I do not own the Alien franchise.

I do not live on the beach. Oh well.

Alien Evolution


Ellen Louise Ripley takes a deep, cleansing breath of salt air into her lungs.

And lets it out slow.

It feels and tastes and smells so good here all the time, she finds she hardly ever wants to waste it on nicotine.

It's warm here, that's one reason she picked it in the first place.

The first time.

Her and Amanda. After the messy dissolution of her second marriage.

It had been a healing place then.

And it is now again.

Warm and open and free.

Sunny most days.

Clouds white and puffy, lazily wander across the azure sky, foaming blue waves never ceasing their ebb and flow.

At night, the stars wheel overhead, millions, billions, trillions of stars.

The entire cold, vast universe, charted and uncharted planets, solar systems, galaxies.

Beings, known and unknown.

For once, she is not out there, not far, far away, in the deep dark depths of space.

But here, right down here.

El Salvador, Central America, Earth.

A little nothing town down the western coastal plain from some big city.

The Pacific greets them every morning, coral reefs teeming with marine life, fish, manta rays, turtles, even on lucky occasions, pods of whales spouting up water and flipping their tails . . .

"Ripley, look!"

. . . in the waving distance.

At some point in the late twenty-first century, rampant violence, pollution, and self-destruction had come to such a undeniable head, humanity had finally been driven to the one they had not been able to achieve in all their previous existence on the planet.

Peace.

And care outside themselves.

It's not a perfect system, some unfortunate places, the United States for one, still live under the bonds of necessarily declared martial law.

Some, such as El Salvador, are free and clean and thriving.

In their own humble, content ways.

They've been lucky enough to snag a place right on the beach, a rundown little dwelling with worn terra cotta floors, crumbling white stucco walls, and red roof tiles.

There is no air conditioning and they wouldn't have electricity at all if it weren't for the solar panels.

They keep the screenless windows and the peeling blue doors open as much as possible to allow for air movement and mosquitoes only show up at dusk before the ocean breeze pushes them farther inland.

There are three tiny bedrooms and one wet bath that has an inexplicably placed electrical outlet above the showerhead commonly known as a Widowmaker before a balking Hicks industriously duct-taped it, and several surrounding centimeters, out of harm's way.

They mostly bathe in the ocean anyway and from fresh water rain barrels.

The kitchen boasts an ancient cook stove and a deep sink set among cracked, colorful countertop tiles.

A long, scarred table lined with mismatched chairs at one end of this main kitchen/living area, a threadbare couch and two armchairs at the other.

Coffee table, side table.

And an ancient tv that rolls snow and distorts Lucy Ricardo's incessant banter, still shrill from two hundred plus years ago.

Here and there, a myriad of spiders, scorpions, lizards and other such life invades their sandy realm because, well, they invaded it first.

More than once, Ripley has found herself abiding with some creepy crawly uninvited guest or other.

But seeing as how she's faced down a Xenomorph Queen single-handedly in the dark depths of space . . .

". . . alone, you bitch!"

. . . she finds herself quite unperturbed by these small, decidedly less blood-acid-filled creatures.

"Out, you."

And continues on with her life, . . .

"This is my shower stall."

. . . relatively unbothered.

Truth be told, after a childhood in a sterile lunar quarantine facility, sixteen long years in which she hardly saw anything other than white walls, hazmat suited attendants through clear glass partitions, and dark space out a small port window, she likes the organic, the real, the messy.

At least so long as . . .

"Hey, want to help me sluice off some of this grit?"

"Yeah. Be my pleasure."

. . . she can choose her own shower partner.

They aren't in hiding here, they don't blend in with the locals.

In fact, no matter how tan they get, they stick out like sore thumbs.

And that's not the point, it never was.

The point is to be someplace beautiful and simple and peaceful.

And to live.

". . . think? Six months?"

"Sounds like a good start."

Six months.

They had discussed it, agreed.

Included Newt.

". . . 's all?"

"No. It's just a start. Then we'll make another plan. Sound good?"

"Affirmative."

And so that's what they had started with.

Six months.

No space, no aliens.

No cares, no concerns.

Other than . . .

"Pork, beans, or cheese?"

"What do you think, Newt? All three?"

"Yes."

"Tres pupusa de chicharron, frijol, queso, por favor."

"Si, senora. Muy bien."

. . . what to eat for supper.


Six months.

And they're . . .

"What do you say? Good with another six?"

"Yep. How about you?"

"Affirmative."

"Alright."

. . . two months past that.

And everything . . .

"Hey."

"Hey."

. . . is going just fine.


She doesn't need the fire, the night is warm and the breeze just cooling. She keeps it for the light and the flickering comfort it provides.

Ellen Louise Ripley sits with a light blanket around her shoulders and a cup of coffee in her hands.

The undulating crash of the ocean waves to her right.

They're from space, not Earth.

Ellen, Olympia Luna.

Newt, Hadley's Hope, Acheron. LV-426.

Hicks, well, she hasn't really asked him that yet.

She supposed they all have somewhat evolved since LV-426.

It's almost like they're the aliens.

Not the Xenomorph kind.

But still.

A smile she doesn't know is there briefly crosses over her face before fading away.

Late night fires make for strange musings, she supposes.

I'll just keep that one to myself, I think.

And there's movement in the shadows between her and the house to her left.

And she knows it's him.

"Can't sleep?"

Even before he speaks

He melts out of the shadows, Corporal Hicks.

Dwayne.

Wrinkled linen pants and unbuttoned beach shirt, hair mussed, bare feet sinking into the sand with every step.

The sand. It gets everywhere here.

You get used to it.

"Can't sleep?" he had said.

Even though he had already known . . .

"No."

. . . the answer.

"Me neither."

Because she knows he has them too.

The . . .

"Nightmares?"

He comes close, eases himself down into the beach chair next to her.

She nods at the fire.

Then pulls her gaze away from its hypnotic, dancing flames.

And looks at him.

Corporal Dwayne Hicks.

Along with her and Newt, the three lone survivors of the Xenomorph attack on LV-426.

He was younger then, they both were, less scarred.

Xenomorph blood-acid burned off part of his face.

Medical attendants on WayStar did the best they could.

And he was left with what he was left with.

Long, deep grooves furrowed into the left side of his face, burned away most of his eyebrow, marred the cheek, the jawline, the side of his nose.

They managed to save the eye, its green gaze currently lost in the shadows of the sea night surrounding them.

His smile is still there though and he gives it to her now.

Takes her hand, squeezes it.

"Yeah, me too. Sometimes I think they're getting better."

Smile fading away.

"And then sometimes they're not."

She nods, she knows.

He lets go of her hand and they sit there awhile, gazing into the fire, cool, clean ocean breeze playing around and about them.

It all seems like a dream, a nightmare, so far away.

But she can still hear it, she can still feel it.

If she lets herself.

She tries not to.

Finally Hicks rises.

"Do you want to come inside with me? I can keep you company."

Yes, he could.

He's very good at keeping company, distraction, very, very good.

Tingles trace through her and she smiles.

"Not tonight."

She reaches out, takes his hand, squeezes it friendly.

It's not a rejection, only a current preference, to be alone by herself, with her thoughts.

He seems to understand this and respect her decision.

"Okay. Good night. Ellen."

"Good night, Dwayne."

They exchange smiles once more, he lets go of her hand.

Melts back away into the shadows.

And Ellen Ripley resumes sitting alone by the fire.

I'm not ready to tell him.

By herself.

Not yet.


Hello!

Another Aliens fic here.

Surprise, surprise.

;)

Yes, there will be Xenomorphs. But I want to give these guys some peace and happiness for awhile first.

So thanks for giving it a try.

Everyone appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.