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

Disclaimer: I do not own Aliens.

Chapter thirteen: Hot Seat~

Carter Burke is tapping his pen anxiously against his desk as he crushes his office phone between his ear and shoulder to keep it in place.

Van Leuwen is asking for an update on Ellen Ripley's case because Lucas Bartow is asking for an update on Ellen Ripley's case, who is also asking because someone else even higher than him is asking for an update on Ellen Ripley's goddamn case. It seemed as though the woman was the focus of every single manager, shareholder, and CEO known to Weyland-Yutani. And that wasn't including the doctors, scientists, and psychologists that wanted to get a hold of her as well. At this point, Carter wouldn't be surprised if Charles B. Weyland himself hadn't heard news of her through his grave.

"It's been almost three months since we put her into therapy, Burke; we've got next to nothing to show for it. Nothing."

Burke looks over at his clock; it's 1:29pm.

"I understand that, sir, but she's going to every single one of her appointments."

"We have on file here that she missed one appointment entirely. Care to elaborate?"

"Ah…y- yes sir, Bishop reported that her mental health had been in sharp decline. Her daughter seems to be the only reason she's pushing through."

"Is she taking her pills?"

"I- I don't know, sir. Bishop hasn't said otherwise."

"Well, double check. Sounds like she trusts Bishop more than anyone else. Play on that."

"Yes, sir."

"And Burke?"

Movement catches his eye, and he looks up from his desk to see none other than Bishop himself standing in the doorway. Not a good sign. Focusing back on the call, he responds.

"Uhhhhhyyyes, sir?"

"Remember that we want results, not delays. If you think the daughter is something you can use; do it."

Click.

Bishop takes it upon himself to enter and Burke hangs up the phone, running a hand over his face and tossing down his pen. He pulls up the AC controls on his screen and lowers the temperature by five degrees.

"Rough day?" Bishop enquires, crossing his hands in front of himself.

Burke scoffs, smiling but not with mirth. "I think I've gotten a call from just about every higher up I can think of this week." Circling back, he relaxes somewhat and motions kindly for Bishop to sit. "Something I can help you with?"

Bishop does as instructed and seats himself across from the tiny man, though the android's expression is far more business-like than his own. "Yes. I would like to speak with you about miss Ripley."

Oh, boy. Yet another one coming to him about this woman.

What is it this time?

He is careful to word his thoughts differently. "Oh? What about her? Is she okay?"

"Actually, quite the opposite," Bishop starts, and Burke mentally prepares himself for the next crisis. "You see, miss Ripley enquired to me just yesterday about the whereabouts of her daughter, Amanda. It seems that she's under the impression that you have made little to no leeway on your promise to find her."

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

"Ah, this is just great…" he whispers it beneath his breath, but he knows Bishop has already processed every word. He absentmindedly scratches at his hairline, and Bishop notes the action, silently cataloging him away as having clear undiagnosed symptoms of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. "Uh…yes, yes, there have been some unexpected hiccups in my search. I…haven't been able to put as much time as I normally would toward locating Amanda Ripley-McClaren."

"Such as?"

Burke is taken aback by the deliberate push for information, and he blinks to refocus his eyes on Bishop. Maybe Ellen Ripley had that frustrating effect of putting you at your wit's end on all beings, androids included.

"Such as," he begins, choosing his next words very, very carefully. "Having at least five to six phone calls and e-mails a day asking about miss Ripley. Being buried up to my ears in paperwork and reports, not just for her but for my other clients as well-" he stops short, deciding to take a different approach altogether. "You know, if Ripley is unsatisfied with the work that I have done for her, she should really be coming to me herself."

The lame attempt at getting himself out of the hot seat is pitiful at best, and Lance Bishop responds easily and with grace. "Ellen has quite frankly lost her faith in you, Mr. Burke. And if you knew that it would take longer than average to find her daughter, you should have stated so from the beginning. She's not well."

The telecom at his desk lights up with that damned 'incoming call' message again, and Burke immediately puts it on hold. He sighs deeply through his nostrils, pinching the bridge of his nose so tight that his nails create indents. When he pulls his hand away, Bishop can see the little moons on either side of his nose.

What the hell was he supposed to say? That the company bigwigs all wanted to make sure that she kept her damn mouth shut about what happened so they wouldn't look bad? That Van Leuwen himself, the highest ranking Weyland-Yutani employee that Burke had been able to meet in person, had a whopping two extra lines of un-redacted info in the reports on either Ellen or her daughter? That whatever mess she'd gotten herself caught up in had trickled down to her kid too and anything she so much as touched was in deep shit? Did Bishop want to relay to Ripley that this whole FUBAR situation would only go away if she gave them exactly what they wanted? For Pete's fucking sake.

Burke was hard pressed for that promotion when the opportunity had first presented itself. But now, after all this, and only in a few months…he's starting to doubt that it's worth it. He could call it quits, request a transfer of the case to another sorry caseworker…but then again, he was already in pretty deep himself. He knew more than he should about this case, this woman, over the last three months than he ever wished he had.

No.

He can't give up now.

He's close.

He knows.

He can feel it.

All he has to do is change his tactic.

"Look. Everyone and their uncle wants a piece of this woman. Scientists want her, doctors want her, the company wants her. All for vastly different reasons. And you know just as well as I do that she's not exactly a cooperative gal. Now, what I've found for her so far is already above and beyond what the company wants to give; if she could just give me something to go on, and keep the higher ups happy, they might give me more to work with. But as it stands, right now, there's just no way."

The telecom lets out a quiet beep!, a reminder of the caller on hold, and both man and robot turn their heads briefly to look at it. When Bishop focuses his attention back on Burke, the intensity of his stare is quite truly unsettling.

"Are you saying that you want me to inform her that the location of Amanda is being purposely withheld until she starts showing better reports on her therapy and psych evals?"

Burke puts his hands together as though in prayer. "I'm saying that all the company wants, is for Ripley to get better, and to stop being so paranoid about alien creatures and murderous androids. And that's it."

They remain silent until the next telecom beep!, and Carter reaches over to poise his finger at the 'accept call' button. "I'm sorry, I've gotta take this."

Bishop nods and rises from his seat. Burke, hand still hovering over the button, asks, "Is she taking her medicine?"

"That Dr. Friedman prescribed? I believe so, yes."

He nods. "Good."

The android walks to the edge of the office, and Burke calls after him one last time. "Bishop." The android does not verbally respond, but turns to stare at him inquisitively. "You're about the only person she trusts here. Use that to get results. Okay?"

Smiling, Bishop tilts his head as though considering his words, and says, "No, I think the cat is about the only one she trusts."

He disappears around the corner, and Burke pushes the button to take the call.