Author's note: Minor spoilers in this story. Predators, in my opinion, is by far the best sequel in the franchise, but I thought Hanzo's character was wasted in the film. He almost never spoke in the film, and his badass moment consisted of screaming and charging his opponent like a bull over and over, trading injuries until both fell dead after a few passes. It was a perfect opportunity to showcase just how a talented swordfighter could utilize their craft, score a win for the humans, and provide a new reason to hate the penultimate enemy, drawing in the audience even more. Quick and dirty one-shot here, but I hope to hear your thoughts on my re-write of this particular scene.
In the grassy field, Hanzo stood alone. Its weight perfectly balanced, the katana in his hands felt as though it were a natural extension of his body. Shutting out the sounds of the retreating survivors, his attention honed in on the woods before him, where his pursuer would soon arrive.
The challenge was set. If there were any honor to be found in the creatures which had hunted them so vigorously, his opponent would soon reveal itself to him. The blade in his hands was old, far older than any of the others had grasped. Hanzo tried picturing the samurai warrior it belonged to plummeting to this world as he had; what trials he faced before he succumbed. No doubt in a field of combat such as this, with this blade in his hands. A proper death.
A step in the grass alerted him, and the Yakuza assassin turned to face his opponent. A Predator faded into view ten meters away as it deactivated its cloaking device. Hanzo transferred the sword from his right hand to his left and leveled it in its direction, a calm overcoming him as the creature studied him with a familiar intensity which told him the challenge was accepted.
A low, guttural growl emanated from the creature as it reached up and detached the directed-energy weapon mounted to its shoulder, letting it drop into the cool grass. The chime of metal was carried through the air as two foot-long blades jutted out from its wrist, and the Predator entered an attack pose, supremely confident, waiting for its quarry to make the first move.
Eyes locked with his opponent, the world around Hanzo melted away, until all that remained was his opponent, his feet, and the blade in his hands. As he closed distance, the Predator brought its arm about in a slow, wide, powerful arc which the Yakuza assassin effortlessly dodged, the air pierced by the sound of clashing steel before Hanzo broke off the attack, circling out to a safe distance.
Snorting beneath its expressionless face mask, the Predator turned again towards him, a fluorescent green line now traced across the creature's abdomen. Still sharp after centuries of disuse, the blade had passed through the alien's flesh with almost no resistance. Hanzo knew his enemy's limitations. The predator's cruelly-shaped twin blades were mounted to its arm in such a way that their only possible range of motion was that which its wearer's elbow and shoulder could provide it. True to form, it had lashed out at him with all the finesse of a lumberjack chopping down a tree.
The assassin made multiple passes, concentrating his attacks on the predator's vulnerable legs and abdomen as it repeatedly tried to slice his head off. He gracefully parried and dodged the incoming blows and twisted the blade about to sting his opponent again before springing to a safe distance. The difference between an overly-strong technique and a correct one could be told by the sound the blade made in the air, and the predator had clearly recognized something very different in the human's technique. They circled each other warily, the alien's stance changing as it reevaluated its approach to the duel, assuming a posture similar to its opponent. Whether it recognized the shortcomings of its weapon and was attempting to overcome them, the assassin could not know.
Hanzo felt no hatred for his opponent. They shared the same respect for the art of the blade, their crafts honed through the centuries. Though the predators' techniques were constantly evolving, and their endurance and tolerance of pain was admirable, they were as dependent on their size and brute strength as they were on their technology. Faced with a quick, agile opponent in single combat, this one was hopelessly outmatched.
The predator rushed towards Hanzo, slashing in a slow circular motion at chest-level. Sweeping beneath the whistling blades, Hanzo's katana sang as it passed through the air with impossible speed, slicing deep into his opponent's upper leg and catching its foot as it passed by. Phosphorescent blood lit upon the grass. The predator staggered slightly as it came to a stop, but Hanzo did not wait, a quick twist of the wrist plunging the blade deep into its abdomen before it could turn to him again.
Snarling, the predator wiped a clawed hand at the marred flesh of its abdomen, looking at the barefoot human before it, and entered a crouching stance with the wrist blades held protectively in front of it. Hanzo had killed many men in service of the Yakuza. There was a moment, in every duel, when his opponents grasped their own mortality. A boundary they passed, when they realized that he was the better fighter, and they were about to die. The ceremonial face mask hid the alien warrior's expression, but its posture told him the boundary had just been passed. Victory was now outweighed by the thought of its own survival. The predator managed to parry a single strike in Hanzo's next set of maneuvers, receiving fresh wounds to its arms, abdomen, and a deep cut which severed a tendon and brought its leg out from under it, sending the alien to the ground in a heap.
The predator pushed itself up on its left arm and leveled its right at Hanzo, and with a sharp movement of the creature's arm, the wrist blades detached and whistled past the assassin's face, vanishing into the night. His eyes flashing at the dishonorable tactic, the Yakuza assassin removed the alien's head with a single downward swing.
Hanzo stood up straight, wiping at the light sheen of sweat that had built on his brow. Cracking his neck to one side, the assassin looked up from his vanquished opponent towards the tree line. A hundred meters away, the last predator stood watching, decloaked, its face mask adorned with the bottom jaw of an unknowable creature.
The Yakuza assassin returned to his original stance, his katana before him, inviting the new challenger. The predator looked from the sword-wielding human to the fallen predator beside it. It had watched with a dispassionate, analytical mind as its compatriot had been effortlessly picked apart, and replaying the fight in its mind, it saw no technique that it could have exploited differently.
It knew it could not win.
Hanzo saw three points of red light appear on his chest, tracing themselves through the mist. Before he could react, a pulse of blue light crossed the gulf that separated them. After watching the man's corpse settle to the ground, the predator reengaged its camouflage and vanished into the night.