wut?

Kinda think of this guy as a college aged joker getting to go on his passing test for major danger fauna. The 3 Linebacker boys are obviously younger than previous preds- but they're well built, and professionally (expensively??) kitted out- which although in line with the xeno hunt it being a major event seems sort of high caste level?. Anyway- thought the design choices behind this one is interesting as well as the character. I can't tell if he's already personality wise kinda like that already or if it's because he knows he's doomed, but he spends time patiently communicating with Lex, and even sort of having a bit of fun at her expense as well as taking the time to kit her out so she has a chance to survive.

Sally is sweeping again.

Her old back is bowed, her strangely curtained clothes rustling and picking up bits of fluff and dirt as she goes, only to be deftly shaken free between every few steps. Dust bunnies, he thinks she called them — a curious descriptor for something that looks like the furthest thing from living. It doesn’t even bounce.

Thei’klo patiently watches Sally sweep, hands clasped behind his back as is his custom aboard the human vessels. It’s clear she’s aware he’s arrived, but she keeps to her task, head wobbling in her peculiar way; her skillful handling of the broom is thwarted by the minute - but constant - trembling of her head, destabilizing her grip. The shuffle of her feet is sure and brisk in contrast, and not one strand of her long hair falls from its tight knot atop her head.

Other humans pass through the hall, and some are bold enough to engage in conversation. Sally gets the usual offers to take her precious broom from her, their hands outstretched to incline her towards acceptance — but she bats them away with a wafting hand, matching their musical tones to package her ‘no’ more cleverly.

Thei’klo inclines his head to the scant few that offer him a greeting directly, holding himself carefully still instead of growling when a young female he vaguely recognizes darts in a touch to his vambrace, avoiding bare skin at least.

“Evening, Thei’klo.” The young one chirps, eyes bright and distrustful, teeth bared too much. She is stiff with resolve, as though the touch had taken all her courage. “Are you staying this time?”

She means his regular allotment of days for a diplomatic visit, he knows — a measurement made carefully and artificially aboard human vessels.

“M-di.” He replies, claws locked around his own wrist behind his back. Finally he locks his teeth around her name — Mara, self-proclaimed ward to all the elderly on the human ship, although he has yet to see any evidence that this implies any worthwhile services rendered. He has certainly never seen Mara serving Sally in any way that seemed amenable to both parties.

Mara’s dark eyes flicker sidelong, but her smile doesn’t alter in the slightest. “Why not? We’ve missed you!”

This is so patently false that Thei’klo fails to conjure a response, simply staring at her.

Tensions between humans and his people have rarely been higher. The humans’ reception at his arrival is batted back and forth constantly between stiff adherence to regulation and disproportionately warm, musical invitations to explore wherever he likes and do as he wishes, within reason — which is a bewildering phrase to decipher the meaning of in this context, awash in deception and nuance. Mara is living evidence, even now visibly resisting the urge to move away and escape his presence, which undermines her proclamation considerably.

It is a difficult position to take up, and a thankless one among his people, but Thei’klo is capable of excelling in diplomacy as much as any other thing.

He blinks away from Mara, instincts pricking. Sally is looking over at him, her expression unreadable; she has almost reached the next intersection of the hall.

He snorts and looks back just in time to catch Mara shiver at the sound, blinking. “Next time then,” He says, mandibles curling awkwardly around the human phrases. “I will share time if you wish.”

Then he advances towards Sally, leaving the young human behind.

He stands fully straight, expectant and anticipating as the hall empties around them, and is not disappointed when Sally sets the broom aside precisely at the corner.

“Hmph.” She huffs, turning round. Her wrinkled face scrunches, teeth baring warmly (again, and likely forever, Thei’klo has to squash that instinct that tells him she’s attempting to threaten him with all of her tiny mass and withered flesh). Her human language is different from Mara’s, clipped and rapid — but his mask translates it just as easily. “You’re timely. I’ve gotten you something special, you know.”

This is new. Thei’klo considers with no little measure of curiosity. She has never before stated — or presented — any item specifically catered to him.

Sally starts off towards her rooms and he positions himself beside her, listening to the muttered flood of idle chatter and forcing his pace to remain slow, his eagerness politely sidelined in the human fashion.

“Those children, they say I’ve domesticated you,” Sally says, and he does not need to look at her to know her expressive eyes are wrinkled up with impatience. “Like they know what civilized is; the heavier the head of rice, the deeper it bows. Is there any teaching such a thing? No, idiots.”

He has access to every language database the humans possess, including those bewildering phrases that mean nothing literal and everything absurd. Thei’klo rumbles, mandibles twitching with his sharp amusement.

“Look at this guy,” Sally mutters to herself, loud enough there is no question of his hearing it — and raps his gauntlet with a knuckle, “Tch. My son thinks I’m mad, you know. Come with me Wayfarer.”

They spend the remainder of the walk to her quarters in a similar fashion: Thei’klo learns of all kinds of debatably useful secrets the more Sally talks. Commander Absolm has a new son who squeals, which is apparently a very encouraging thing in sons; The refreshers on deck four haven’t been working for weeks, which means Thei’klo and his sensitive sense of smell should avoid the area; The military contingent has adjusted their swimming regimen, and this brings tragic consequences for decent folks’ evening walks (which Thei’klo understands means the strolls Sally is habituated to taking with certain friends, most of whom seem somewhat questionable by any yautja estimation).

“I didn’t much care for the gym anyway,” Sally says to her pockets as she rummages for her identity card to open the door to her quarters. “I walk the hallways instead and clean up after those droids — they cannot do their own jobs properly. Dust bunnies everywhere, Wayfarer — it’s an infestation. Watch your step, I have groceries.”

She is unfailing in this ritual: Every time he visits, Thei’klo is faced with bags and boxes of rations just beyond her doorstep, not yet sorted or put away.

Humans are not easily read, for all their expressiveness — but Thei’klo is certain Sally did not expect him to accept that first invitation into her home so many missions ago, extended with chaotic haphazardness as though it were only a concession to custom. When first confronted with what appeared to be no less than shameful unpreparedness, slovenly chaos in the form of tins and canned goods just inside her home, he had attempted to simply abide by whatever human custom excused it — as was his renowned skill among his people and the sole reason for his leadership in these negotiations.

Four minutes later, Thei’klo had abruptly stood from his too-tiny seat and strode right into the middle of Sally’s fifth attempt to shelve a tiny set of protein tins, towering over her and stealing the tins to slap them onto the shelf she desired. His withered patience had radiated from him in hot fumes, both for the insult of her divided attention and reasons particular to himself alone. At the time Sally had appeared unintimidated, never pausing in her chattering conversation — only slightly darkened in her skin, eyes narrowing in her flat face.

(In retrospect, having spent significant time familiarizing himself with her behaviors, Thei’klo knew she’d been fumbling the task shamefully on purpose, with high hopes that he’d grow disgusted and leave — which was a shockingly elegant solution for unwanted, prideful yautja in one’s home. He’d surprised himself by chirping aloud at the helm of his ship two cycles later the instant he realized — drawing baffled amusement from the two arbitrators on the comm. lines.)

Since that first instance Sally had unfailingly left groceries by her door with uncanny timing suited to his visits. She would warn him not to trip (an insult he bore with humor, lacking another alternative), and would then prepare hospitality for him (that he never consumed, as removing his mask was out of the question), making no sign whatsoever that she cared one way or another while he took charge of putting her ‘groceries’ into their proper places (which had taken no time at all to learn).

Thei’klo huffs wryly to himself as he hefts the stacked groceries one-handed, moving with greater care still to the counter while Sally rummages in the storage cabinets.

“Aha!” She crows, so suddenly and vehemently that Thei’klo has to minutely and covertly shake his head to dispel the ringing aftershocks. “Here we are — no, don’t look!”

It must be the item procured specifically for him.

Thei’klo accordingly uses his mask to scan both Sally and the object she holds, keeping his back turned and arguing that the increase in his heart rate is a reasonable response to the natural threat of a surprise, and not the thrill of escalation with a worthy adversary.

It is a cloth package containing dried herbs pounded into a fine powder, enclosed within a polyfiber box, which is enlaid with copper slivers in unfamiliar patterns. The composition is consistent with leaves from a shrub native to her home planet, rich in caffeine. He doesn’t need his mask’s filters to discern the scent that accompanies the package; it is powerfully, unforgivingly mossy — purely limp plant, green and earthy with no sweetness or nutrition whatsoever.

It is also unquestionably meant to be ingested.

Thei’klo carefully blinks without breathing, excitement stalling at the conundrum. His caged lungs do what they can to resettle his stomach’s unfavorable opinion, but before long he has to resolve himself to draw air in again. He distracts himself with the business of putting away dried vegetables, thinking on the issue of his mask.

There are the typical reasons he has not removed it; the air is uncomfortable and thin aboard this human vessel, and his awareness will likely be diminished the more he draws strength from its poor quality. There is also the matter of diplomacy: Variances in humans aside, there is no surer way to frighten one than for Thei’klo to remove his mask. If he does not, however, he will be unable to drink the gift.

Thei’klo has no interest in risking either side effect. He does have interest, however, in Commander Absolm’s new son, the military’s changed regimen, and furthermore, in maintaining good relations with Sally herself and her curiously warm kitchen with its overstuffed cupboards and curious routines.

He has great interest in those things.

Metal clatters and water runs as Sally prepares a beverage from the powder. It must take more care than her typical hospitalities, as he hears her empty and refill the pitcher no less than five times to reheat and test the water before mixing, muttering about the passage of time and dust collecting on immaterial things that make no sense to associate with dust.

Thei’klo puts away the last of the tins and grunts. “Finished?” He breaks tradition to ask, his mask distorting the tonal indicator.

“Take your comfort.” Sally says brusquely, by which she means him to sit, but when he turns she is still facing the heating elements, working away at the beverage without letting him catch a glimpse.

Well. There’s no reason to delay.

Thei’klo accordingly takes his seat and braces himself before removing his mask, detaching each tube with a hiss of compressed air. When he lifts it from his head, his first true glimpse of Sally is her staring eyes and tilted head, body awash in warm colors.

“Look at this guy. Didn’t know your kind’s eyes could be that color.” She mutters, more casually than anticipated. “You may put that on the chair there — next to you, yes. Please take care,” this she says as she passes him a shallow cup shaped like a disc, strangely familiar to those used by yautja as it lacks any handholds. “And tell me truly how you like it, concealing nothing.”

Well. Time to build an alliance, Thei’klo supposes. He spreads his mandibles and tips the disc between his teeth.

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