Raindrops trickled down the sleek curves of her mask. In the dark, her outline would barely be seen; a blurry shape, faintly outlined by the droplets that fell from her into the stone-dashed rooftop. The city shrieked around her with the screech of cars, the rushing wind; the distant rumble of thunder all melding into a discordant choir through her audio-filter. The prey lived across the way, in the comfort of concrete and glass. How many days had she been watching him now? Her time was running out, and yet all she found herself doing was returning back here every night, to this same old rooftop, standing and hoping to see some glimpse of the ooman. The lounge of his apartment flickered into view with a bathing light, glimmering against her. A part of her wanted him to notice her standing across the way, even if she could not say it out loud, she could safely think it. She was curious. The Ooman had piqued her curiosity from the first moment she’d tried to kill him. She had replayed it in her mind over and over while she slumbered on her ship, and every night she awoke, there came a need to return to his home. Why? She told herself it was to learn his ways, and strike when he least expected it, but even she couldn’t fully believe that lie.

The night she had arrived to earth, it had rained, then and every day since. She had perched herself above a ledge and spent hours examining worthy adversaries. She had watched the moon rise higher and higher while red shapes moved beneath her. She had lost track of time until she heard the voices in the distance. The streets had become barren, devoid of movement except the occasional rat that scurried through the crevices of curbs. The street was bathed in the blue of her visor until their heated signatures came into her view. Their words a distorted, static clashing as they stumbled together down the sidewalk. They were the first she’d seen in hours; she might not have another chance tonight. The largest of the two laughed loudly; much taller than her in stature. He would be a perfect trophy, if he would have the heart to face her. She waited until they were almost below her and dropped from the ledge, slamming down into the concrete with a heavy thud.

The two shapes heard the impact, and watched the rain splash around her. The larger ooman froze and squinted while the shorter, skinnier one tugged at his arm.

“What the fuck is that?” He stepped away with wiry eyes, his voice tinged with fear.

She disengaged the cloaking device, and slowly materialized before them.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” said the smaller ooman as he turned and started to sprint down the street.

She put her foot forward, ready to chase. The tall ooman blocked her and stuck his arms out, blocking her. She stopped and raised her wristblade with a moonlit glint, and as she moved to bring it down on him, his voice boomed out against the rain and wind.

“No.” The words shattered the silence of the city, and went through her with a ghostly echo. She froze with her arm raised high, but could not bring it down. “You wanna hurt somebody—you hurt me.”

She shifted her visor, switching from thermal to a clearer view of the ooman, refusing to move. She looked into his hooded eyes and saw nothing of fear. They were piercing dark things that stared at her, almost through her. She had picked earth because of the stories of its kind; respected warriors, worthy of the hunt. This one was perfect, but then why couldn’t she bring the blade down? They stood there together, both unflinching, frozen in their stares. Why can I not do it? It was a simple thing to kill but the more she looked into his eyes the harder it became to understand. She felt a weakness in her stomach that defeated her, and made her arm feel heavier. The rain poured over both of them as she lowered her blade. He watched and followed with a slow drop of his arms. What is happening? Distant sirens wailed out and she turned her head towards them. The ooman watched her but still didn’t move.

She ran from him then, down through an alleyway, stamping across discarded newspapers, and over soaking cardboard boxes. When she was out of sight, she turned on her cloaking device, and clawed herself back up towards the safety of the rooftops. She knelt by the edge of the rooftop, watching him. The ooman hadn’t moved from below. The confusion was suffocating her. She had been granted a worthy fight and failed. Those deep, dark eyes of his; his fearlessness had almost scared her, but something else had overtaken her; excitement. Now all she felt was sickness. It grew in sudden ferocity as she realized she could not let the ooman disappear into the city. When he finally began to walk again, she followed him, trailing him through the streets all the way back to his apartment building; the tall, black beast of concrete and glass. The rooftop on the western side gave her a clear view of his window. I know where this prey lives. Now she could return, and plan the hunt accordingly. Yes, that’s what she would do. That had been the plan but now it had been six days since then and even though she had returned to this place every night, watching him from afar, she was no closer to resuming the hunt. Her anger, her failure had at first been intoxicating, but it had begun to thaw and now all she could do was return here not out of hatred, but curiosity. Every night she would promise herself she would hunt him, and every night she broke that promise when she found herself watching him for hours, and finding an inexplicable peace within for it. That had been the way every day until now.

Bathed in the light of his apartment, she looked up at the sky. On Prime, she could see thousands of stars that dappled the sky; a beautiful view that she missed, if only that. The city gave off a sickly, yellowish hue that blocked out the stars. Maybe she should have just gone home, she thought, looking at the light, purple blanket of night sky. Could she return, knowing what that meant? She had begged for this, and she was failing because she couldn’t bring herself to harm the ooman. That insignificant man; weak, enticing, and confusing. Her eyes followed him as he slid off his jacket and sat down on the couch. She couldn’t control her mouth, letting the small clicks escape it. His head turned and she froze as his eyes seemed to focus on her—impossible. Her skin was one with the light, invisible. Yet he got to his feet and came to the window. His large hand flat on the glass as he stared out towards her, his gaze boring into her. Her legs tightened as she held her breath. You cannot see me.

Only the sound of her rapidly beating heart was all she could hear. Behind her came a flutter of wings, and she turned back to face it with her blade ready. Pigeons flew from the rooftop, rising, and dipping below the edge of the roof. When she spun back to the window, the ooman was gently waving at her. She turned and fled, her feet thudding as she jumped from the rooftop and moved through the forestry of TV aerials and ancient chimneys, sprinting into the night, not even daring to look back.

She’d spent hours back on the bridge of the ship, pacing back and forth. A wave. A human greeting. She spun around, grunting to herself. She was not ooman, she was Yautja; her kind were to feared, but none came from him. The disrespect, she thought. The anger rose but it would not rise any further. There came with it, elation, and a feeling of hope—what hope did she have exactly? What kind of delusion was she clinging to with that tiny glimmer, surely not what she dare not speak?

No. She would go back and kill him. She stormed towards the doorway and then stopped herself again. Maybe she would feel better if she just went home. No. She hissed out and bought her fist down on the doorway. It did not feel right to leave, even if she did not understand why. All of the eyes of her ancestors bore into her, and of the clan. She could imagine their words and taunts like so many times, to return like this was weak. It was all so very confusing. She could hunt and kill, but with this ooman there was something she had no words to explain or understand. It ashamed her, ashamed her to not want to hurt him, to want to run away, to think of tiny trickles of thoughts that would have her crucified by the elders. But those thoughts were there. Why?

She couldn’t utter the words but there was something appealing about him, how he stood strong and welcomed death. Even he had shown he was willing to fight more than she did. The pilot chair felt comfortable on her tired body as she slumped into it, too tired to keep going in circles. She decided she would wait a few days, and keep clear of the curious man.