the culture, the cowardice of it all. Maggots. Vermin.

You might hate them, but it's not personal. They were just disgusting pests.

Today he was left with just one. But he knew this one well. Up close.

And he was weak. The Hunter had not lost his self awareness- and he was painfully conscious of his (once again) declining physical condition. All that time by himself gave him the space to coldly analyze his situation (when he was not picturing the many possibilities of his uncertain future).

The Hunter had been raised immersed in cold logic. Detecting flaws, finding weaknesses was a well honed skill to all hunters.

And he could see it on himself, all over his body, clear as day.

And on top of that, there was the Girl. The only freaking monkey that came to his enclosure today.

The only steady piece in his mess of a life.

And yet... He would prefer to go back to the experiments without anesthesia, daily if needed, if it meant she would leave him alone.

Because the relief he felt as son as she set foot in his enclosure also clawed at what was left of his pride.