A/N: 09/29/2024 Man I suck at updating across all platforms. Sorry about that.
Disclaimer: I do not own Aliens.
Chapter twelve: Absent or Tardy?~
Bishop starts coming to see her during her lunch hour.
Well.
Lunch half-hour.
She's only allotted thirty minutes, but Dean had made it clear that forty-five to fifty was the norm. "Nobody takes thirty minutes," he'd said.
It had been nice at first - grab a snack, kick back for a bit, get her head together - until Bishop took it upon himself to start sitting in on her breaks. Initially, she'd assumed it to be a one time thing, maybe two or three (she really couldn't hold it against him from a job standpoint to check in on her and see how she was doing), but it soon became apparent that he intended to sit with her every. Single. Damned. Day. And just like that, the relaxing near-hour lunches shrunk back down to thirty. The sooner she could get away from him and back to work, the better.
It's been three months now since she'd started her loading job, coming up on four, and her caseworker, Burke, has been dragging his feet like never before on the topic of Amanda. And with her full time job and increasing workload, she's found it increasingly difficult to get a hold of him and keep him on his toes. It seemed he'd gotten lax with his duties now that she had secured steady work, and that wouldn't do. She needed to pay him a visit. And soon.
Ellen is jolted from her thoughts as Lance Bishop slides into the bench seat across from her, food tray in hand. Right on time. He'd gotten the exact same thing she did; salad and juice.
"So; how is work going?"
Bishop asks almost as though he's speaking with a spouse, and Ellen can't decide if she wants to laugh or vomit. They're sitting at their usual table, by the window above the docks. A few of the loaders walk by and give them solicitous stares. She wants so badly to tell them to fuck off, but she knows that it's better they think what they want about her relationship with Bishop rather than to find out he's practically an assistant shrink come to check in on her mental health. Her Dock Manager had been very careful in keeping her personal information private, and she planned to keep it that way.
"About as good as any other day," she replies carefully, emptying a bag of croutons into her bowl of greens. "Coordination Manager's a bit of a dick, but that's what you get with these warehouse jobs; too much testosterone and not enough sense."
Ripley stabs at her salad and takes a generous bite, hoping the extra amount of chewing will keep Bishop from trying to further the conversation. He has to know by now that they're not going to be friends. He may be a robot, but he's not stupid. He's got to have some kind of internal analyzers in there somewhere for silent cues and social interactions. No matter how hard he tries or how much he pushes, pulls, or tugs, nothing will ever change the fact that he is an android and she is a human being.
Nothing.
Charles Dirk, a fellow loader and grade-A asshole, comes off the elevator and smirks as he walks by their table, food tray in hand. "Awww. The hubby's come to check up on ya again."
Ripley glares the hardest glare Bishop has seen yet, and he silently logs away the subtle nuances that pass between Ellen and Dirk, Charles A. The undertone of violence behind Dirk's words and body language indicate a potential threat, and a quick public database search reveals that he has been reported multiple times at his previous jobs for sexual harassment. This could be a potential problem for Ellen later on down the road. Bishop's processors have not even fully completed their task before he decides that he will see to it personally this does not happen. Between waking up decades ahead of where she should be and the grief surrounding her daughter, she has been hurt enough already.
"Is someone bothering you, Ripley?" Bishop asks suddenly, brows pinching together to create a perfect wrinkle between his eyes. It is only logical to suspect that this is not the first time Ripley has been harassed by Dirk. "Because if need be, I can fill out a report and send it in to-"
Ripley swallows her food, sets down her fork and tilts her head at him, fixing him with a look that has the same effect as an eye roll. "You're who's bothering me, Bishop. Some people are just assholes. Having the rest of these guys thinking I'm some stuck up bitch who can't be touched is the last thing I need right now."
Her robot companion silently considers her words, and nods his acquiescence to her request. He changes the subject.
"I've been looking over your case files from Doctor Friedman," he says conversationally as he pokes at his salad with his utensil and takes a bite. Ripley shakes her head and focuses on her own salad; the very fact that he feels the need to continue with his little facade of being human is unbelievable even to her. "It seems you've been dodging questions related to the incident." Instead of responding, she violently stabs a chunk of lettuce with her fork, bringing it to her mouth and grinding the leaves to dust with her teeth. "And that you've skipped last week's session entirely."
The metal fork clangs loudly against the table as she tosses it down, not in the least bit willing to entertain this conversation. "What the hell does it matter, Bishop?"
The look she fixes him with is one of challenge, and Bishop is very careful in his coming response. Ripley, Ellen L. had in fact missed her latest appointment, though it remained unclear as to whether or not this was intentional. The long hours and arduous work involved with her new job often led most men to exhaustion, and she'd shown no signs from the very beginning of letting it get the best of her or of showing weakness to her peers. It was possible that she had simply overslept or forgotten, but without any such confirmations from Ripley herself, there was nothing that Bishop could do in her defense to the board; and the board wanted very badly to know.
"Ripley, if you don't mind my being so bold as to make this observation-"
"Just saying you have an observation is too bold."
He pauses, remaining tactful. "…I feel compelled to inform you that you have a lot of unprocessed trauma in regards to your experiences aboard the Nostromo, as well as LV-426. Even if the company's intentions are impure, you yourself could still benefit from the offered therapy; after all, it is at no cost to you personally."
She hears, but doesn't listen; she's too caught up on that very first sentence, that one word in particular.
"Feel? Bishop, you don't 'feel' anything. You're a robot, for God's sakes!"
Something akin to disappointment crosses his features, and Lance chooses to remain pointedly calm. "Ripley, are you really so hung up on the fact that I am an artificial person and incapable of humanizing myself that you're willing to forgo therapy altogether?"
Noticeably calmed, she crosses her arms and stares down at her nearly empty bowl. "The hell does it matter?"
His response is instant, without any calculation needed whatsoever. "It matters because your wellbeing is my top priority."
Trying to further his point, Lance reaches across the table and places a hand - palm down - in front of her, though he is careful not to touch. "Ripley; I exist to help you. Why did you miss your appointment?"
There is a shift of expression in her eyes, and he deducts that he may have gotten through to her. But just as the silence begins to drag, she shakes her head and rises from the table.
"I don't have time for this."
Deftly, she lifts one long leg and then the other over the bench, intent on vacating the premises post haste, but Lance is quick to stop her; he grabs her by the forearm, using just enough pressure to make her halt. He looks her squarely in the eyes and adopts a tone not unlike the one she'd been using with him.
"If you don't continue to be present at those appointments, you won't have time for anything; because you'll be locked in the psych ward indefinitely."
He can tell that she can't quite decipher if he's warning her or threatening. He hopes she can look past her own blindness towards his kind and see that he is merely looking out for her, as he was created to do. From where Ellen's standing, however, the steeliness in the way he's looking at her only makes her question herself; how can something so artificial suddenly seem so real? Perhaps more real than some of the flesh and blood human beings she's met. Burke being one of them.
He wasn't wrong. She had missed her last appointment. However, it was hard to explain that it was only half-intentional. She'd been having nightmares almost since waking up from her hyper sleep, but she had taken care to keep this particular thing from Dr. Friedman. At first, it was because she didn't want them thinking she was any crazier than they already did. Then it was because she didn't want anyone poking around in her head for more information on those creatures; the company was far too fascinated with them for any of their intentions to be good.
But now, as she's staring her artificial babysitter in the eye, and his hand on her arm is the most warmth she's felt from another since opening her eyes in over fifty years, she realizes that she's simply terrified to go any deeper than she already has regarding her experience aboard The Nostromo. It's already too much to unpack, why should she have to keep revisiting it? Why not just leave it where it's at and shove it so far back she'll never have to remember it again?
Regardless of the angle he was trying to come at her from, though, the fact remained that if what he says is true, then she absolutely needs to not miss another appointment.
Lance Bishop's hold on her arms softens the longer they stand there, along with his expression. His tone is gentle, dare she say sincere as he makes one final attempt to get through to her.
"Miss Ripley, please; I just need to know why you missed your appointment."
An electric moment that should not have been possible passed through the silence, and Ellen decides that - just this one time - she'll be honest with herself.
"…It's been over two months," she begins, and Lance's attention is solely and totally focused on her. "And I still haven't heard anything. And I just thought…what's the point?"
Bishop releases her arm, his fingers sliding down her wrist. She's probably imagining things because she's been so fucked up lately, but she swears that she feels the slightest of squeezes right as he lets go.
"He's not going to find her, is he?" She asks through the silence, and Bishop finds himself struggling to find a suitable answer.
Carter J. Burke had indeed been taking far longer than what would be the norm in such a simple task as finding another person - the Android himself had witnessed on many occasions Burke locating all sorts of humans, of all walks of life, for various purposes - and he did not have a reasonable explanation for Miss Ripley as to why her case in particular had been dragged out thus far. Burke could be known to take his time, but he wasn't lazy. If anything, quite the opposite; he lived to please the company, and held secret dreams of elevating himself to a C-level executive or higher within Weyland-Yutani.
The only explanation, then, was to assume that Ripley's case was being used against her, and that perhaps Carter Burke thought that if her needs were met before his own, that she would no longer be an asset to his agenda. He was purposely avoiding the location of Amanda Ripley. And seeing Ellen now, distraught and genuinely vulnerable, Bishop quickly deducts that this will not do.
Lance looks Ripley squarely in the eyes, morphing his expression into one of steely self-assurance. He hopes it has the intended effect on her.
"I will do everything within my capabilities to see to it that Amanda is found. I will visit with Burke tomorrow, and then see you again here, on your lunch period."
A look of shock, surprise, and then hope crosses her features all at once, and Lance is secretly pleased with himself. He'd wanted to add 'and in your arms' after stating that Amanda would be found, but considering that even he did not know of Amanda's fate - whether she be alive or deceased - he decided against it.
The alarm indicating that lunch has officially ended sounds off, and Ellen nods her agreement to see him again at this time tomorrow. She turns and leaves back down the stairs (she never took the elevator) to continue on with her day's work, and Bishop begins poring through Burke's appointments via his internal wireless database as he leaves the bays.
To the average passersby, he's just a man walking and going about his day, but in reality the android is quite intently scrolling through the app on Burke's personal datapad. He's a busy man, but not nearly so much so that he can't be bothered to check in with Ellen. No, something isn't right here. Something doesn't add up.
And tomorrow at 1:30pm, Lance Bishop is going to find out what.