A/N: 09/29/2024 Man I suck at updating across all platforms. Sorry about that.

Disclaimer: I do not own Aliens.

Chapter seven: Dinner and a Show~

They head inside a restaurant that is teeming with the smell of tantalizing Asian cuisine. They wait to be seated and are taken to the back, reminiscent of Old Earth China.

"The sign outside is of Chinese origin, but the decorations are strictly Japanese," Bishop remarks, and Ripley can't tell if he's trying to impress her with his knowledge or if he's just genuinely fascinated by culture.

A waiter comes to take their initial order for drinks and disappears into the hustle and bustle of workers and patrons, and Ripley takes her time looking over the menu screen. Bishop doesn't seem to be too interested in it, merely sitting across from her with his hands clasped on the tabletop, running his thumbs overtop one another.

"You're not eating?" She asks, brows pinched.

"Oh, I'm not hungry," is his response, all pleasant smiles and conversational head tilts.

The low-ambient lighting illuminates his features in an unsettling way, and his movements suddenly appear...strange to her. There's definitely something off about him. Something that's bothered her from the start but she couldn't quite place. She still can't place it. Maybe he's just awkward, but even so, his mannerisms, his dictionary-like vocabulary, his way of being...it's not right. She doesn't know much, but she knows it's not right.

Their drinks come back and she orders her entree, and Ripley watches carefully as Bishop takes his glass and simply cradles it in his palms for an unnatural amount of time, turning his head to observe their surroundings while they wait for their- correction, her food. Is he not even going to drink? She's never been at a dinner table where her companions didn't at least down their drinks, especially in a social setting. No, something isn't right here. She's just not sure what.

"In ancient times, Chinese symbolism was often entwined around a dish; certain foods were eaten, and some were actually avoided during important events, such as festivals or the birth of a child." He finally takes a healthy sip of water, and instantly, her nerves are calmed. "It doesn't appear that they've followed the culture that closely here, though."

Ripley regards him, careful to keep her expression casual. "Have you always been this much of a history buff?"

He looks at her, seeming pleased that she inquired. "In my spare time."

His hazel eyes are so warm. Pleasant, even. Yet somehow cold and empty. What she had initially mistaken as kindness when she'd first met him only hours ago, she's now beginning to worry that she had simply filled in the gaps for the absence of malicious intent that so many company men seemed to carry these days. Bishop had certainly never displayed any type of red flags towards her so far, not even the slightest hint, but what if she was just clinging to the pathetic hope that somewhere, someone would be decent?

Her food comes back and the waiter sets utensils down, bows, and disappears. She had ordered Mongolian barbecue steak and fried rice. She unwraps her fork and knife, deciding how best to go about the situation. She knows she isn't crazy about the events of LV-426 or anything that had happened aboard The Nostromo, but even she is willing to admit that perhaps her suspicion and distrust of everyone that's been involved in her case thus far is somewhat unfounded, or at the very least, unrealistic. Weyland-Yutani was a big company, and although she now knows that its heart is black and rotten, that doesn't mean that every ant in the hive was bad. After all, she had been one of those ants.

Positioning her utensils, Ripley starts to saw through her steak, having very little success.

Were these things made out of rubber these days, or what?

"May I?"

She pauses, surprised and unsure about Bishop's request. What had she just been thinking about chivalry a little while ago?

Silently, Ellen nods and allows him to take her plate, her hands still in a cutting position. It's a complete accident - she jerks the knife and fork in an attempt to release her food right as he's reaching for her plate - but her fork pokes at one fleshy hand and her knife slices at the fingers of his other with just enough force to draw blood. The aftermath is almost immediate; the skin between his first and second knuckles is ripped open, but it is not crimson that rushes out, like one would expect, but a milky white ooze.

The blood of an android.

Bishop pauses to observe his new injury, his hands still poised to take her plate. Ripley's mouth falls open and her eyes go wide; visions of Ash come to play at the front of her mind and she is assaulted with the memory of his hands around her neck, choking the life out of her all alone in that tiny room until Parker had come to save her. Her fingers instinctively twitch towards her throat but she stops herself, a slight tremor overtaking her body. She's unable to move, unable to speak. Is this what a panic attack is?

"Oh, no," Bishop says casually, bringing his hand up to his face for further inspection. "I do apologize; I should have been more careful." Having assessed the damage, he looks up at her, his calm face and barely-there smile vanishing the moment he sees the state that she's in.

"Miss Ripley? Are you okay?" He reaches for her with his uninjured hand, fingertips just brushing the edge of her sleeve. "What's wrong?"

She can't believe it. It had all been right there, all the signs right in front of her eyes the entire time and she hadn't seen because she hadn't wanted to see. The past few hours of connection and camaraderie are instantly wiped from her memory and replaced with lies and company coverups. How typical of Weyland-Yutani to assign an android to her case after every murderous detail she had included in her report about Ash and his attempt on her life. She's angry. She's mad as hell. But most of all, she's pissed at herself for not having figured it out sooner. The sudden surge of emotion brings her out of her paralytic state, and she neither hesitates nor regrets what she does next.

"I knew it," she hisses through clenched teeth. "I fucking knew it."

She wads up her napkin and throws it violently onto the table, the cloth ball bouncing up and hitting Bishop in the chest. She slides out of the booth and storms out as fast as she can, weaving past a few people as she makes a hasty exit. She makes it to the elevators and slams her palm against the CALL button, and although she's fast, Bishop is faster; he catches up with her before the elevator has even begun to make its way back to her, and she's already backed up several feet before he can even fully enter her peripherals.

"Stay away from me," she orders, holding out her palm in warning.

Bishop briefly looks at her outstretched hand - the one he'd bandaged - before meeting her gaze. His smile is gone. "Ripley, what's wrong? What's going on?"

The almost-childlike innocence in his question tears at her; Why are you doing this? What did I do wrong?

The yellow transit light comes on, indicating that the elevator is on its way. At her silence, Bishop tries again.

"Ripley? Please, allow me to-"

He attempts to step closer but she takes twice as many back, hellbent on keeping her distance from him. The elevator doors finally open and Bishop backs up as Ripley gets closer, the simulated look of hurt and concern on his face infuriating her even further. So fake. Of course it was fake. There were no decent men left in this world. They were all dead. Dead, or filled with monsters.

She gets inside and presses the button for the executive district, her eyes not once leaving Bishop's. White blood drips from the tips of his fingers and plops! onto the floor.

She wishes the doors would close faster.