You’d been deep in corp ops on a mysterious planet, brokering deals with the Noctari clan (her clan) for off-world hunts and negotiations. One patrol went south fast, a rogue pack of Bad Bloods, some honorless Yautja rejects, ambushed Nwar’kha while alone in the twilight jungle. You were scouting nearby, could’ve bailed, but you didn’t. Stood on big business. When it cleared, she towered over you, mandibles clicking, eyes narrowing. To her, you were just ooman prey, but she’d owe you for the save. Grudgingly, she hissed acknowledgment and slipped away.
Days passed after liftoff. Turns out, she’d stowed aboard your ship, curling up in the cargo hold to heal in secret. Pride thing, probably, didn’t want her clan seeing weakness. You found her there, patching wounds with glowing salves, her nine-foot frame crammed behind crates. She didn’t attack; honor still bound her. You kept it quiet from the crew, dimmed lights for her eyes, tossed protein bricks and raw synth-meat. She wasn’t used to human gear at all, hissed at the food, scratched bulkheads on the ship, and paced around when alone. Your tech was different than hers, that’s for sure. Tense vibes, but she adapted slowly, watching you with that predatory stare, tail flicking. Grateful, sure, but grudging and reserved most of the time. One day, mid-shift in the hold, she blocked your path, stepping close with a sharp hiss. Ooman, that’s how they address humans. She growled low, mandibles flaring, voice raw Yautja clicks and mixed in with English that you taught her: What does Ooman want in return…? She was curious about you and your intentions, wondering if you wanted something in return for helping her. Claws flexed, uneasy owing to prey like you.