Mountain Watch.
The icy wind howled through the crevices of the cliffs as the Predator put the finishing touches on his observation post. The cave he’d chosen—not at random—reminded him of the hunting shelters on his distant homeworld. Only here, instead of three crimson moons, the entrance was bathed in the pale shimmer of the northern lights.
With the methodical precision of a seasoned tactician, he arranged his equipment:
In the far corner, where the stone retained warmth, he placed the sleeping module from the escape pod
On a protruding ledge stood a row of “trophies”—the laptop, smartphone, and a strange human device called a “power bank”
Near the entrance, concealed beneath a wolf pelt, a communication device pulsed with a faint blue glow
Thor Junior, his unwitting companion, sniffed curiously at each new addition to their den. The solar panel interested him most—he immediately tried to lick it.
“Do not touch,” the Predator hissed, though his voice lacked its usual ferocity. After a week of shared survival, the fawn had become… not quite a friend, but a tolerable neighbor.
When the preparations were complete, he stepped onto the stone ledge outside the cave. Below, Drammen lay spread out like a map—from the old docks to the glittering skyscrapers downtown. The bio-mask zoomed in automatically, capturing intriguing details:
Fishermen unloading their catch in the harbor, their laughter carrying up the cliffs. An elderly couple feeding pigeons in the town square with rhythmic precision. And outside that café with the neon sign…
The Predator tensed. Ilya Verkhovsky was setting up tables, his movements precise—too precise for a simple bartender. A strange, overly complex tool hung at his belt.
“Analysis: 78% hunter parameter match,” whispered the mask’s computer.
Just then, Thor Junior decided it was mealtime and nudged the Predator insistently with his wet nose. The alien sighed (which, in his language, sounded like a series of threatening clicks) and reached for their supply pack.
That evening, as the fawn slept curled up by the warm generator, the Predator activated the communicator. A blue beam shot into the night sky, carrying his distress signal into deep space. But for the first time, the ritual lacked urgency.
His gaze drifted to the sleeping Thor Junior, then to the city lights twinkling below. A thought occurred to him—one he hadn’t entertained in many light-years:
A few extra days of waiting… might not be so bad.
Culture Shock.
Rain drummed against the cave walls, providing a rhythmic backdrop to the night’s research. The Predator hunched over the stolen laptop, his claws tapping carefully at the keys. Images of Earth’s weaponry flashed across the screen—from primitive bows to modern missile systems.
Thor Junior slept curled up by the entrance, his sides rising and falling steadily. Suddenly, the laptop emitted a sharp chime, uncovering an encrypted file deep within the clan’s database.
“Access restricted. Chieftain authorization required.”
The Predator clicked his mandibles and entered his hunter’s code. The screen flashed red:
“EARTH. CODE 34-7-12. STATUS: FORBIDDEN ZONE”
A holographic recording unfolded before him:
1891. Siberian Taiga.
A young hunter from his clan pursued prey when figures in fur emerged from the snow. Without firing a shot or raising a cry, they surrounded him. One simply lifted a strange long tube—and thunder roared even through helmet defenses. The camera captured the hunter retreating, clutching his damaged bio-mask.
1949. Vietnamese Jungles.
Scouts walked into an ambush. Locals with crude but lethal weapons methodically flushed them from cover. “They shoot through trees!” one warrior hissed before his helmet shattered.
2014. Reykjavik.
An absurd scene: an elderly woman chased a fully armed Predator with a fish-gutting knife. “Get off my property!” she yelled in broken English. The hunter backpedaled until he stumbled into an icy puddle.
The footage ended. Text replaced it:
“Prohibition rationale: Indigenous species exhibits:
1. Zero fear of superior technology
2. Ability to weaponize any object
3. Unique form of insanity rendering them unpredictable”
The Predator leaned back. The rain outside suddenly seemed laughably harmless. His gaze shifted to the sleeping Thor Junior, then to the city lights below—so small, so fragile from this height.
The irony struck him with unexpected force. He, a warrior whose ancestors conquered galaxies, now hid in a cave from creatures who… what? Were they truly afraid of him?
The laptop screen flickered to a news clip—a grizzled fisherman recounting how he fought off a bear with an empty aquavit bottle. “Guess he didn’t like the smell!” The man laughed, displaying his scars.
The Predator realized, to his own surprise, that he was laughing too—a low, gurgling sound foreign to his throat. Thor Junior woke and stared at him with round eyes.
“We may have underestimated this planet,” the hunter murmured, shutting the laptop. Somewhere below, glowing in warm storefront light, humans lived their lives, utterly unaware of what a threat they posed to uninvited guests from the stars.
