“Jrokah…You are alive!” Hunt Leader M-Klou says with excitement and disbelief.

The much older hunt leader, hurries in Jrokah’s direction. He stops in his tracks as he spies P’taal, and the mark upon his armor. Growling softly, M-Klou shakes his beaded head and glowers at his younger rival.

“Who is this…Yautja?” M-Klou chitters loudly, his voice dripping with condescension.

“He is P’taal, of the Fihgi. He is also the yautja who saved my life…While my pupils were being slaughtered,” Jrokah says, fudging the facts just a little.

Besides, she cannot mate with the brave warrior if he is dead. Can she? M-Klou is a jealous old fool. He should have retired from leading hunts many cycles of the moon ago. Blood sports are for the youthful. But if M-Klou believes he can get to her heart by being kind to one she is kind to—he will mind his manners.

M-Klou studies P’taal from head to toe. His olfactory senses tell him that there is something amiss. Jrokah has taken to this yautja from another clan. She is hoping to mate with him, her scent becoming sweet and inviting. This will not do. When the hunt is over, and the island has been cleansed of its rogue hunter hybrid filth, he will deal with the Fihgi hunter. M-Klou offers Jrokah a smile and nods respectfully.

“I understand,” M-Klou says. To P’taal, M-Klou says, “Where is the rest of your team? Are you all that remains?”

“I am not sure,” P’taal admits. “I was separated from my team on the high ridge. We were in the midst of a fierce battle with many keinde hybrids. I saw three of nine die. But I heard other screams of death. Some were those of my hunt brothers. I don’t know how many more may have met their end.”

“Either way,” Jrokah interrupts. “He is now a part of our team. How many of your original team are left, M-Klou?”

“My team is intact. We are still three strong,” M-Klou states proudly, his chest puffed out. The other teams did not fare as well. Sjiri's was lost to us. Only one of his team remains. Altogether, we are seven strong.

“That is good,” Jrokah says, relief in her voice. “We can now add this Fihgi warrior to our numbers. That is very good! We must formulate another plan for ridding this island of the black serpents’ offspring.”

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“I believe the plan is simple,” P’taal interjects.

M-Klou and Jrokah turn to P’taal in surprise. Jrokah’s face is a mask of pleasure, while M-Klou’s brow is creased in fury. Did this newly blooded youth dare give him orders? Does he dare command M-Klou—leader of thirty-three hunts for the keinde amedha? Is he a simpleton? P’taal charges ahead, undisturbed by either of the hunt leaders’ reactions.

“We infiltrate the queen’s hive and detonate our wrist gauntlets,” P’taal explains “There is no other way to ensure we kill them all. Destroy the nest…Destroy the hive. Unless, another queen has already spawned. In which case, we will need to separate our devices to achieve a maximum killing zone.”

“Who are you to give orders?” M-Klou barks. “You are only a—”

“M-Klou stop!” Jrokah yells, placing a hand on the hunt leader’s wide chest. “I believe he is right. It is a similar plan to what I had in mind.”

“Similar…But not the same,” M-Klou says. “We cannot allow this youth to—”

“It is close enough. And it makes sense,” Jrokah says with a sense of finality.

M-Klou gazes at the yautja female with an expression of uncertainty. He wants to defy her. He wants to challenge the young Fihgi and run him through with his murderous blade. But there would be no justification—save for his desire to mate with Jrokah. Jrokah. How he has sought her for many cycles. This youth of the Fihgi will not have her.

“Continue, P’taal,” Jrokah says, daring M-Klou to interfere.

“We each take our ships to a different location. Three ships, three detonations. We are sure to wipe out nearly everything.”

“We were sent here to cull the hunt beasts which overran this settlement. Not to destroy the entire planet!” M-Klou interjects. “What you are proposing is reckless and unnecessary.”

“Three wrist gauntlets will hardly destroy the planet, M-Klou,” Jrokah. “You know this. You are simply being difficult.”

“What if I am?” M-Klou bellows. “I will not take orders from a Fihgi youth.”

“He did not give an order. He offered a suggestion. A very good one. For all your talk of pride, M-Klou…You are not looking any less a prideful fool right now.”

M-Klou clamps his mouth shut and glowers at Jrokah. When she does not avert her gaze, M-Klou’s eyes grow soft. He offers Jrokah a wistful smile.

“You are right. Of course. The youth’s plan is a good one. I only wish he had given me time to propose it myself.”

P’taal nods respectfully at M-Klou. Acknowledging the merit in the old hunt leader's statement.

“I apologize, Hunt Leader. I will consider your words in the future.”

M-Klou’s level of respect for the Fihgi youth goes up exponentially. Not very many yautja can put aside their pride, himself included. This youth will make a great leader.

“Three teams. Three ships. Now, where do we begin?” M-Klou says, offering Jrokah a sly grin.

She returns the older hunt leader's grin with one of equal mischief. P'taal watches the interplay with narrowed eyes. The female's scent becomes tinged with the aroma of one ready to do fierce battle. The blooded youth grins as well.