The eighth clone of Ellen Ripley looked down at the figure rasping feebly on the table through eyes clouded with cataracts of tears. The figure's body was twisted and mangled, the human-like flesh distorted with the influence of the alien blood, which seethed, acidic, in its veins. The only part that identified it as a less successful clone of the late Ellen Ripley was the disturbingly human face.
The eighth clone gasped and sobbed, the version of herself mangled on the table holding her eyes with a magnetic force. The other clone winced with sad eyes as the eighth clone (we'll just call her Ripley for efficiency purposes) tenderly covered part of it with a blanket.
"Kill… me," the clone croaked. Tears ran down Ripley's face.
Call stood behind Ripley, although a robot, always inhumanly humane. Do it, her large, dark eyes said as she nodded slightly.
Wordlessly, Ripley aimed her flamethrower and shut her eyes, squeezing a few more tears past the tightly closed lids. The blaze erupted, engulfing the clone on the table as Ripley freed the unfortunate version of herself in flames.
She and Call backed out of the room, and, reaching the doorway, Ripley clenched her teeth and cleansed the laboratory with fire. Giant test tubes smashed, the six other dead clones released to burn in puddles of flaming formaldehyde. Glass flew through the air as the fire dismantled the now blackened room with roaring ferocity.
Ripley stood in the doorway, the flames reflected in her eyes and in the tear tracks on her cheeks. She marched over to Dr. Wren, aiming the flamethrower at his face. She wanted to punish the man who had done this- who saw fit to mix Ellen Ripley's DNA with the genes of the things she had been fighting, that had killed how many thousands of people and could kill millions more, and in the process, create mutated and disfigured versions of Ripley- only two of which had survived more than a couple hours: the clone on the table which Ripley had alleviated from its misery, and the eighth clone herself, human-like in appearance.
"Don't do it," Call pleaded. "Don't."
Ripley wanted to see Dr. Wren's face burn, the flesh smolder away as his blackening mouth gaped in an agonized scream. She lowered her weapon.
Ripley stood in the doorway one more time, watching the flames obliterate and destroy. Johner, his scarred face smeared with soot, came up behind her and, with uncharacteristic softness, placed an arm across her shoulders, drawing her closer to him.
She didn't even look at him, a hard look on her tear-streaked face.
"I don't need you."
"Yeah, yeah," replied Johner as she lay her head against his chest.