Predator is owned by Twentieth Century Fox.
Discworld is owned by Terry Pratchett.
PREDATOR/DISCWORLD
Watch the Hunt
By: Mozphoto
Chapter 7
Night had fallen in Ankh-Morpork.
The Crew were sitting around a small fire underneath a small dock on the banks of the river Ankh. Aside from the occasional spine wracking, phlegm filled cough, and the odd muttered "Buggrit," they were silent.
A small animal (it had to be a dog, because the only other thing it could've been was the living embodiment of halitosis) sitting beside Foul Ole Ron suddenly pricked up its ears and began sniffing the air more intently. This was no ordinary dog. Aside from the fact that it looked like something the cat brought in and then brought up, it could also speak to humans and had a sense of smell that even impressed werewolves (when you consider that most werewolves would rather stick their noses up a skunk's ass than get within twenty yards of Foul Ole Ron, you'll understand that impressed can, in some extremely specialized sense, be synonymous with horrified). Gaspode trotted closer to the edge of the riverbank in time to see a terrible figure slowly rise up out of the Ankh with a horrible squelching noise.
The figure stumbled and fell down a few times before finally reaching dry land and by that time, Gaspode had been able to identify the familiar scent that was coming from the muddy, ragged apparition. It wasn't easy, since it was covered with what can only be described as the Ankh and its proximity to Foul Ole Ron, but there was no doubt in Gaspode's mind.
Mr. Vimes was still alive. Mr. Vimes was hurt. Mr. Vimes was extremely tired. Overriding all these facts was that Mr. Vimes was bloody furious and was not someone to be anywhere near in case he decided to take it out on you.
Igor was still hard at work, putting watchmen back together again. He'd been at it for hours and showed no sign whatsoever of tiring. In fact, he really was enjoying himself. He hadn't felt this useful since Mr. Vimes had first brought him to Ankh-Morpork.
Sgt. Colon, Nobby, and the recently reassembled Reg were overseeing repairs to the Pseudopolis Yard. Many watchmen had died today, but thanks to Igor, a lot more were on the mend. They were just lifting the front door of the watch house back into place when they heard the sound of something wet being dragged along the cobbles behind them. All three turned just in time to catch Vimes before he collapsed.
Vimes opened his eyes and groaned. Every inch of his body ached. He looked around and realized that he was in the watch house infirmary. Igor was standing over him smiling (well, as close as you can get to a smile with some Igors, he was showing his teeth and the corners of his mouth were turned up, so it must have been at least some sub-species of smile).
"Hello, your Grathe! Tho glad your thtill with uth!"
"Hello, Igor. How long have I been out?"
"Jutht a couple of hourth, thur. I wath planning on letting you thleep a few more hourth.I've been looking in on you between operathionth."
Vimes looked down at Igor's apron. It wasn't just bloodstained, it looked as though it had been marinated in bodily fluids of all kinds for days. "How many did we lose, Igor?"
"Thixteen, thur. Thankfully, Thargeant Angua jutht theemeth to re-animate after a few hourth. Captain Carrot wath touch and go for a while, but I think he'th out of the woodth now."
Vimes slowly got to his feet and climbed the stairs to his office.
Sixteen men.
Men that were under his command.
His men.
It had been a long time since Vimes had really wanted a drink. Oh he'd needed one quite often on this job, especially since he'd stopped drinking. But it had been years since he'd actually wanted to down an entire bottle of Bearhugger's in one go. Maybe later he actually would indulge. God's knew he deserved it.
But not yet.
He crossed the office to the closet opposite his desk and pulled out a long box. He placed it on the desk, opened it and reread the card lying on top of the scimitar within.
"For when 72 hours seems far too long. – Ahmed"
He lifted the curved sword and hefted it. He knew better then to test the edge. When the weapon had first arrived he'd been foolish enough to do so and nearly split his thumb in half. The blade was a magnificent example of workmanship. It could cut through just about anything.
Now, Sam Vimes thought to himself, I'm going to finish this. The bastard was obviously killing people who held some sort of power in the city. It had decided, for some reason, that Vimes was its primary target. But if it thought that Vimes was dead, it hunt down someone else in a position of power in Ankh-Morpork. The answer was laughably simple and the only reason Vimes hesitated was because he was tempted to let this creature kill Vetinari before he lopped off its head.
No.
Business before pleasure.