Private Shotaro Kaneda of the Japanese Colonial Marines was not happy to wake up from hypersleep. His rest-rusted limbs moaned and groaned in their memory foam casing. His hand swung for a snooze button and instead found stale air. His other hand searched for a pill bottle and did not come up short. "Weyland-Yutani Vitality Supplements Recommended dose: 2 Capsules". Can't have too much of a good thing. Four would take the edge off, but he figured he'd check in with himself later. God, I fucking hate this job.

"Colonel Shikishima says this guy's a real headcase," remarked Lieutenant Fukumoto. Or maybe it was Fujimoto. There were so many names to remember but not enough personalities to put them to. The lieutenant handed Kaneda a small stack of files, each embossed with that familiar WY. As the two neared their destination, their pace slowed to a crawl. "Sounds like this kid survived some kind of accident on a corporate colony. Found him holed up in a vent, apparently he's the only one who made it out alive. I'm telling you this as a friend, man, there's something going on here. We-Yu isn't exactly being forthcoming, and it's our asses that're in danger. Get him to talk. Please." This was a lot to take in. I'm this guy's friend? Gotta figure out that name... "We're fucking counting on you, Kaneda," shot the lieutenant, "lives are in the balance. Got it?" That's it, his name's Fujisaki! "Got it, Mr. Fujisaki."

Once the Lieutenant left, it was just Kaneda and the ship. The walls of the USS Geishiri whined and creaked, an understandable reaction to the void of space. Beyond the cammo and the flood lights, beyond the armory and the airlock, beyond the gunmetal and artifice, was the disagreeable emptiness of absolutely nothing. Maybe it was the Weyland-Yutani Vitality Supplements at work, but that truth alluded Kaneda as he entered the interrogation room. Instead, the universe very quickly shrunk into one small room. There sat a person who could have doubled as a ghost story.

Two thin hands clenched the roots of wiry hair. Layered sweat stains acted like the rings of a tree trunk. Deep red indents adorned his arms and ran up his face. His eyes burned holes through the ship and traveled light years through the vacuum of space, eventually refracting on distant gas giants. There wasn't a molecule of his body that wasn't emanating something wicked.