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Sexual Predator

Summary:

Enjoy a re-telling of the entire film "Predator", seen through slash goggles.  Every line, every shot, every action seen and heard in the film has been respected and incorporated in this fic.  But, written fiction being what it is, extremely different interpretations of these lines and actions have been made by getting inside the heads of characters.  Detailed back stories of past relationships and events also add to the canvas.

The object of this experiment is to make a reader go back to the movie and be unable to see it the same way ever again.  I did not INVENT any of this slash: it was already there!  I just opened my eyes and let the imagination wander.  One should expect to re-watch the movie after reading the fic and go, "Oh dear Lord, he's RIGHT; this movie IS so gay."

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 - Arrival

Notes:

In this first scene, Dutch's team arrives and receives its briefing.  We are treated to glimpses of a past relationship between Dutch and Dillon, greatly heightening the scene's tension and meaning compared to the film.  Hints of past experiences with General Phillips are also dropped.

Chapter Text

  Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.  The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise.  No copyright infringement is intended.

 

Chapter 1 

Arrival

 

   Space.  Orbit of the planet known to its natives as ‘Earth.’  The sleek vessel launched the landing pod into the planet’s dark side on its final pass, and immediately broke orbit.  The pod accelerated into the atmosphere, homing towards its predestined landing site, as previously selected by the mother vessel.

   The equatorial section of the western continent.  A thin strip of land.  Very hot.  Fraught with conflict.  Overrun by violence.  That would be ideal for this predator’s hunting ground.

 

***

 

Val Verde, Guatemala.  The brutal-looking military helicopter approached the U.S. coastal base, asserting its dominating presence over the five gunboats stationed around the bay.  The glow from the three occupied helipads fought against the waning sunlight, assisting a worried staff as they loaded other choppers.  On this particular night, they were less bothered about the precarious nature of their company’s stationing, so near the supposedly-ruthless rebels, than they were about this new arrival.  Although allegedly on their side, this mercenary team technically answered to no one.  Always creates a volatile situation to have enlisted men alongside hired guns.

   Yep, the tension’s there, right on cue.  Upon being notified of the helicopter’s approach and seeing it break the monotony of the dimming seaside, Major General Homer Phillips walked to the edge of his command post—tent, really—and surveyed his nervous men as they cast repeated glances towards the landing craft.  He couldn’t pretend he didn’t share their anxiety.  I sure hope we know what we’re doing, he thought.  On a personal level, he had even more reasons to be anxious than his men and staff did.  What to expect from a man he’d shared so much with after so long?  He lowered the straw curtain.

   He was old now, and the other man was a mature, wizened and strong person.  No longer an inexperienced and hesitant youth.  There was no way the General could expect him to fall right back in place as the obedient pupil he’d been when they’d last served together.  And yet, the part of him that yearned for these days of old was a difficult one to quiet.  He even wondered if he didn’t have a small pride-laden wish for witnessing firsthand how far the learner had outgrown the master.

   To the General’s left, the one member of this entire outfit who didn’t seem apprehensive at all about these new arrivals and their influential leader was sitting in the corner, sipping some of the General’s whiskey, calmly studying the bottle.  I hope he knows what he’s doing too.  He ought to know.  He knew that team’s leader better than anyone.  Better than the General himself.  The depths of their history together could only be speculated at, but the rumors the General had heard ran very deep.

 

***

 

Blain shoved the helicopter’s door open with contentment, as if to make an example.  ‘Look out, army pussies, Blain is here,’ or something along those lines.  Billy gently caught the door, bringing an automatic balance to Blain’s reckless macho show of strength.  Blain didn’t seem to notice, or care.  He definitely knew that the more his teammates tried to pacify his attitude, the more it made him stand out.  He made his point by spitting some chew out onto the ground like a claim of ownership, but as if to say this hellhole wasn’t even good enough for him to plant a proper flag.

   Blain was, of course, the first one to hop out, sporting his jeans, MTV t-shirt and cool shades proudly.  He reached back for his bag and slowly strutted off the helipad.  Mac followed, bringing a touch of class and civilization to Blain’s opening act.  Mac was a respectable man, who believed violence was an art of refinement.  The clean-cut suit and tie he wore as he stepped out jarred completely with Blain’s brutish appearance, a perfect mirror of how their respective styles were in complete contrast with each other, which was why most people wondered how on Earth these two had ever become the inseparable duo they were today.  The only explanation was that they found each other’s alien style absolutely compelling.  They completed each other.

   Billy broke out of his careful trance-like survey of the military site and finally found an opening to step out, followed closely by Poncho.  The latter looked like the Latin playboy that he was, while the former wore a simple, efficient, loose-fitting sports outfit.  He was also the only one of the team not adorned by a pair of shades.  Hawkins, the youngest of the unit, closed the march, his nonchalant walk and worn tank top and jeans at attempt to camouflage his insecure disposition.

   Last remaining was the leader of the team.  Major Alan “Dutch” Schaefer.  Still sitting idly as Poncho walked away, the Major lit one of his trademark monstrous cigars, the glare of the sky reflecting in his sunglasses.  He puffed twice and slowly got up.  Instead of carrying his bag like the others, he tossed it out and jumped down after it, landing heavily on the pad.

 

   Walking against the cool Central American evening wind, Dutch made his way to the jeep waiting nearby, where he chucked his bag in the passenger seat as Billy, Hawkins and Poncho boarded the vehicle parked behind.  A third jeep was Blain and Mac’s ride.  Dutch cast a glance around the site.  Staff, soldiers, native children: all were staring at him and his team, in what Dutch knew to be morbid fascination.  Things that killed ruthlessly were always an object of awe, to anyone.  Which didn’t excuse that unjustified reputation being attached to his team.  Dutch frowned.

   Dutch’s jeep was driven along the shoreline through the rock, sand and waves that led about a hundred meters away to the command center.  The other two jeeps veered off, leading his team to their temporary quarters, while Dutch’s ride stopped in front of a waiting General Phillips, standing at the foot of the steps that led to his command post.

   In a pointedly controlled and cool manner, he got out of the passenger seat and took off his shades, hooking them inside the collar of his red t-shirt.  The face of the General was stern, almost worried, but as his stare lingered on the approaching Dutch, the old man’s features softened, even going as far as cracking a smile under that graying mustache, as if remembering old times.  Those times spent serving with the General certainly were old, and Dutch agreed, they were worthy of remembrance.

   “You’re looking good, Dutch,” were the General’s welcoming words as he took the Major’s hand.  Dutch puffed out smoke, his cigar in his left hand, as he shook vehemently with his right.  “It’s been a long time General.”   “Come on inside,” said the General, patting Dutch paternally on the back as he led him toward the center.  The General’s words were warm, welcoming, but Dutch had trouble wiping away the possibly-intentional innuendo from his mind.  An innuendo about the past, and what the old man may wish the immediate future could hold.

 

***

 

The whiskey was good.  Okay, no, it wasn’t, but it was whiskey.  That’s all that mattered.  That’s all that used to matter, here, in the field, what seemed like ages ago.  Anything alcoholic had been good enough to water a celebration.

   And now, the man sitting in the General’s office had something to celebrate.  Seeing Dutch again.  The first time since he’d taken the offer from the CIA.  The first time since their last mission together.  The first time since the incident.  The first time since Dutch and himself had…

   He didn’t fool himself: the whiskey was not just celebratory, it was also a bid for some extra and much-needed confidence in the face of an encounter he knew might siphon his own reserves like a sinkhole.  His life as an independent man had built up to this moment, this blast from the past.

   He certainly hoped everything would go down well, that there would be no hard feelings.  Most of all he hoped he wouldn’t let Dutch down.  Not being with him anymore was hard, but something he’d come to terms with.  They’d both moved on.  But no longer being worthy of his approval, however, was an unbearable thought.

 

***

 

“Eighteen hours ago we lost a chopper, carrying a cabinet minister and his aide, from this charming little country.”  The General’s exposition was laced with dejection and sarcasm.

   Dutch was studying the balding figure of authority, rather than looking down at the map he was being presented with.  Yep, the General had certainly taught Dutch a thing or two, and not all of it military.  He knew lesser men who’d have held it against the dominant, even abusive commanding officer, even after all these years, and Dutch himself might have done so too, if he hadn’t adopted these experiences as a way of life a long time ago.  No, seeing the General now was just good old nostalgia.  A memory of what made Dutch the man he was today.

   Only when the General directed Dutch’s attention with a ruler to a specific spot circled in red with coordinates did he finally glance down at the map.  “We’ve got a transponder fixed on their position.  About here…”

   Dutch knew the map.  He knew was he was seeing, and he understood the implications.  “This cabinet minister,” he leaned back up from over the map, “does he always travel on the wrong side of the border?”

   The General looked up at him gravely and nodded knowingly.  “Apparently they strayed off course,” was the answer he surrendered after a long pause, but what looked too much like a wink than a nervous tic told Dutch the General shared his suspicions that this was no accident.  Without skipping a beat, the General brought the topic back on track.  “…And we’re fairly certain they’re in guerrilla hands.”

   Dutch took another puff of his cigar.  “So why don’t you use the regular army?” he asked casually.  Qualifying the troops as “regular army” automatically tagged Dutch’s own unit as “irregular,” and Dutch was fine with that.  “What do you need us for?” he added.

   Somehow, this seemed like the last question the General wanted to be asked.  He collected himself, rubbing his chin, trying to come up with the best words.  He was saved from that discomfort by a rigid voice to the left.

   “ ’Cause some damn fool accused you of being the best.”

   That voice, coupled with the sight of that black man in the dark corner of the room, whose shadows the electric lantern on the table there could not dispel, was unmistakable.  Everything about him, the shade, his clean suit and tie, the way he was seated one leg crossed over the other knee, his distance from Dutch and the General, the glass and bottle of whiskey on the table, even the oscillating fan above him, contributed to making him look like he was above the situation.  Not quite condescendence, but control.

 

   Or a convincing semblance of it at least.

   Dutch did recognize him instantly, but it took as few moments as he put down his cigar and eased himself toward the voice to believe it was really him.  “Dillon!”  An unabashed smile finally splashed upon Dutch’s rugged features as his old friend stood up and made his way to him, chuckling silently.  Dutch met him halfway with an intimate “You son of a bitch!” and extended a powerful handshake that could’ve dislocated another man’s arm.

   Their arms interlocked with a loud smack, and at that moment, all of Dillon’s pretense of control faded away.  He’d tried putting up a good show sitting at that table right then, Dutch had to give him that, but now, face-to-face, arm-in-arm, he was the good old Dillon again.  Dutch’s old obediently grouchy little bitch.  The man who kept complaining he deserved more credit, yet kept coming back for more.  Always in Dutch’s shadow, and damned if he ever tried fooling anyone in thinking that wasn’t where he was happiest.

   Yet those were old times now.  Dillon had proven he could live without Dutch.  Apparently, he could face the world without him.  But the rapport between them obviously had not changed.  So much of this was apparent in their handshake.  They held on fast, each throwing themselves in an improvised arm-wrestling match, like they used to do.  Biceps flexed, and bulged.  The lock strained, and shook, but the outcome was evident.  Dillon’s irresistible grin became forced as his arm lowered under Dutch’s grasp.

   “What’s the matter?” Dutch showed a cocky, amused smile.  “The CIA got you pushing too many pencils?  Huh?”  Dillon’s breathing became shallow.  Dutch didn’t relent his tease.  “Had enough?”

   Dillon hissed an unconvincing retort: “Make it easy on yourself Dutch.”

   But the arm kept getting lower, and Dutch’s grin broader, until finally Dillon broke off.  “Okay, okay, okay!” he slammed his other hand onto Dutch’s shoulder with a guffaw.

   Dutch’s response sliced through more memories that he’d intended.  “You never did know when to quit, huh?”

   But Dillon ignored it.  “Damn good to see you, Dutch.”  And it was good to see him, too, sure was.  He looked as dashing as ever, now sporting a thin mustache, probably going for the Lando Calrissian look, with his same wide-eyed gaze, capable of such innocence and scorn at the same time.  It was hard not to let himself be swept by those charms again, and Dutch couldn’t allow that to show.  Those words Dillon had spoken were obviously from the heart, but it was now Dutch’s turn to ignore the underlying meaning.

   “What is this fucking tie business?” he said derisively as he playfully tugged at Dillon’s rather un-military dress accessory.

   The other man wiped both the comment and the tie away and affectionately put his arm across Dutch’s shoulders, leading him back toward the waiting General.  “Aw, come on.  Forget about my tie, man.  I heard about that little job you pulled off in Berlin.  Very nice, Dutch.”

   Dillon’s tone sounded like an admiring puppy.  Dutch smiled.  “Good old days.”

   “Yeah, like the good old days.  Then how come you passed on Libya, huh?”

   Dutch came to a stop in front of the General and reached for another cigar.  So Dillon had done his homework; had been keeping tabs on Dutch’s activities all this time.  Dutch might have accused him of being unable to disconnect with the past, if Dutch himself hadn’t been guilty of looking up news on Dillon every now and then, too.  “Oh, that wasn’t my style.” he answered seriously, his gaze downward.

   The meaning of the tone was lost on Dillon as he chuckled.  “You got no style Dutch, you know that!  Come on, why d’you pass?”

   The cigar was lit and Dutch puffed on it once before answering something of which he was disappointed to have to remind Dillon.  “We’re a rescue team, not assassins.”

   Dillon’s eyebrows raised at his old friend’s intensity.  He cast a glance toward the General, who looked back and forth between them, as if afraid he was involved in an old couple’s quarrel.  Dutch banished the tension by getting back to business.  “Now, what do we got to do?”

   The General obliged.  “That cabinet minister is very important to our scope of operations in this part of the world—”

   “Dutch,” Dillon interrupted impatiently, “the General’s saying that a couple of our friends are about to get squeezed and we can’t let that happen.  We need the best.  That’s why you’re here.”

   “Go on.” Dutch nodded.  He meant with the briefing, not with the flattery.

   “Simple setup.  One-day operation.” Dillon explained.  “We pick up their trail at the chopper, run ’em down, grab those hostages and bounce back across the border before anyone knows we were there.”

   “What do you mean ‘we?’ ”

   Dillon braced himself and answered matter-of-factly.  “I’m going in with you, Dutch.”

   Dutch looked at the General disbelieving, then back at Dillon to make sure he was serious.  He was stone-faced.  The way he was imposing himself was just like some of these old arguments they’d broken up over.  That barely-restrained sneer was all the evidence Dutch needed that Dillon was regarding this assignment as a way to achieve the superiority he’d always wanted over him.  How unprofessional.  Cute, but unprofessional.  Dutch addressed the General, his eyes still accusingly on his old friend.  “General, my team always works alone.”  He looked back at his superior officer.  “You know that.”

   “I’m afraid we all have our orders, Major.”  The General’s gaze was intense and unapologetic.  Dutch looked back gravely at Dillon, wondering what was really on his mind.  Was this payback?  Or an attempt to get back together?  Dutch was in a new relationship now.  A somewhat inclusive one, yes, but he still didn’t have time for complications with old flames.  The General went on.  “Once you reach your objective, Dillon will evaluate the situation and take charge.”

   The gaze between the two ex-lovers lingered, but nothing changed.  Not the status of the mission, nor their feelings for each other.