I do not own the Aliens Franchise.
I do own a digital copy of the movie.
Alien Evolution
Into WayStar
"Comms on. Team A, Channel 1. Team B, Channel 2."
They proceed in formation.
"Scouts, take point. Turn on your motion trackers."
Pulse rifles ready.
Ellen's heart is hammering, she feels cold sweat already beading her face.
Her gloved hands grip her rifle so tight they ache, she forces them not to shake.
They should not be here, they should not be here.
Goddamn you, Stevens.
But he's just a puppet, a pawn.
A turnkey doing what he's been ordered to do.
Kidnap an innocent little girl and hold her ransom to just to shut her and her family up for good.
And now they're all going to die down here.
The two foot thick, eight hundred pound blast door seals behind them with a hiss and solid, final thunk.
Fuck.
They're effectively cut off now from the loading dock, the flight deck.
They're sealed in with nothing but them and the Xenomorphs waiting for them.
And there's nowhere to go . . .
"Alright, here we go. Stay frosty, people."
. . . but forward.
What was once a brightly lit, well maintained, sterile environment has morphed, devolved, if you will, into something much different.
The forbidding grey walls are stained with viscous fluid, in some places gouged, blunt force dented or punched clear through. The lights flicker off and on, the air circulation system seems to be on the fritz, the atmosphere thick, carrying a putrid, fetid ting to it.
The floors and ceiling are grated, like the Nostromo, like LV 426.
Weyland-Yutani takes great pains to supply the best structures, the best compounds.
And they've all got these goddamn grated ceilings and floors.
Constructed with no thought whatsoever to what might possibly creeping above their heads.
Or up from down below.
It's not a place that should exist for humans, not a place for anything living.
There are things waiting behind the walls, following their movements, their scents.
Waiting to tear their human flesh apart.
And make it their own.
They've split into two teams, six soldiers in each.
To balance Dwayne's taking the non-Bishop, perhaps in an effort to keep Ellen from throwing him to the Xenos the first chance she gets, perhaps just so she won't have to look at him, who cares.
She's uneasy about being separated, it doesn't feel right, it feels like the trap it is.
And there's no way in hell any of them are going to survive this, not a third time.
But that's no way to think, she's got to stay frosty, she has to do everything she can to get back her daughter -
"Hey, are you alright?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."
-and that's just the way it is.
Their scout, Dixson, keeps a few paces ahead of them.
"Comin' up on a junction here. No movement. Floor's melted. Is this what you encountered before?"
"Yeah."
Moves them slow and careful.
They clear hallways and corridors, offices, a mess hall.
They step on scattered papers, spilled coffee cups, move around overturned tables, and broken chairs.
Making their way deeper into WayStar, deeper into the belly of the beast.
No lifeforms blip the motion tracker, human or otherwise.
It tracks movement, not heat signatures.
So they could be surrounded, probably are completely surrounded.
But so long as the Xenomorph hunters don't move . . .
Fuck.
. . . none of them will know they're there.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Until they attack and rip out their guts.
Fuck.
But they keep moving, a little at a time.
Clearing one space after another.
Ellen Ripley fully aware that just because they clear a space doesn't mean it stays cleared.
And then . . .
"Hicks, we found something."
"Whaddya got?"
Ellen keeps it simple.
"It looks like an officer's quarters."
Clean. Neat.
"Blood on the walls. Gun on the floor."
Better than this guy.
"It looks like he incinerated the contents of the filing cabinet and the digital docs. And then shot himself in the head."
Who first destroyed evidence to protect Wey-Yu.
And then commited suicide to save his own skin.
Bastard.
Still, he took care of it.
Just like she and Dwayne talked about.
Never had to do. Yet.
And she wonders if it would look this cowardly and pathetic.
The dead man collapsed at his desk.
Dried blood and skull fragments and brain matter spilled on the the metal tabletop, his grey soiled officer's uniform.
Body grotesquely bloated to the point the suit is bulging, his skin has split open in places, like a cooked sausage bursting its casing.
Fluids leaking from what is left of his nose, his mouth.
Eyesockets sunken and discolored.
The smell is ungodly in the enclosed space.
Ellen Ripley grits her teeth.
Remembers the Xenomorphs, lurking in the shadows.
And . . .
Fuck them.
Fuck this whole place.
. . . decides she doesn't care about this man.
"Anything of use in there?"
"No."
Or any fucking of it.
"Come on, let's keep going."
Thanks to Occam Freeman, BlueSaffire, Nikkette, C.O.B., DinahRay, and RedHood001 for your reviews on the previous chapters!
Thanks also to Bjsmith94, Conbird, tamarayann97 for adding your support to this story! I really appreciate it.
C.O.B, honestly, I don't think I can do that because I can't work it out in my mind. But I encourage you to follow your own creativity and write it if you like. :)
Occam Freeman, a couple of thoughts on your guest review. I think they might not think about those guys as much when they're out in the sun on the beach, in bed, etc, as much as they would, say, on an alien-infested space station (like they are right now)? As far as the new Xenos (which we will meet soon enough) the concept is from an abandoned A3 script by William Gibson. I thought, how can I bump it up and not just recycle what A1 and A2 already did, don't want readers bored? Anyway, I very much appreciate your honest critique as well as the encouragement so please welcome to stay fresh and honest. I like it and thanks. :)
Next up, well, you'll see.
