Chapter 3
The Prisoner

2011
Shang Tsung's Flesh Pits

It was strange the variety of company General Kotal found in Shang Tsung's flesh pits, but only one unwilling participant in the sorcerer's experiments drew his attention more than the rest. Only because he could not identify it, and yet, felt as if he knew it.

As Buluc, he had once heard tales, albeit more in resemblance to ghost stories, about a feared God of the Hunt; one who seldom showed any mercy to those brave enough to challenge him. It stalked other hunters, and the people believed it only manifested when there was a worthy quarry to test; one earned of its attention. Many did not survive if challenged by the revered God, but those who did, were badged with honor. There had been a name for it: Mixcoatl. He confessed it had been long forgotten from his memory since he had heard it in his youth. Kotal had tried to seek him once, but he never did find it — nor any trace of its existence at all. In retrospect, his hunt for it had been sporadic and fueled only by mild curiosity. Many argued that they still lurked in the jungle, while other priests declared they had moved on; choosing another worthy people. Leaving Kotal left attesting that their God of the Hunt was a remnant of the past and nothing more; like hieroglyphics in an old tomb. Leaving him to neither agree or disagree about the validity of its existence. Now he wondered if he had found it at last.

The massive humanoid paced his cell with as much indignation that the Osh-tekk himself felt. Although limping, fluorescent green blood dripping from knife wounds marked in random points along his thighs and torso, it walked with refusal to rest. A caged animal; always investigating for an escape despite how impossible. The Osh-tekk felt rapport for the restless prisoner, for if Kotal had enough energy himself, he would had found himself mirroring his unlikely companion; walking heatedly about his cell like a battered jaguar.

However, he stayed against the wall; a hand covering his bleeding side as he surveyed his imprisoned comrade. The torch light, and the vines of green energy around their cell bars, barley illuminated its form to Kotal, but from what he could see was something he felt relation to. It carried a warrior's prowess, despite it was as emaciated as the Osh-tekk was, and had too much hubris to simply lay down and die like the rest of the unfortunate prisoners of Shang Tsung's island. Without warning, the creature bellowed in his cell, the four mandibles near its mouth flaring out as its fist simultaneously slammed into the wall with enough force for small pebbles to escape through cracks of the interlocked stones.

It huffed, turning its back toward him, and Kotal watched the mismatched dreadlocks of the creature's head lift from its massive head; almost as if on edge like a cat's hackles. It's broad shoulders fumed with enmity, each exhale more irritated than the next as it glared into the shadows of its holding cell.

The Osh-tekk had no idea how long the being had been in the flesh pits, subjugated to merciless experimentation, but however long, Kotal could sense its waning rebellion; it was both despondent and cantankerous about its current situation. The ex-general wondered if it had ever been captured prior, or if this was perhaps the first time it had ever found itself in a similar predicament.

Kotal suspected not. If so, he could only imagine the great shame for getting caught it must felt; akin to his own reaction of Shao Kahn's betrayal. Even without knowing his cellmate's origin or name, he shared its enmity.

"...T- tux a kaajal?" Kotal asked weakly; questioning where it was from and seeing if it was the ancient deity he thought it was. He didn't know why he couldn't shake the presumption, perhaps it was simply because it was the only one he could devote to, but he had to know for sure to quell his speculation.

The thick cords of hair whipped as it turned its head minutely over its shoulder to acknowledge him. Its yellow eyes, as bright as its blood, glowed through the darkness, across the hall and straight into Kotal, however the ex-Mayan god didn't sense that it understood him, but merely scolded him for trying to conjure a conversation. As if Kotal was too unworthy to address him.

"Where do you come from," The Osh-tekk translated, this time in the common tongue. The wound in his side complained, causing him to slightly hiss through his teeth.

The creature's eyes landed minutely on his covered hand as the skin of its large crested head dipped downward towards its eyes, the various small, dark quills where its brow-bone would be, flexing downward; as if it was narrowing its eyes at him to the best of its biological design could do. It was only then Kotal caught the insignia — scarred— into his forehead. A broken trident. He knew of such ceremonial marks — a symbol of a clan. It belonged somewhere... somewhere other than here.

"Where is your clan?" the Osh-tekk asked, tilting his heads towards him.

The creature stared for a moment, a baritone rattle emanating from its chest before it let out a chuff, turning its back to him once again to glare venomously at the wall once more.

Kotal let out a sigh, turning his own eyes to his cell walls, acknowledging that it didn't understand him and finally content at letting it be despite it didn't stifle his curiosity to discover its origins (what else was there to do in between bouts of healing.)

Perhaps another time. He had plenty of it to contemplate other theories as he remained in his cell; choosing to liberate his thoughts from the sour memory of betrayal from the hands of Shao Kahn.

The ex-General's free hand tightened into a fist.

Ambushed. Reduced from his position as general to nothing more than a future cadaver. Even weak, bloody, and with little hope since his imprisonment, Kotal remained vigilant that his unplanned visitation to the sorcerer's dungeon would not be endless, despite that the deplorable conditions amplified his misery. There was always the constant stench of rotting flesh to keep the prisoner's company, one that battled against the pungent damp aroma the dungeon walls offered. He was deep underground, and far away from the benevolent embrace of the sun he longed for. His dark cell kept him weak, in conjunction with the torture that stripped him of his sparred energy. It barely left him with any strength to stare at his cell mate across the hall from him as he noticed him given a glance out of the corner of his eye before reverting back to the stone floor.

Unbeknownst to the Osh-tekk, the Yautja fully understood what his fellow prisoner asked him, he just had no desire to answer him. Though able to carry a conversation with his cellmate that tried to engage him, he refused. There was nothing of interest it could offer him from what it observed briefly. Plus, the captured arbitrator was nowhere in a satisfactory mood.

Despite that the alien had no previous knowledge of this new realm, he was skilled in understanding their most dominant language; it was the same as the Ooman's home-world. He was well adapted, he had spent many seasons on Earth hunting game. When Yautja practiced their sport on something as sentient as oomans, they needed to understand what the prey was communicating. How it was reacting to be hunted so they could adjust accordingly; just as interpreting any call of any potential prey.

His only disdainful opinion was unlike other prey, oomans were well... simply put, they had too many ways to articulate the same thing. The hunters were not so unnecessary— they said what needed to say as plainly as could be said. There was no mealiness additional diction for anything that could be spoken in one or two words in their language that took 15 words in Ooman.

It was that reason that many Youngbloods didn't usually bother trying to learn the language itself, but merely understanding their mannerisms. It was sufficient, but the older hunter would disagree that it was as effective. Oomans could convey their intentions clearly through their body language just fine, but could also be deceptive when they needed to be. Say one thing but mean quite the other, which is why he found it necessary to learn their abhorrent tongue. Besides, knowing how to toy with them by using their own language, at the correct time, made for great thrill.

It proved useful over these past years, trapped in the pit, and used. He knew what they wanted, and listened to their conversations when they thought he was ignorant, and unaware he was completely cognitive of what was going on around him. They were taking samples from him, much like his own clan had been doing for the past couple of cycles with other species they had been plucking from planets. Although he disagreed about the success of such experimentation — from either party — mainly for two similar, yet diverse reasons: it nothing more than meddling curiosity and there was nothing to learn.

However, it was the decree of the Elder, who had always had such a fascination with the process of hybridization among other prey they hunted, and wondered if it could be applied to Yautja as well: to create the perfect hunter by biologically rearranging their DNA.

The minute the he had heard the idea, immediately he despised it.

In his opinion, there was no better breed of hunter then they already were. They were the apex predator, dominant of all that crossed their path in every aspect: culture, technology and intelligence. So what was the point? He found it to be repugnant. To muddy their body with genes from other inferior species — only taking the best quality of each, but still inferior nonetheless.

Their energy should be devoted to their technology — better weapons, better travel — not some Yautja-cross species abomination. The enforcer knew he wasn't the only one in the tribe that felt the same. There had been others that objected, voicing the same disagreement, but had been outvoted by members of the clan leader's council.

Eventually it did reach the clan's ears, and most of the younger, more impetus Bloods seemed keen on enhancing their body. However the older Yautja, which included most of his fellow Arbitrators and a handful of the Elders — the same ones who worked hard for their status without the aid of enhancements — were not as thrilled about the idea.

Cheating. If he recalled correctly, was what Arbitrator Mi'nq had told him when he asked for his opinion. He couldn't help but agree. What glory was there in climbing up the clan hierarchy if there was significant aid? He didn't need biological advancements to help clear a hive of kainde amedha with just his weapons and his other hunt brothers. He had seasons of skilled hunting, honing his techniques through trial and error to obtain the position of an enforcer. He had earned it through blood, strength and honoring the code of the hunt. So how much honor was there if there was no effort?

There had been dangerous talk before he had left — before sent to this relatively unknown realm to collect a worthy sample — of gathering enough members to formally object. He himself had contemplated it, but chose rather to go hunt than get involved in clan politics at that time. He wished he had the foresight to stay behind.

Find a worthy specimen. That had been his goal since leaving the clan ship, and he had underestimated his opponent — leading to his capture. Such a Youngblooded mistake — one that now fated him to rot in the cell. His demise had resulted in the same thing he was curious about, something that was a stark contrast to their archaic practices was their advancement in a science that had not been introduced to the Yautja.

For lack of a better term, magic.

The arbitrator had always been agnostic towards the theories of sorcery, despite its existence was spouted from the shamans of his clan. He never did voice his opinion — it was unwise to question a high-ranked Yautja — but never agreed it was real. His mind was acutely tailored to accepting what was practical— what could be explained.

What he witnessed in the flesh pits, he couldn't explain.

Nevertheless, it was hard to contradict that he didn't see similarities to what was being done to him. The new creatures he had stumbled upon in their realm were doing the same; pulling skin samples and taking his blood to hopefully accomplish the same goal. To engineer the ultimate creature that would be obedient to their command.

That was where their similarities ended; the accompanied torture that went along with his enslavement was something the Yautja wouldn't do. What was the point in damaging the product? His only conclusion, they were as barbaric as they were primitive.

It settled fine with him, he had dealt with worse.

His claw traced to the back of his head to one of his newly cut braid of hair, feeling his blood coagulating finally at its severed end. He had been surprised they let him keep most of his rank rings, but every tress that was removed, along with the ring it was attached to, was another demotion in his status; a malignant decimation of his pride. They would never grow back, resulting in scattered nubs along with his longer tresses. It was cosmetically undesirable, longer tresses were better.

There were too many skin samples taken to count, and his dark blotted skin usually grew back with haste after a cycle to molt, though the beige flesh that adorned his stomach and parts of his legs and arm, would be scarred; unworthy to join the rest of his healed battle wounds. Scars from hunts were prized, respected and the bigger the better. However, the small dashes from scalpels that littered his body were anything but admired.

The one thing that was taking time to regrow, were the sharp teeth that protruded from each mandible. They had taken two, from one lower and one upper fang, leaving him with one sharp side and one blunt set. Teeth always took long for them to regrow without healer intervention because they seldom came off except by brute trauma. They had pulled them with a pair of pillars, and that had been by far the worst treatment he had received.

Despite the loss of his rank rings, the molestation of his body for experimentation, and the sheer anger he felt, there was one thing that was by far the most unforgivable transgression — one he had no one to blame but himself.

His headed bowed, his eyes to the floor, while his mandibles flared silently.

Dishonor.

He had broken the code by allowing himself to be captured by prey. No Yautja would ever allow such a despicable thing. It was weak and without virtue for a warrior race. He should have killed himself cycles ago, to wipe away such a disgrace, but he had no means to do so. He had no weapons, no bomb and his captors wouldn't let him die without interfering. There had been many times he had starved himself, cut his own throat with his claws, but they intervened, keeping him alive, since they still had use for him.

Now too much time had passed; his window to still retain his integrity faded. Now he could only be considered a nothing more than a renegade — a Bad Blood — and the only reprimand at that stage was to live in exile until he either found a way to reclaim his honor or another enforcer came to kill him.

But did they even suspect he was still alive?

"Where is your clan?"

The ex-arbitrator was somewhat surprised no one had come yet. Many Yautja went missing on hunts, but their cases were investigated and their ships and gear recovered if not already taken care of by the fallen hunter. But there had been no one, at least from what he had seen. Perhaps they had come, clandestine, and reported his status back to the clan. But it didn't sit right — they wouldn't have hesitated to kill him. Maybe they were simply on their way, or lastly they didn't care to come; their new desire for turning themselves into hybrids overtaking other priorities for now. The captured alien knew that it didn't matter which theory, he was still exiled. Left on his own with no chance at contacting the clan about his whereabouts.

He had heard they already had his ship — with sorcery on their side, it hadn't taken them long to locate it on the island. The Yautja knew what their next move would be, as they would have done the same with advanced technology, but to strip-mine it and weaponize it for their own means. Oomans were bloodsucking in such instances and would use every bit of his ship and his stolen weapons to manufacture something of their own design. So, his ship was as good as gone. He was trapped in their cursed lands until he was free. Perhaps that was why they didn't find him; there would be nothing for their another arbitrator to hone in on — especially in another wormhole.

Exile.

Left to die.

Or left to reclaim his honor.

Those were the only options left.

Either choice was not what he had imagined for himself when he had taken his somewhat new role in the clan. It had been a sought out position for some time. When it finally had been bestowed on him, he relished it; loving the way it sounded and how much status it had procured for him. The high respect from others in the clan, his choice of breeding rights, a position were his voice mattered to the council. It was what he worked since birth for.

The former enforcer growled low.

All of it gone in an instance the moment he decided to try and gather a sample of the four-armed bipedal. The fight still as fresh as yesterday playing in his mind.

The arbitrator did not go down easy, it had been relentlessly brutal and bloody. He had just meant to capture him with his net, securing him enough to grab a blood sample and retain a scan of the creature for their scientists, but it had broken free the second he decloaked and got near it.

The first thing he recalled was the sheer strength of it and how its extra limbs had allowed it to surpass even his own. If not for the addition of the extra arms, he was adamant their strength would have been equaled. It had grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides as the upper arms connected with bone-crushing strength into his head. The arbitrator remembered tasting blood so instantly in his face mask, and even with the metal covering his face, the brute's attacks nearly rendered him unconscious.

However, its slack loosened for a solitary moment, enough for the Yautja to pry his arm loose, unsheathe the blades in his gauntlets and stab under and through the monster's upper right arm. It grabbed him by the throat, picking him up without and effort and had tossed him into the stone wall. Bleeding, and wounded, its vigor never faltered — but neither did his. The alien enforcer was always the best with a combistick, many others preferred to utilize their cannons on hunts, but he found the kill to be more satisfactory the closer to the prey he was. However, he soon discovered the four-armed humanoid also was skilled in close-quarters combat. They parried, him with his spear — able to rip chunks of flesh with every jab towards it — and the beast countered with unparalleled aptitude for combat. He should have used his plasma gun.

The arbitrator had learned late in his imprisonment from eavesdropping that the opponent he had faced was a prince, a title given to the leader of their kind much similar to how the Yautja hierarchy worked. The better the fighter, the more revered you were in the clan. Though a good fighter, the Yautja was surpassed, and he quickly discovered that in time the more the fight carried on.

The arbitrator remembered the fight souring against him as soon as a fireball, conjured by sorcery, had hit him dead on in the chest, and catapulted him backwards. Before he even had the chance to recover, to extinguish the flames from his burning chest, it was upon him — lifting him and pummeling him in the air. He remembered fists coming down from the sky as it suspended him by its lower limbs, lifting him like nothing. His face mask cracked like an egg at one point, one of the many pieces of equipment that wasn't supposed to break, had broken just by his fists alone.

Although on the precipice of losing consciousness, he remembered the beast's words to him. They were forever branded into his mind, and he recalled them with great discontent. In fact, he couldn't recall a time when an insult had made him bristle as much as Prince Goro's did.

"You are not befitting of a warrior's death."

His mandibles clicked angrily against each other, a low growl initiating from deep within him. The insult still carried enormous weight upon him cycles later. If you wanted to insult Yautja, you shot barbs at their skill, their livelihood. Their warrior culture was something they revered highly, no question about it. To demonetize it — to be called worthless by what he had considered lower than himself — was inescapably invective.

As the ex-arbitrator reflected, he understood why he had lost the fight as fast as he did.

His hubris.

It had been his own fault he had been bested.

Disgraced.

There was no one to blame but himself, and he gladly welcome the chance to prove himself again; now that he was more humbled.

Whenever the chance to do so became his for the taking.

Suddenly, he heard the grinding of metal against the stone of his prison floor, and he turned to see the bars lower into the ground. The green energy keeping them in place suddenly flickering and disappearing.

Leaving his cage wide open.

The other prisoner, the one that tried to speak with him earlier, widened his eyes in disbelief as he struggled to climb to his feet. The Yautja sauntered towards the opening, its talons smoothing over the pads of his hands, as suspicion loomed. He cocked his head to the side, clicking rapidly as he peered outside his cell.

It was not just them — all the cells were open — and one by one, he watched different species clamor out. Also confused as to why they had been released.

He looked to the wounded prisoner, its glowing eyes searching silently for an answer.

It was another prisoner, a humanoid with a set of teeth that could rival the kainde amedha's sharp needle like ones, that provided an explanation.

"The sorcerer must be dead. We are free."

The alien's eyes flickered its mandibles in regard before rapidly firing against each other in amusement.

It had been sorcery that had imprisoned him all these cycles and without it, their security crumbled away like grinding bones into dust. Insufficient.

However, it didn't matter how — he felt nothing but elation. After years of boiling distemper, he was finally free...

… and he would rip this realm apart in fiery recompense until he was satisfied and reclaimed his honor.

A/N: The idea of the Yautja hybridization is taken from 2019's 'The Predator'. Its the same idea, but with another clan. My predator has nothing to do with Fugitive Predator's clan. This takes place in the middle of the 2011 reboot. We will stay in this for maybe another chapter or so before we jumped into MKX.

Please feel free to leave a comment, love to know what people thought. And yes, fuck me, I'm working on Desperado too — this chapter was smaller so it was easier to get out sooner.

As always, see you next chapter.