A/N Waaaah! I must be crazy to start another fic when I'm so behind on the others, such is the muse, I had to write this, I am merely her vessel.
Ok enough crazy ramblings, this is a Royce/Isabelle fic, although it will be a few chapters before they are conclusively named. Major inspiration is due to the movie, obviously, the Predators comics surrounding the movie, and IronyRocks. Who, to my knowledge, wrote the first and in my opinion, best R/I fic out there. Reviews will be appreciated, in spirit, if not in writing. Enjoy.
The Man
The man awoke on this strange new world, disoriented, confused and angry.
Especially angry.
He journeyed on, meeting with other people, gradually realizing how strange the world actually was. Realizing quickly what was happening, surviving the indignity of being hunted like an animal, enjoying the thrill of hunting-and killing something greater than himself. Surviving.
Barely.
Other men, those who had been dropped along with him, do not survive. Convicts, murders, grunts, jarheads and criminals and gangsters and all the sundry freaks and psychos die. Some manage to surprise him despite his generally low opinion of mankind. Some, even the worst scum bags, die defending others, die standing up, die with honor.
Until he alone is left alive.
He forages, fights, survives. He takes down several Predators, each time barely making it out himself, and in a way even he knows is sick he enjoys it. Still, he admits to himself, he misses Earth, fucked up as it is sometimes.
Once, just once, he meets a survivor, highly skilled, tough, even more so than he is. However it's obvious after only a few minutes that he is totally, completely batshit insane.
He's so skilled however that the surviving man can't help but admire the bastard. A tentative partnership is formed, and the Man ignores the other's demented ravings and imaginary friend, he learns some, but not a lot, and one day it becomes clear that he's valued for his useful possessions, not his company.
Eventually the Man kills him, elegantly and without regret, by getting his other enemies to find him and blast him to pieces.
The Man helps himself to the demented survivor's stuff.
He did learn one useful thing from him: there were factions among the fierce aliens and that they had a ship they could be stolen. He exploits this brilliantly, but when his alien "friend" ends up getting killed he jumps ship before the victorious Hunter could blow it up.
At least he manages to kill it by taking it by surprise. He's sure it believed he was still on the ship. As he hacks off its head he falls and odd kind of anger emanating from the usual cold pleasure he gets from a good killing. It's a bit troubling, he's never felt that before, but he dismisses it. He misses his ride back home, but he's sure he'll get another one, of that he has absolute faith.
The man heads off into the jungle.
He didn't know how long a "season" lasted exactly. The madman was vague on that point. The man guesses it's around three or four years-however long a year is on this place, but he is not certain.
He is even less certain how long "human season" is around here. They drop other aliens, "shit you wouldn't believe" the madman once told him, and he was right.
He tried to make alliances, like he did with the smaller Predator, but the aliens were almost universally hostile. They either attacked him or ran away. Of course he knew how to defend himself, and did so with increasing success. He recounts and names them in his head: Insect-thing, Chitinoid, Man-with-cockroaches-in-his-skin, Giant Spider With Way Too Many Legs, Five Eyes, Tall Skinny Man, Serpent-thing, Winged Creature, and things he can't even begin to describe, things that aren't even vaguely humanoid. In a small way he feels sorry for them, he knows what it's like being dropped here facing hostile aliens, but it's either them or him, and it sure as hell ain't going to be him.
Eventually he realizes there's a pattern. He barely defeats one and another one is dropped in by a ship that suddenly refuses ever to land. There's no time to take a breather, to get soft. Between day to day survival and the alien face off, he's more alert and focused than he's ever been in his entire life.
The man starts up a collection. A nice secluded grotto, a pretty waterfall nearby, a load of sticks sharpened at both ends. As he impales his latest alien head-a thing that looks like a giant fly- he realizes he is being kept sharp, and that he's starting to resemble Them more and more. He admires his trophy rack, then heads off into the jungle to hunt for food.
He learns quickly, he could easily make a spear thrower, an atlatl, and avoid wasting precious ammo. He finds out which plants and poisonous enough to kill what, and which merely paralyze so he can kill at leisure. He can avoid dangerous up close interactions and kill from a distance. He's surprised by how few aliens can throw missiles. He graduates to a decent compound bow. The killing becomes so routine it almost loses its pleasure.
They still have not landed, but he is patient, they will land again.
He is here for what he estimates is close to a year when he hears a familiar whisper. "Over here, turn around" He is immediately alert, thinking it's another demented survivor, or-he realizes it's ridiculous, but the doubt refuses to leave- the original one he met before. He here's it over the course of several days before realizing it's just the wind whistling through a certain grove of trees. It disturbs him slightly but he tells himself he can ignore the human-sounding wind.
Maybe another half-year passes, he doesn't know, it's hard to keep time in this green hell. The days are twice as long, the nights seem short. He studies the constellations here, but it's hard with the he Jovian planet in the sky. He guesses he's on a moon, not a true planet, and wonders how long it takes to orbit the gas giant. He tries to focus on it, but the red and yellow clouds shift every minute of everyday and he cannot keep track of his position. Gradually he stops caring.
The wind is annoying him. He even dulled his blade cutting a few of those trees down, before realizing how foolish it is and stops. He can learn to ignore the wind.
An alien he kills has huge eyes and sharp claws. After cutting off the deadly claws he starts on it's head. It huge dark eyes reflect his image and he sees how thin and wiry he has become. He is covered and mud, as per usual. His teeth are bared. He thinks he can see terror in those big eyes. As he bashes its head in it makes a disturbing bleating noise. Like a lamb being slaughtered.
His trophy collection is full, he'll have to start another soon.
Maybe he's close to the two year mark, he's far from sure. When the wind blows he can swear he hears the Demented Survivor's voice, "Over here, over here, turn around." Some times it beckons him into the forest, or laughs. Sometimes it sounds like the voice of a woman, or of children. They seem to be calling his name. He caught himself twice trying to follow it before he remembers.
There are no other humans on this place. His name is irrelevant, he is the only one of his kind.
The notion is lingering at the edge of his consciousness; he doesn't openly acknowledge it yet. He sees boot prints in the jungle, very worn but recognizably human. He follows them for miles. Even stopping to listen, calling out every now and then, but all he gets is his echo. The irony is rich, it's hours before he realizes he's been tracking his old prints. He sits down, feeling tired and stupid.
He acknowledges it; he's lonely, and it comes as an aching surprise. He hasn't heard a human voice in two years, not even his own.
He's always been alone, for as long as he could remember. He's always been better off for it, or so he's believed, but now he realizes this is how the crazy survivalist got started, and how he ended up as a wreck with only a voice in his head for company. The man swears he can hear the bastard laugh now.
Surprisingly he feels neither fear nor anguish at the thought. He figures he can endure it longer than most, and the idea of madness doesn't disturb him, he is naturally disturbed by very little. He had his realization, and he'll take steps to avoid problems the severe isolation might cause, but the challenge did not daunt him, he merely shrugged and accepted it.
The Predators come back.
He's learned to ignore the wind; the irrelevancies that tempt him into think another one of his kind is here. He fights, he hunts and is hunted.
What he does not see is the risks he is taking, what the loneliness drives him to.
He does not see his own despair.