Crank peers into the inky blackness of a large tunnel. He pulls back from the rank smell within and chitters with irritation. Even with his mask on, the smell is overpowering. The smell of damn dirty oomans.

Crank makes his way into the tunnel, avoiding the rats scurrying around his feet. A few meters in, he comes to a small fork. He decides to take the left branch of the tunnel and immediately runs into an old ooman female pushing a shopping cart overflowing with bags and metal goods. The ooman splutters an apology and gently pats his left arm. Crank barely resists recoiling from her touch.

“Oh, I’m sorry young man,” the ooman female coos softly. “I didn’t see you there.”

Crank is not surprised that she did not see him. Shifting out of infrared mode, Crank observes that the old ooman’s eyes have a hazy look to them. She is very close to blind. Lucky for him.

Without his invisibility cloak, Crank's alien origins would have been unmistakable. The feeble ooman might have alerted others to his presence. In which case, he might have been forced to kill her, and risk dishonor. The elders have smiled upon him, this day.

Crank curses his lack of forethought. He will not make the same mistake again.

The ooman female pats his arm yet again, feeling up and down his muscled forearm and bicep. Her voice takes on a begging quality.

“Would you mind helping me push my cart outside, young man?” she implores him. “It’s so hard getting it to go over that hump at the entryway.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Crank takes a step into the corridor where the old ooman stands. Gripping the cart, and angling it just so, Crank gives it an expert shove. The cart races down the corridor and slows as it approaches the opening of the tunnel. It has just enough momentum to clear the hump. Softly hitting the almost level dirt outside the sewer entrance, the cart rolls to a stop. Such is Crank’s awesome skill. Crank turns to the feeble ooman and speaks to her in as human-sounding a voice as he can muster.

“It is outside,” Crank says emotionlessly.

The old woman at first is incredulous, but she shrugs and heads for the opening. As an afterthought, she turns back to look at Crank.

“Thank you, young man,” she says in her trembling voice. “Are you an athlete?”

“Yes, an athlete,” Crank replies. He is unsure if this is the correct response. However, the tone of the very old ooman female’s voice doesn’t seem to convey an insult.

The old woman shakes her head, and smiles understandingly.

“I thought so,” the woman says. “I don’t know anyone else who could do what you just did. Have a nice day, young man. I hope things look up for you soon. I’ve been down here for over six years.”

With that, the old ooman is gone. Crank looks around himself and chitters with disgust.

“Six years?” he says aloud in his own alien language. He immediately shakes his head, beaded dreadlocks swinging with the motion. “Never.”

With careful steps, and reactivating his cloak, Crank works his way deeper into the tunnel. Eventually, he will find an opening leading to the heart of the city.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

A console on the bridge of the rogue hunters' ship lights up and begins to beep. Symbols dance across the display, repeating over and over.

A digitized version of Crank’s face appears underneath the sequence of symbols. Along with coordinates for his last known location, and a picture of Earth. Tiny dots connect the image of Crank to his approximate coordinates.

Out of the darkness, a loud growl fills the bridge. Let the hunt begin.