The large and beautifully appointed office of the Weyland-Yutani board of council, was located on one of several privately-owned floors within the Chrysler building in downtown Manhattan. Cynthia Weyland sat with her back straightened, and her manicured hands folded neatly on the varnished oak conference table in front of her. The other seven members of the board sat with severe looks on their faces following her report. Mr. Van Hauser looked to be physically ill. He took large shaky fingers and fished inside the pocket of his Armani suit jacket, and came out with an engraved pill box. Fingers swollen with arthritis, searched for small white pills, and he popped two of them into his mouth. He chased it with the scotch he had been nursing all morning.
"Are you certain that all subjects have been terminated, and that there remains no threat?" Mr. Eisenberg asked for the tenth time. His snow-white eyebrows knitted, and his eyes narrowed on Cynthia. She blinked and finally stopped looking past him, and looked directly at him instead.
"I assure you, that no trace of extra-terrestrial life forms remain. Our financial fail-safes have already been activated, so the loss to the company should be relatively minimal," she stated.
"Relatively minimal?!" Cynthia managed not to cringe at the reedy, high-pitched voice of Mrs. Albrecht. She was an old woman, who sat tall in her seat, and peered at everyone over the tops of her expensive bifocals. Her lips were perpetually pursed as if someone force fed her persimmons all day and night.
"Need I remind you that we have lost more than $7.3 billion dollars, and that was for the facility alone. We won't even discuss how your incompetent leadership cost us our most valuable asset. They should never have been destroyed!" She said, before taking a shaky breath and regaining her composure.
"You've been on our radar for a long time Cynthia. We've been patient with you because of who your grandfather was, but that last name won't protect you forever," Mr. Eisenberg continued. Cynthia raised a questioning brow.
"On your radar? I have been doing what's best for this company while you all sit and drink scotch at 9 am, and criticize me. In the last four quarters our profits have increased by more than five percent per quarter. Not to mention we have nearly eradicated all the bad press we've had to deal with for the last decade. All this, no thanks to any of you. This was the only real problem that we've had since I took control. I can handle this," she said, keeping a calm face but inside she was boiling. Sure this was bad, but it could have been so much worse.
"You speak about bad press, but what happened back on that godforsaken island is what led to the leak about those goddamn predators! How dare you minimize that before the board?!" Mr. Van Hauser accused, in his shaky old man voice. "That..whatsherface…Alexa Woods won't shut up no matter what,"
"She's of no concern to us." Cynthia interjected.
"Only because with all your big fancy-shmancy satellites and gadgets, you can't seem to find one single woman. A woman, who went to the press on more than one occasion to blow the whistle on not only a different species of alien, but our involvement in the matter. So don't you dare sit there, in your expensive suit, and your smug little look, and feign innocence on why we question your leadership here today Miss Weyland!" Van Hauser concluded. In the middle of his rant, he'd raised in his seat a little. He now sat back, his energy spent as he raised the scotch glass to his lips and finished it off.
Cynthia maintained a calm exterior, and simply sat with her back straight, and her hands still folded in front of her on the table, and waited.
"I don't know," Mr. Eisenberg said, sitting back and running a hand over his face. "It has to go up for a vote. All in favor of allowing Ms. Cynthia Weyland to retain her position as the chairman of the board, say aye," he asked.
The votes were cast quickly around the room, and narrowly in her favor. She breathed an inward sigh of relief, as she rose from her high-backed leather chair. She shook hands around the room, expressed her deepest thanks and gratitude, made promises for a better future, and left the building in a hurry. After making her way into the underground parking garage, and sitting in her Mercedes-Benz she really did breathe a sigh of relief. The images of the horrible deaths of the soldiers she'd watched played behind her briefly closed lids. She opened her eyes and shuddered. It was a good thing the Xenomorphs had been killed. She grabbed her smart phone and speed dialed a number. It rang a couple of times before someone picked up. Before any greetings could be traded, Cynthia was issuing orders.
"Bishop, I need Bouvetoya," she said simply. There was a brief pause, pregnant with questions unasked and unanswered.
"Is the New York Colony destroyed?" Bishop asked.
"Utterly. Gather together a team of specialists, and as usual keep this very hush-hush. Everything is on a need-to-know basis, including you so don't start with the questions," she said.
"Fine. I do have one question. Should we proceed with a gestation cycle?" Bishop asked, the hesitancy in his voice was evident.
"Why else would I want you to thaw her? Just enough to harvest a few eggs for test subjects. Of course we'll need hosts, so comb the streets for any of the homeless. The goddamn mayor ought to be handing me the keys to the city for cleaning up the city's undesirables," Cynthia ordered. She ended the call before he could ask another question. She pulled out of the parking garage and headed for her office in Jersey.
Sandy Talbot was not a happy camper this morning. He had just finished his second cup of coffee, but that didn't lighten his mood any. His crew was behind schedule for fixing the power lines in the subway, and his boss was crawling up his ass about it. You would've thought putting in the last fifteen years at Argon Power and Electric (which was a subsidiary of the Weyland-Yutani corporation wouldn't you know), would give him a little fucking seniority, but apparently, Carl Spellman knew fuck all about seniority. They weren't working too far from the Lexington avenue and 63rd St station. He had come early just to assess the damage and determine just how much man power he would need to get this show on the road. He entered the station via the service entrance, a block or two down from the worksite. By the time he'd hustled his way down the steps and across two service walkways, Sandy was beet red and puffing for air.
"Gotta leave those goddamn cancer sticks alone," he muttered to himself. It was as if the two hundred and seventy-five pounds he was lugging around hadn't contributed to his bad health at all. Once he got to the worksite, he went over to the phone and called his crew in. It was an old pay phone type which only dialed dispatch and the emergency line. He wiped his sweaty brow, then wiped the hand down the front of his reflective work vest.
"Crew five at the work site. All clear dispatch?" He asked into the phone which was toy-like in his meaty hand.
"All clear crew five. Traffic resumes at 1600 hours," a woman's voice answered back, then disconnected the call.
"Fuck!" He said as he looked at the time on his watch. It was already 12:30 pm. He rolled his eyes, and took a quick look around.
"Guess I betta get started then, shit," he muttered to himself. He turned on his big halogen flashlight which he retrieved from the toolbox drilled into the wall of the subway tunnel. They always kept their tools on-site, and Sandy was glad of it. Everything was right where it should be, and he didn't have to hunt down grown men to give back tools that never should have left company possession.
He made his way over to the tracks in question, tracks which his crew had cleared just the day before. He was prepared to get working on the power, but muttered another curse under his breath as he passed the light over the work area.
"What the fuck is this shit?! Jesus H Christ yous gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!" He exclaimed. They had spent at least an hour or more with shovels and contractor bags yesterday, cleaning up some goopy shit none of them could identify. It smelled like a bad case of athlete's foot mixed with mildew, and none of them were happy about it. Now, Sandy Talbot was staring at the same goop stuck to the tracks, and to top it all off it was crawling up the walls too. He sighed heavily and dared to raise the beam to the ceiling and all around, astonished that whatever this stuff was, it was all over the fucking place.
"How the hell did this shit get all the way up there?!" He said, becoming angrier as the light revealed seemingly no end. It stretched down a little used service tunnel, and it was more of it down there. The overhead lights which were strung down the center of the tunnel ceiling, was covered with it and they hadn't been that way yesterday. Yesterday, Sandy would have said they would be done with this project over the next 24 hours, but that was shot to shit now. Footsteps approached and Sandy whirled the halogen around, seeing Pete and trying not to be too relieved about it.
"Whoa, it's just me Sandy," Pete said, with his hands up in surrender. He strolled over to the toolbox and retrieved his own flashlight along with the rest of the tools.
"You're here early, what gives?" Pete asked jovially. When he looked at Sandy, his trademark smile wavered a little. Sandy's face was ashen.
"You might wanna get ya shovel out, maybe a fucking hazmat suit while yous is at it. Look," Sandy said, pointing out all the crap they now had to clean all over again.
"What in the fuck is this shit Sands?" Pete asked, flabbergasted. He put one hand on his slim hip and looked around, then wrinkled his nose.
"It stinks like hell," he said matter-of-factly. "You call the guys yet?" He asked.
"Yeah, before I came down," Sandy answered.
"Yeah, well they gonna just fucking fall head over heels when they lay their eyes on this shit. Sands, whatcha doin'?" Pete asked. He noticed Sandy was walking away from him down the darkest tunnel. Something about the dreamy way Sandy was moving, made the hairs on the back of Pete's neck stand on end. Sandy Talbot was not the sort of man who did anything in a dreamy way. Furthermore, Pete was absolutely sure the corridor Sandy was walking down hadn't been that damn dark just the day before. He turned to go after Sandy, feeling the sudden need to warn him, but was stopped by the sound of people approaching. The guys had been on their way when Sandy called them in, so it didn't take long for the whole crew to show up. They talked among each other as they descended the stairs and gathered their equipment. None of them noticed the muck, and none of them noticed that Sandy had disappeared. Pete watched them for a moment. He turned his light towards Sandy and saw him inspecting the wall. He took a few minutes to explain the situation to the rest of the guys, Coop, Stan, Jesse, and Yuri Ivanovich whom everyone called Lord Vader. They called him that because Yuri was a big Russian sonofabitch, who really sold his Darth Vader Halloween costume a couple years back and the name just stuck.
"We cleaned this day before, no?" Vader asked in his thick Russian accent.
"You bet your shit we cleaned it, now it's back. What gives Pete? And where the hell is Sandy's fat ass?" Coop asked, as he cast his own light around.
"Hey, Sandy!" Pete called after his boss, but Sandy was nowhere to be found. When Pete looked down the corridor where Sandy had just been, he saw only darkness.
"What the hell? Sandy!" He screamed, startling all the rest of the guys who had been pissing and moaning about cleaning up whatever it was that was coating that whole section of subway.
"Sandy!" Pete yelled down the dark tunnel, but there was no response.
"What's goin' on Pete? Was Sandy here?" Coop asked, sidling up to Pete. His normally calm face, was screwed up in growing concern.
"Yeah, he was just here! Right fucking here! Sandy!" He yelled and struck out in a trot down the tunnel, fumbling for his walkie-talkie as he went. The guys looked curiously at one another, not comprehending how a shit show could get started this early in the day.
"Vader, call this in. Stan, Jesse, go ahead and get started on cleaning this fucking mess. I'll go after Pete and Sandy," Coop said. None of the men fought with him about it, mainly because no one wanted to go where they'd just seen Pete run.
Up ahead, the tunnel curved off to the right, and Pete saw a small flicker of light go that way just before he started trotting down. The substance which was slimy and snot-like near the tracks, became more solid as he went on. It seemed hardened, and it was thicker as he went. It covered the floor, walls, and ceiling completely, and the stench was even more foul as he kept going. He had to take the sleeve of his work shirt, and cover his nose and mouth with it to keep from unnecessarily breathing it in.
"Pete, wait up!" he heard someone call after him. It was Coop. Pete stopped and turned around. Coop's flashlight beam bobbed up and down as he jogged.
"Coop, go back and call this in! I've got it!" Pete called back. This was dangerous, and Pete didn't want to be responsible for somebody getting hurt if he could help it.
"Bullshit, where's Sands? He couldn't be that far right?" Coop asked as he caught up to Pete. Pete shook his head and pointed his light the way he thought Sandy had gone. He was about to say something, when they heard a muffled scream come from around the curve. They looked at each other wide-eyed.
"Pete, I think we better head back and wait until emergency gets here," Coop said. Pete considered it for a moment, then shook his head again.
"Nah, if Sandy's down there we gotta get him. He's a fat douchebag, but he'd do the same for any of us, and you know it Coop," Pete said, and he could see Coop give up arguing. Pete was right. He usually was. Coop nodded.
"Remember when that kid Tobias got stuck on the tracks?" Pete started. He could see Coop recalling it.
"Yeah, it was Sands who saved him. We gotta save him Pete," Coop said plainly.
"I'm with you now, but what the fuck are we saving him from?" Coop asked, the first tinges of fear and uncertainty entering his voice. Pete shrugged his shoulders. He was about to turn around until something seemed to move behind Coop. It was hard to see, but something was uncurling itself from the ceiling like a snake. At first, that's what Pete thought he was seeing. People were always getting strange animals, then when they get too big they dump them, and they end up in the sewers and subway tunnels. It wasn't very often than any wildlife was found down here, unless rats are wildlife which in that case made the subway a regular fucking safari. It was like no snake Pete had ever seen, and the look on his face must've alerted Coop, because he turned... then he screamed.
The rest of the crew turned their attentions to the scream, then looked at each other briefly before running to the tunnel entrance. Pete and Coop were being dragged away, literally kicking and screaming by things which none of the other crew members could make out. All they saw was the darkness of the tunnel and the darkness moving within it. The walls themselves seemed to breathe as a unit, then inexplicably, to move towards them with blinding speed. Jesse was the first to drop the pickaxe he had in his hands and run. Slowly, as if in a horrific nightmare, Stan did the same, running past Yuri who held his pickaxe defensively. He could see Coop and Pete struggling not to be taken away, as they were going around the corner.
"Vader! We gotta go!" Stan called behind him. At the sound of his name, Yuri was snapped out of whatever trance he was in, and turned towards the entrance himself, but it was too late.
Sharp talons embedded themselves in his shoulders, and yanked him backwards so hard, he nearly lost his tool. Instead of hitting the floor as he expected, he was hauled upwards as well as back. Yuri panicked, and in his panic, he began to fight. Something sharp, bony, and long wrapped itself around his middle, and Yuri swung his pickaxe back violently. He connected on the first swing, and paid a heavy price for the small victory. The thing that had him, screeched loudly in his ear, causing his head to ring with the sound, and making him temporarily deaf. The grip on his shoulder tightened, but the tail (and in added horror he aww it indeed was a tail that had him) loosened. Yuri pulled the tool back, then took another blind swing backwards and connected a second time. Startled, the monster let go. Yuri landed on his butt, the handle of the pickaxe still in his hand. He scrambled his large 6'4" frame to his feet in a crouching position. The pain in his shoulders roared at him, but he wanted to kill whatever this thing was. When he turned to see it, his breath caught in his throat. It was black, impossibly so, but it was turning and screeching, hissing and drooling in obvious pain. Something green oozed out of its elongated head, and then it stopped and looked straight at Yuri.
It doesn't have any fucking eyes!
That thought ran circles round and round in his mind, threatening to drive him crazy. He dropped to one knee in bewilderment, and then all at once it charged him. It knocked the wind from his lungs, and pinned him down. The thing's claws dug back into the fresh wounds on his shoulders, and created new ones on his thighs as its rear claws sunk into the flesh. Yuri tried with all his might to move, but it was heavy. At 237lbs of mostly muscle and very little fat, Yuri was not an easy man to pin, but this thing, with its bony body and spindly arms, was much stronger than it appeared.
At such close range, he was afforded the horrific opportunity to take a very good look at the creature intent upon his murder. A wide mouth full of silvery fangs, which looked vaguely human, opened. The upper lip quivered and Yuri's face was drenched in drool. It hissed angrily in his face, but did not detect the movement of the man underneath it. Grasping the handle of the pickaxe, he slowly lifted it to strike a blow. Just as he did so, a second mouth emerged, and Yuri's bladder let go. It was now or never. He brought up the tool-turned-weapon, and smashed it into the thing's head again. It screeched yet again, but Yuri did not hear. Its green blood was a powerful acid, and it covered Yuri's face, burning through to the bone in seconds. He screamed, and it got into his mouth, and burned through his throat. The alien above him collapsed onto him, and its blood burned through Yuri's chest, first seizing his heart, then disintegrated it.
Stan and Jesse saw none of this. They were captured at the stairwell as they tried to make their escape. Screaming, they were hauled back to the nest, and made host to the ever-growing hive of Xenomorphs taking root under the Big Apple.
Det. Danny Jimenez waltzed into the 3rd Ave MMA gym, knowing he would find Marcus there. Sure enough, the young man was working over a heavy bag, and doing more than a decent job. He was a natural, and as Danny watched, he envisioned the type of career Marcus could have. Some of the greatest fighters, boxing and mma alike, graduated from the school of hard knocks, and Marcus would have been no different. Jimenez had gone to Marcus' school to give him a lift, but he wasn't there. He'd skipped school again, and Danny was set to give him a lecture until he had a better idea. His childhood friend had just completed two tours in Afghanistan, and had recently returned home. He was in the middle of trying out for the police force, but was otherwise unemployed. In a stroke of genius, Danny thought it would be a good idea to have the two meet, and considering both guys, the gym was the best place to do it.
Danny had swung by to pick up his friend whom he hadn't really seen since he Facetimed him about a year before he returned home. The two men weaved past practicing fighters to greet Marcus.
"Missed you at school," Danny offered in a non-accusatory tone.
"Yeah, I ain't go today," Marcus said, never looking up from murdering the heavy bag.
"Excuse me?" Danny asked. Marcus paused and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
"I didn't attend school today. Is that better?" He said sarcastically. Danny grinned and shook his head. The tall, young black man standing next to him, simply had his arms crossed over his chest and said nothing at all.
"Such a smart ass. I got somebody for you to meet. C'mon, have some manners," Danny invited. At that, Marcus wiped his hands on his jogging pants, and reached for a handshake. He got a firm grip in return.
"Marcus, this is my friend Michael Harrigan Jr. Everybody calls him Mike, and nobody calls him junior if they don't want their asses kicked. Mike, this is the young man I was talking about on the way over here," Danny said, stepping back to allow the two men to greet each other.
"'Sup, son?" Marcus asked in typical New York slang. The super serious expression on Mike's face was broken by a very bright smile. Marcus noted how extremely white and straight Mike's teeth were, and was thoroughly impressed.
"I'm alright. Danny told me a lot about you. all good things sir, I assure you," Mike said, as he gave Marcus a firm but warm handshake.
"Military?" Marcus asked, and that seemed to officially break the ice.
"Army, 5th battalion Company A. How did you guess?" Mike said, and they could hear the pride in his voice.
"You stand up too straight, and you called me 'sir'," Marcus chuckled, and gave the heavy bag a half-hearted punch.
"C'mon now, you were serving it better than that before, show me whatcha got!" Danny egged on, and Marcus obliged. He took a pretty good stance, and began throwing solid punches to the bag. The two men watched a bit before Mike put a hand on the bag, stopping the young man.
"You're pretty good, but you might want to get lower and throw the punches starting from your base and hips. That's where the power comes from, look I'll show you," Mike offered, and took a stance of his own.
"Mike actually won a Golden Glove a couple of years back," Danny said, taking a step back and watching him.
Mike hit the bag lightly, but was stopping to make sure that Marcus was watching the form, which he was doing intently. After a few minutes, Marcus mimicked what he saw, and felt immediate improvement in the power of his punches. He stopped and smiled broadly at the new guy, and then at Danny.
"Thanks man. 'Preciate it," he said, and took a few more hits at the bag with his new technique.
"Hey Marcus, hold on for a second I got something to talk to you about real quick," Danny said, putting his arm around the young man's shoulders.
"Yeah, wassup?" He asked the detective, as they stepped to the side away from Mike.
"I'm not gonna beat around the bush here Marcus. A little birdie told me you paid a visit to the Love Outreach shelter the other day. Is that true?" Danny asked.
"So you been fucking spying on me and shit? What the hell man?!" Marcus exploded. Danny raised his brows, but otherwise seemed unaffected. He folded his arms as he watched a myriad of emotions play over the young man's face. Marcus began to pace a little as his anger seemed to build.
"You can calm down now," Danny said calmly, but Marcus was still pacing back and forth with his hands clenching into fists.
"No! Stop fuckin following me! You got no right to do that, detective!" he spat.
"Hey, hey, hey, calm down mi hermano. I'm not just following you around, I'm trying to look out for you man. You need to stay away from that place Marcus, your sister is—" he started.
"My sister is what?" Marcus growled out, as he stepped all the way into Det. Jimenez's face. Mike bristled and walked forward, but Danny held out his hand.
"It's okay carnal, he's just a little mad right now," Danny said, looking at Marcus, but directing his words at Mike. His friend stood back, but he didn't stand down.
"Nobody, NOBODY, gives two shits about what the hell happened to my sister! Nobody looked for her because she was on drugs, and she was a prostitute. Even our own shitty ass mama don't give a FUCK about her! I'm the only one," he was saying, as his eyes became wild and glassy, and his voice began to crack with emotion.
"I'm the ONLY one who gives a fuck about her, who cares what happened to her, who's interested in finding her! The police don't care! You just hang around me cause you feel sorry for me, but I ain't no fuckin charity case!" Marcus screamed. The patrons in the gym all stopped to see what the commotion was. One large burly man, with sandy brown hair stepped up to both men.
"Hey, I'm not having this kind of shit in here. You two gonna either have to get in the octagon, or take it outside before I put you outside," he threatened.
"You young damn punks come in here startin all this shit— "
"Hey! He's not a young punk Damen, cool out with that shit," Danny warned the gym owner.
"Yeah, well, just move it out of here," Damen stammered as he stepped back to let the men leave.
Marcus gathered his belongings, then all three of them stepped outside and a little way down the block towards Danny's car, and stopped. Mike still stood aloof to let them talk about whatever had the young man so upset.
"Alright, first I'm gonna need you to simmer down. Second, yes, I do put a tail on you sometimes but I'm just watching out for you. You don't understand Marcus, that place is not a good place," Danny said, to a still upset Marcus.
"No shit detective. You learn that at the station? My. Sister. Went. Missing. From. There. Is that dangerous enough?" Marcus huffed.
"Your sister ain't missing anymore, she's dead Marcus, and that's that! You need to let her go and move on," Danny said, then immediately regretted as he saw the unbridled hurt pass momentarily across Marcus' face, before being replaced by a look of pure hatred and worse, betrayal.
Marcus's eyes flashed with anger, his nostrils flared, and his jaw worked. His hands clinched into fists again, and his muscles were bunched. He was a stick of dynamite with a fuse just begging to be lit. Finally, he managed words.
"Don't you ever talk to me, call me, come by my house, or fucking spy on me again. You just stay the fuck away from me. From now on I'm not your muthafuckin' charity case, bitch" Marcus said, his words dripping with the venom he felt. Danny wanted to offer up an apology, but the look on the young man's face said that might be the match to light the fuse. Instead, he let Marcus walk away. Later, in the wee hours of the morning, he would regret that decision.
Mike sidled up to Danny as they both watched Marcus storm down the block and turn the corner.
"His sister is dead and he thinks she's missing?" Mike asked. Danny shrugged.
"It's a long story," he sighed as they both turned back towards the detective's car. They got in and Mike buckled his seat belt, then looked over at his friend with a stern look.
"Does it have anything to do with the spate of missing homeless people and drug addicts that took place about two years ago? Is that the long story?" Mike asked a flabbergasted detective Jimenez.
"How the hell did you know about that? They barely reported it, and you weren't even here two years ago," Danny asked, intrigued and thoroughly confused.
"Just drive. I think we both have some long stories to tell," Mike said. He gave a slight smile then faced forward, waiting on Danny to drive.
"Where to my most mysterious amigo?" Danny asked, not sure if he wanted an answer.
"Let's start with our good friends and the Love Outreach. We'll see what we can see, know what we can know, and let the chips fall where they may," Mike answered. Danny looked at him a moment more, still bewildered, before he slowly pulled out of the parking space.
"You know, that place is a dead-"
"A dead lead? Is that what your commanding officer told you? Come on Daniel, you're smarter than that," Mike said, cutting him off.
Not willing to say anything more, Daniel Jimenez pointed his cruiser towards the Love Outreach shelter.
At about the very same time that Marcus Bledsoe was marching out of a heated conversation and into an evening which would haunt him forever, a large unmarked truck with a long flatbed trailer attached rumbled down a half-hidden service lane on the side of an abandoned looking factory. The worn painted sign posted at the top of the main warehouse like a billboard read "Carson's Furniture" in faded white lettering. Atop the flatbed was a large steel container, also unmarked. Several black cargo vans pulled up behind it, and a few paramilitary agents piled out of it, guns at the ready. A few workers came out of the building and began unhooking the straps holding the container. One of them was driving a large forklift. At least two of the men who were riding with the truck drivers, came out to monitor the transport of this enormous container. They both wore lab coats, and were looking back and forth between the container, and the tablets they were holding. One navy blue sedan pulled up behind the small convoy, and a sandy-haired male in a dark suit stepped out of the driver side. He looked like a cross between Secret Service and a Men in Black knockoff, but no one would have dared say that to Bishop's face. He casually observed the transport and made sure there were no hiccups.
It all went smoothly and as expected, something the company needed after the debacle at the underground facility. Bishop followed the workers, military, and scientists to another underground bunker situated a mile underneath the defunct factory. This was smaller, but no less equipped to handle their business than any other. It was cool in the cryogenic room, but not too cold. Bishop watched as the chamber which housed "Bouvetoya" was placed carefully in its holding room. They'd rescued the queen from the failed expedition on Bouvet Island, and kept her for experimentation. The company had been smart enough to realize that she could never be completely thawed. She was too old, too large, and too savvy a killer to be let loose in any capacity, but her eggs could be salvaged and incubated still. She served as the test subject from everything to military armor upgrades considering her tough exoskeleton, to cosmetics promising the proverbial fountain of youth considering her long as-yet-undetermined lifespan. She would continue to serve their purposes until she expired, or they simply disposed of her. In fact, that was one of the reasons a new queen had been allowed to emerge. It had taken a long time for that to come about, and the running theory was that new queens did not emerge until the old one was dead. Furthermore, the inactivity of the current queen may have eventually led to the aliens needing to reproduce on their own, and it could not be done without an active, functional queen. The downside to that, was that the natural order of things dictated that this species overtake all life wherever they happened to put down roots, and they could do it in less than a month if allowed to unchecked. Good thing the young queen had been destroyed along with her fledgling brood. A thorough sweep of the destroyed facility assured Bishop, and by extension the Company, of her demise. There could have been no escape, not even for a Xenomorph from that cataclysmic destruction.
After every precaution had been taken, Bishop and the company owned soldiers left the facility to attend other pressing matters. The scientists assigned to keep an eye on Bouvetoya had been warned that any failure on their part would forfeit their lives. The company would kill them if the Xenomorphs did not. With that in mind, they set the watch and waited. They had raised her temperature enough to prompt her to lay eggs, but not enough to wake her. A few hours later found the entire facility quiet. The security cameras rolled, and the guards were on duty, and nothing moved. Nothing except a single claw. She had not been able to move, or even think since she had been retrieved from the frozen ocean waters, but now one claw scraped lightly against the glass.
Her body was more awake that it had been in ages it seemed. She'd been attacked, wounded, and left in the frozen water. The water hadn't been as cold as the pyramid, but it was cold enough to make her go into a sort of hibernation. In such a state she could not protect herself, but the other creatures in the water avoided her, as if sensing her dangerous and alien nature. She knew nothing until she felt a heat that began to awaken her. Directly after that, was pain. She knew not from whence it came, nor who had visited it upon her. Her only thoughts were of recovering her senses and killing whatever was hurting her. More than that, she could hear the agony of her offspring in her mind. She thought maybe her captors were those 'others'. Eventually, she would realize that it was the other 'others'. The smaller, weaker, slower version of the 'big others'. Nevertheless, they had found a way to ensnare her and her offspring, but now she was awake. This time, unlike before, she realized not to alert them of her ever-growing conscious state. She kept still in whatever entrapment she was locked in, but in her mind, she reached out. If any of her hive was around, she could reach them, call to them.
In her mind there was nothing but a void of sense and sound and thought. White noise. She struggled, reached out over a longer distance, tried harder. More white noise. More nothingness. She resisted the urge to test her physical strength. She wanted to get out, but she had learned through experience that if she went too early, moved before she was ready, she would be hurt. There would be pain. They would have her children. They would hurt them, kill them. She was queen. She was not dead, so remained responsible. She settled her jumbled, pain-filled version of thought and called out again. This time further than she had ever needed, further than she had ever dared. White noise, but then….
In the darkness of the New York subway system, the new queen had already molted. She had made her birthing chamber, as now she was already one third the size of her former queen, and was mature enough to produce her own eggs. Yes, they had belonged to another, but she was queen now. The brood needed guidance, and only she could provide. The last queen was gone, dead, forgotten. The hive moved on, kept growing, got stronger. Her drones had done well. They had brought live subjects to serve as hosts, but they needed more numbers if they were to survive. They would have to reach out further distances, but this was necessary. This was survival, and she was queen. She cried out as she painfully brought forth the eggs that would one day soon be her children, her drones, her protectors, her subjects. Silently, she reached out to her fledgling brood. Yes, they were there, they were awaiting her orders, they were…?
The tunnels all around her, were suddenly filled with her angry screeches and cries. No! She could not still be alive! She could not have the brood! She was weak, and she had not exercised control since time out of reckoning! With a ferocity that only a new queen could wield, she called out a challenge, and a threat. Do not come here! Do not reach out! Die! Alone and forsaken, die! At the sound, her drones came running, shrieking their response and concern over what had angered their queen. Above them, she screamed and raged and thrashed, nearly tearing herself from her newly formed egg sac. They were afraid. Only the queen could make them feel fear or unease, and to calm both her and themselves, they softly hissed to her in unison. They belonged to her, and her alone.
A/N: Alright, so we took a little break from our favorite couple just to bring you back to the real issue which is this Xeno infestation. I've been trying to really do justice on the Xeno kill scenes as a nod to the essence of the original Alien movie. Now, who got my Easter eggs and did you like them? I hope you did! Next chapter we come back to Ms Jasmine and Mr Kujhade. Speaking of which, Landochansea and LovyDovy, you two have given me LIFE do you hear me?! I LOVE that the last chapter had y'all feeling some type of way! Judging by the response, y'all about to find me and string me up by my toenails, because I'm going to test our couple a bit. They'll be stronger for it, but it will be difficult to read. Jasmine suffers because she still has one or two old demons to exorcise, but I promise you she will really grow as a woman, a wife, a mother, and a warrior. I just ask that you be patient with me, and don't hunt me down :)
By the way, since I've prewritten chapter ahead I've had the rare opportunity of including you guys in my writing process. Based on what your feelings are about what you read, has helped me tremendously in shaping, writing, and re-writing some aspects of the chapters ahead. So, I thank you for more than just reviews and faves, I thank you for allowing me to write for you and give you what I think is a good story.