Echoes of Creation: Alien Resurrection
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 1: The Proposition)
The room was cold, sterile—a stark contrast to the feverish anticipation coursing through Dr. Nathaniel Osman as he stood at his desk, staring at the sealed metallic box resting at its center. He had been motionless for the last several minutes, his gloved fingers lightly grazing the brushed steel surface, as if absorbing the weight of what lay within.
The Xenomorph egg inside was unlike anything he had encountered before. Even through layers of protective containment, he could sense its presence, its subtle pulsing betraying the alien life stirring within. It was ancient—yet alive. A whisper of something primal, perfect, and deadly.
Osman inhaled slowly, his sharp steel-blue eyes narrowing behind the thin, rectangular lenses of his glasses. He was a man who exuded an air of precision and control, from the way his dark brown hair was neatly combed back—revealing the streaks of grey at his temples—to the meticulous cut of his black research coat that hugged his lean frame. His movements were deliberate, methodical, reflecting the rigid discipline of a man who tolerated no imperfections—neither in his work nor himself.
His office was a monument to efficiency—a stark, functional space with no unnecessary comforts. Metallic walls, a single overhead light casting a dim, cold glow, and a reinforced black desk that was covered in stacks of classified files and data slates. The air was sterile, tinged with the faintest scent of antiseptics and machine oil. A large holo-display was mounted on the far wall, its screen currently dark, waiting for his command. In the silence, the only sounds were the low hum of fluorescent fixtures and the distant murmur of the facility's ventilation systems.
He had never been one for personal touches—there were no family photos, no awards displayed, no unnecessary distractions. Only work. And now, that work had led him here—to this moment.
The United Systems Military (USM) had given him one year. One year to succeed where others had failed. One year to create the ultimate hybrid—a being that could finally harness the terrifying, lethal perfection of the Xenomorph species while retaining the ingenuity and adaptability of humanity. It was a project born from ambition, veiled in secrecy, and laced with potential disaster.
He wasn't ignorant of the risks. But he wasn't afraid of them either.
Osman reached out, resting his gloved palm on the metal container. Even through the protective layers, he could almost feel the egg's rhythmic pulse, its energy thrumming beneath his touch.
His thoughts drifted back to the files scattered across his desk—the classified reports detailing the disastrous cloning experiments that followed Ellen Ripley's death. More than a century had passed since the USM's failed attempts at controlling the Xenomorph genome, but their mistakes had left behind invaluable data. The notes on Ripley's cloning process had been particularly enlightening. She had been the key once—her blood infused with Xenomorph DNA, a living hybrid. The result had been… unpredictable. Dangerous.
But Osman was not the USM. He was not burdened by their shortsightedness, nor bound by their outdated methods. Where they had failed, he would succeed.
The Xenomorph was a perfect predator. Unrivaled. Unstoppable. But what if it could be made even greater?
A fusion of human intelligence and alien lethality—that was the true potential of his work.
A slow smirk formed at the edge of Osman's lips. He could already imagine it.
The perfect being.
For the first time in decades, he felt something close to exhilaration.
Then, his expression darkened. There was one immediate obstacle.
The egg was dormant, its deadly inhabitant waiting for a host—a life to latch onto, to infest. The first step of his experiment required a human subject—a sacrifice to incubate the Xenomorph embryo. Only then, once the chestburster emerged, could he begin his cloning process, extracting the necessary DNA samples from both the host's corrupted genetic structure and the parasitic organism itself.
Just as Ripley 8 had been created from the DNA of both human and Xenomorph, so too would his own creation be born from the union of two species.
He had already made the request to the USM.
And they had provided him with a candidate.
Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire.
A soldier. A man of discipline, hardened by war, chosen precisely because of his physical resilience and mental fortitude. An expendable asset in the eyes of the military, but a necessary tool in Osman's research.
The thought was clinical—devoid of any moral hesitation.
The soldier was a means to an end.
Osman's fingers tapped against the container, his mind already working through the next phase of the experiment. He would observe the infestation process carefully, document every biological shift, ensure absolute control over the chestburster's emergence.
The first attempt at hybridization would likely fail—a necessary misstep before perfection could be attained. Failure was not the end, only data—a stepping stone toward the next breakthrough.
His steel-blue eyes flickered toward the holo-display. Soon, he would leave this facility and travel to the remote research base where his work would truly begin. There, he would find his assistants—the synthetics, Tia and Mia, whose unwavering logic and analytical minds would assist him in the refinement of his creations.
For now, he allowed himself a moment of stillness.
A deep breath.
A final glance at the pulsing egg.
Then, he straightened his posture, smoothing the fabric of his black coat.
The experiment awaited.
And Nathaniel Osman never failed.
Echoes of Creation: Alien Resurrection
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 2: The Weight of the Past)
The steady rhythm of fingers tapping against metal was the only sound in the room. Dr. Nathaniel Osman sat at his desk, eyes moving with laser precision over the classified reports spread before him.
His private quarters—just as sterile and unadorned as his office—were already half-emptied, his belongings packed into standard-issue containment cases awaiting transport. Outside, the facility staff moved with quiet efficiency, arranging for his equipment to be transferred to the hangar where a private USM ship had been prepared for his departure.
It was an undisclosed destination, hidden from prying eyes, far from the reach of any regulatory oversight. The perfect setting for his work.
A soft hum of electricity filled the air as he flicked through digital files on a data slate. Each entry detailed past failed experiments retrieved from the ruins of the USM Auriga—a ghost ship that had become synonymous with scientific catastrophe. Osman studied every grotesque mutation, every unstable clone, every horrific death cataloged within its corrupted memory banks.
Fused limbs. Tumorous growths. Malformed Xenomorph hybrids, their bodies riddled with biomechanical deformities—failed abominations of genetic ambition.
Failure.
Osman exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around the edges of the slate. To most, these images would invoke revulsion, horror—even guilt. To him, they were lessons. The miscalculations of lesser minds.
One grotesque image lingered on the screen—a twisted humanoid form, its face locked in a permanent, silent scream, part-human, part-Xenomorph, yet neither.
Ripley 7.
A discarded prototype. A misstep on the path to perfection.
For a brief moment, something stirred within him.
The moral implications of his work surfaced.
A whisper of doubt.
The same unease that had plagued those before him. The same hesitation that had crippled scientific progress for centuries.
But he had long since learned to silence such distractions.
Failure is just data.
His own voice. Cold, detached, final.
Osman dismissed the thought and continued his review.
Dr. Helga Stroganoff's name appeared in the files, along with a few other scientists that the USM thought appropriate to the matter at hand - her research logs meticulously catalogued alongside the chaos on his desk. A rival in the field of Xenomorph genetics, she had once theorized that human DNA could stabilize the Xenomorph's violent nature, allowing for a controlled hybridization process.
Naïve.
She had sought to tame the predator—to humanize the perfect organism.
Osman smirked. She had failed. Just like every scientist before him.
But he was different.
He didn't seek to control the Xenomorph—he sought to perfect it.
The data on Ripley's cloning process had been incomplete, full of gaps and contradictions, but Osman saw the hidden potential where others had not. Ripley had been an anomaly—a hybrid born through genetic splicing, not deliberate design. If the USM had tried to replicate it then and failed, it only meant that the methodology was flawed.
That was where he would succeed.
His gaze flickered toward the center of the desk, where the Xenomorph egg sat in its containment field—untouched, waiting.
A Pandora's Box yet to be opened.
Osman leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He was ready.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
"Sir," came a voice from the hallway. "Your transport is prepared."
Osman shut off the data slate, rising to his feet.
The past was a graveyard of failures.
The future was his to create.
And the experiment was just beginning.
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 3: The Facility and the Team)
The Journey
Dr. Nathaniel Osman walked in measured strides, flanked by two silent USM guards, their weapons slung across their armored chests. Their presence was more symbolic than necessary—a reminder that, despite his brilliance, he was still an asset of the United Systems Military.
The hangar was a cavernous space of cold steel and artificial light, the air tinged with the scent of fuel and ozone. Rows of ships lined the interior, but Osman's gaze immediately locked onto the sleek, military-grade shuttle prepared for him. A dark, predatory thing, its hull marked only by a USM insignia, it waited in eerie stillness as his cargo—his research equipment, personal effects, and the Xenomorph egg—was methodically loaded aboard.
The guards didn't speak as he approached the boarding ramp, but he could feel their watchful gazes lingering on him. They weren't escorting a scientist; they were delivering an instrument of war.
He boarded without a word.
The interior was minimalist and functional, designed for efficiency rather than comfort. He settled into his seat, securing the harness as the engines rumbled to life beneath him.
As the ship lifted off, the weightless sensation of departure washed over him. Osman leaned his head back, exhaling slowly.
Then, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
The Dream
Darkness.
And then—
The Offer.
The room had been dimly lit, the air thick with the sterile scent of government facilities. Across from him, seated at a polished black table, was the man who had extended the proposition.
"One year, Dr. Osman. One year to succeed where others have failed."
The USM officer's voice had been calm, clinical, but there was no mistaking the underlying threat woven into his words. Failure was not an option.
Osman had barely needed convincing.
The opportunity to push the boundaries of science, to transcend the failures of the past, was an offer he had no intention of refusing.
But he wouldn't be the only one.
Four others.
His mind flashed through the files he had been given—brief dossiers on his competition.
• Dr. Helga Stroganoff. His most direct rival. A woman of ruthless intellect, once convinced that human DNA could stabilize Xenomorph aggression. Her theories were flawed—but Osman knew better than to underestimate her.
• Dr. Elias Voss. A geneticist obsessed with the concept of biomechanical symbiosis. His work in adaptive DNA sequencing made him dangerous.
• Dr. Adrienne Kessler. A former bioweapons specialist, renowned for her unethical but highly effective methods.
• Dr. Victor Marin. A synthetic biologist—his focus lay in integrating AI with organic life.
The five of them had been pitted against one another, competing for the ultimate discovery. Only one would emerge victorious.
Osman had no intention of being anything less than the last man standing.
Arrival
The sharp chime of a system alert roused him.
"We've entered the planet's atmosphere," came the pilot's voice over the intercom.
Osman straightened, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders as he turned to the small viewport beside him.
Outside, the world stretched barren and lifeless, its harsh terrain battered by relentless winds.
Jagged mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks shrouded in storm clouds. The sky itself was a murky shade of red, thick with swirling dust. A world devoid of civilization.
Perfect.
The research facility came into view—a sprawling fortress of reinforced steel and concrete, half-buried into the landscape to protect it from the hostile climate. Rows of floodlights cast harsh artificial illumination against the storm-choked darkness.
A scientific outpost turned laboratory—far from prying eyes.
His stage. His proving ground.
The shuttle touched down smoothly. The moment the doors hissed open, the biting wind greeted him, carrying with it the scent of cold metal and dust.
A small welcoming party had assembled—technicians, security personnel, and researchers standing in disciplined formation.
Inside the Facility
The interior of the base was sterile, clinical—a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors where the hum of machinery and the faint beeping of monitors never ceased. The temperature was controlled, but the air carried a subtle chill, a reminder of the hostile world just beyond its reinforced walls.
Osman walked with purpose, his boots echoing against the pristine floors as he was led deeper inside.
The research team had already been assembled.
A mix of scientists, technicians, and synthetics, all hand-selected by the USM for their expertise. Some greeted him with curious glances, others with thinly veiled skepticism.
He ignored them.
He wasn't here for social pleasantries.
Finally, he entered the control room—a large, circular chamber lined with high-tech terminals and a central holographic display projecting a detailed blueprint of the facility.
And there, waiting for him, were the two synthetic beings assigned to his project.
TIA and MIA
They were identical in height, but everything else about them was designed to contrast.
• TIA, with icy blue luminescent eyes and silvery-white short hair, radiated cold efficiency. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze sharp, calculating. She stood rigidly upright, the very embodiment of logical precision.
• MIA, with emerald green luminescent eyes and neatly tied blonde hair, had a presence that was softer—almost human. Yet Osman knew better. Her calm demeanor was nothing more than a programmed construct, her empathy artificial at best.
They were more than machines.
They were extensions of his own mind.
"Dr. Osman," TIA greeted first, her voice smooth, emotionless. "Welcome to Facility Theta."
MIA offered a small nod. "We've been expecting you."
Osman barely glanced at the other personnel in the room as he approached the two synthetics.
"Initiate core sync," he commanded.
The androids responded in perfect unison. "Core sync established. Ready for data stream."
Instantly, the holographic display shifted, filling with a cascade of biometric data, environmental statistics, and genetic analysis reports.
Osman absorbed it all.
His gaze flicked to the containment unit where the Xenomorph egg had been secured.
Soon, the experiment would begin.
And failure was not an option.
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 4: The Cold Logic of Machines)
The Observation Chamber
The observation room was a sterile, dimly lit chamber, its reinforced walls lined with high-resolution monitoring equipment and a sealed containment unit in the center. The Xenomorph egg sat within, its leathery surface glistening under the artificial light, a thing that seemed to breathe, its faint pulsing movements eerily synchronized with the rhythmic hum of the facility's machinery.
Dr. Nathaniel Osman stood before it, his hands folded behind his back, watching.
This was no ordinary egg.
Even before the scans were complete, he could feel it—an anomaly hidden beneath the biomechanical layers of its existence.
"What secrets do you hold?"
The egg's origins were classified. The USM had been deliberately vague about where they had obtained it, and when he had questioned them further, they had refused to answer.
That fact alone disturbed him.
Beside him, TIA and MIA stood motionless, their luminous eyes flickering as they synchronized with the facility's scanning systems.
Osman turned to them. "Status?"
TIA's head tilted ever so slightly. "Genetic sequencing is in progress. Estimated time to completion: sixteen minutes."
MIA followed immediately. "Preliminary readings indicate anomalous structures in the egg's genetic framework. Potential deviations from standard Xenomorph reproductive patterns."
Osman narrowed his gaze. "Elaborate."
TIA answered without hesitation. "Hypothesis: The anomaly may be a direct result of the Queen that produced it. If the Queen itself was altered, the offspring could inherit unstable or unknown traits."
Osman's fingers tapped against his arm in thought. The implications were… intriguing.
"Where was this Queen acquired?"
He turned sharply toward the androids. "What was the origin of this egg?"
A brief silence. Then—
"That information is classified," they responded in perfect unison.
Osman's jaw tightened. He hated being kept in the dark.
But for now, he had more immediate concerns.
He activated his comm. "Bring in the host."
The Host: Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire
Minutes later, the doors to the observation room hissed open.
Two USM security officers entered, guiding a hovering transporter unit into the room. Strapped securely to its surface was a man—Joshua Lancashire.
He was completely sedated, his muscular frame restrained by reinforced straps designed to hold even the most resistant subjects. His head lay slightly to the side, his short-cropped graying hair damp with sweat, the faintest rise and fall of his chest indicating life beneath the medically induced coma.
Despite his unconscious state, he radiated authority—even in stillness, his battle-worn physique and chiseled features spoke of a hardened soldier.
Osman stepped forward, studying him.
This man was no ordinary test subject.
Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire had been chosen for a reason. A veteran of USM Special Operations, he had survived multiple war zones, black ops missions, and experimental enhancement programs. His mental fortitude was legendary.
And yet, now he lay before him—helpless, strapped down, reduced to a vessel for something greater.
Osman studied him for a moment, then turned to the synthetics. "Begin psychological assessment."
MIA stepped forward, her green-lit eyes scanning Lancashire's face, her artificial voice measured, clinical—but almost… gentle.
"Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire. Age: Fifty-one. Service record: Seventeen years. Multiple combat deployments. Commendations for valor."
A pause.
"Notable traits: Strong resistance to coercion. High mental fortitude. Displays a predisposition toward defiance."
TIA's voice followed, sharper. "Conclusion: Psychological instability is minimal. Host body is suitable. However—" she glanced at Osman, "—the subject's resistance to authority may interfere with controlled conditioning post-infection."
Osman folded his arms. "In other words, he may be difficult to program."
TIA nodded. "Correct. Probability of post-infection compliance: Low."
Osman smirked faintly. "That remains to be seen."
The Ethical Debate
As the final scans of the egg continued, Osman turned his attention back to the data streams projected before him.
With every failed hybrid experiment from the USM Auriga, a single flaw became evident:
The human mind—its unpredictability, its resistance, its contradictions—was both a strength and a weakness.
The question now was simple.
How much humanity should he allow his hybrids to retain?
He turned toward TIA and MIA, knowing full well their answers would be different.
"Free will or control?" he asked, eyes flicking between them.
TIA responded first. "Total obedience. Unquestioning loyalty. Control eliminates unpredictability."
MIA, in contrast, countered. "Limited autonomy. A controlled mind with some capacity for independent reasoning may lead to enhanced intelligence and adaptability."
Osman considered this.
He had studied the Auriga reports extensively. The most dangerous hybrids had been the ones who had retained too much humanity—they had felt, they had questioned, they had rebelled.
And yet…
Ripley 8 had been the most successful hybrid to date precisely because she retained human cognition.
Perhaps the key was balance.
Before he could continue the discussion, a system alert flashed across the screen.
TIA's blue-lit eyes flickered. "Xenomorph genetic scan complete."
Osman turned sharply.
The results were in.
And the experiment was about to begin.
Echoes of Creation: Alien Resurrection
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 5: Genetic Anomalies & The Queen's Secret)
Unveiling the Data
The hum of machinery filled the observation chamber as TIA and MIA completed their analysis. The large holographic projector in the center of the room flickered to life, casting a soft blue-white glow against the sterile metallic walls.
Dr. Nathaniel Osman stepped forward, hands folded behind his back, eyes narrowed as the collected data streams materialized in the air before him.
TIA spoke first. "Xenomorph egg scan complete. Displaying results."
The projection shifted, revealing an intricate three-dimensional rendering of the egg's genetic structure, its DNA strands rotating slowly, pulsing with lines of unknown sequences.
MIA's emerald-green luminescent eyes followed the projection, her voice measured. "Analysis indicates the presence of genetic anomalies. Several genes exhibit mutations or potential artificial modifications. The structural integrity of the Xenomorph genome remains intact, but deviations suggest an unknown external influence."
Osman frowned. "Artificial modifications?"
TIA's icy blue gaze remained fixed on the data as she responded. "No conclusive evidence of direct tampering. However, the deviations observed are not consistent with naturally occurring mutations. A controlled factor may have influenced the genetic structure."
Osman's fingers tapped idly against his forearm as his mind processed the information. He turned back toward the androids. "Upload the USM Auriga's data. I want a side-by-side comparison."
The Limits of Science
The hologram expanded, and beside the newly acquired data, a second projection materialized—the incomplete genetic logs retrieved from the USM Auriga a century ago. Osman's sharp eyes scanned the files, looking for patterns, correlations, or any indication of what made this egg different.
MIA was the first to speak. "The USM Auriga's genetic data is incomplete. The scanning technology available at the time lacked the precision necessary to map Xenomorph DNA with accuracy."
TIA followed up. "Even with a century of advancements, current technology still faces limitations. The egg's acidic blood disrupts scanning equipment, causing gaps in the data. Some results remain inconclusive."
Osman exhaled sharply, his frustration mounting. Even now, with everything at his disposal, there were still blind spots.
"A century of progress, and yet we are still working in the dark."
He studied the genetic breakdown carefully. The discrepancies were undeniable—certain sequences in the new scan did not exist in the Auriga's records. The implications were troubling.
MIA, her voice softer than TIA's but no less analytical, pointed to a cluster of irregular genetic patterns. "One hypothesis: These deviations may be a direct result of the Queen that produced this egg."
Osman's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
MIA continued. "If the Queen itself was biologically altered—either through natural evolution, environmental exposure, or genetic interference—its offspring would reflect those changes."
A pause.
"However, this is only speculation."
Osman's jaw tightened. "Speculation or not, something made this egg different." He turned his focus back to the synthetics.
"Where exactly did the USM acquire this?"
Silence.
The two AI exchanged a brief glance, their processors running countless subroutines before finally responding.
"That information is classified."
Osman's patience thinned. His voice grew cold. "Then give me whatever data the USM provided about the egg. Any details—location, environmental conditions, recovery notes."
Another pause. Then—
MIA answered first. "The egg was collected from an unknown galaxy."
TIA followed. "Recovered from an undisclosed planet within USM archives."
That was all they gave him.
No coordinates. No planetary profile. No environmental reports.
Nothing.
The Queen's Secret
Osman's frown deepened.
This wasn't just classified military secrecy—this was deliberate obfuscation. The USM had gone to great lengths to bury the truth about the Queen that laid this egg.
But why?
He stepped back, gaze flicking between the glowing projections. The egg's anomalies, the unanswered questions, the fragments of incomplete data—they all pointed to one undeniable reality:
This was no ordinary Xenomorph egg.
A creeping sense of unease settled over him.
Whatever hatched from this egg could be something far more dangerous than even the USM anticipated.
And if he didn't uncover the truth about the Queen, he would be walking blind into the unknown.
A slow smirk pulled at Osman's lips.
He had always enjoyed a challenge.
Echoes of Creation: Alien Resurrection
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 6: The First Sacrifice – Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire)
The Host
The observation chamber was eerily silent, save for the steady hum of life-support machinery. The dim overhead lighting cast long shadows across the sterile metal walls, bathing the containment unit in an artificial glow.
Inside the reinforced containment field, the Xenomorph egg sat motionless, its leathery surface slightly pulsing—a silent, unreadable heartbeat.
On the opposite end of the room, Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire lay strapped to a hovering transport unit, his body secured by reinforced restraints. His broad, muscular frame was still under the lingering effects of sedation, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest indicated that consciousness was beginning to stir.
Dr. Nathaniel Osman stood between the two, hands clasped behind his back, watching with clinical detachment.
"Display the host's profile."
At his command, TIA and MIA synchronized, and a holographic projection materialized above the containment field. The data stream scrolled rapidly, outlining Joshua Lancashire's history, service record, and psychological profile.
Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire – Subject Profile
Name: Joshua Lancashire
Rank: Sergeant Major (Former United Systems Military)
Psychological Assessment: Highly disciplined, tactically precise, emotionally contained
Service Record:
• Veteran of multiple off-world conflicts
• Decorated for battlefield excellence
• Court-martialed under sealed military records
• Sentenced to experimental service in exchange for reduced penalty
Osman's sharp eyes flicked across the details before him. A highly trained soldier—exactly the kind of man the USM would repurpose. His court-martial remained classified, but Osman had seen this pattern before. The best soldiers were often discarded for reasons unrelated to skill.
A flicker of movement caught his attention.
The egg trembled.
It wasn't hatching yet, but proximity to a host was stirring something inside.
The machinery whirred softly, adjusting as the transport unit carrying Lancashire hovered slightly closer to the containment field. The motion was enough to rouse the former marine further.
MIA's emerald-green eyes flickered.
"The host is regaining consciousness."
TIA's voice followed, sharper.
"Do you wish to proceed with the implantation process now?"
Osman raised a hand. "Pause operations."
The synthetics obeyed instantly.
Osman stepped forward, watching as Lancashire's eyelids fluttered open. His breathing deepened, and after a moment, his sharp, battle-hardened eyes focused on the man standing before him.
For a brief second, silence hung between them.
Then, Lancashire exhaled sharply, his voice rough from sedation. "So this is how it ends?" His tone was eerily calm—resigned, almost amused. "I expected something more… dignified."
Osman tilted his head slightly, studying him. "You misunderstand." His voice was measured, calculated. "This isn't the end. This is a transformation."
Lancashire chuckled darkly, his restraints creaking as he flexed his fingers. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
Osman didn't answer immediately. He regarded the soldier with something almost resembling curiosity.
"You're stronger than most," he finally said. "Even now, the sedation should have kept you unconscious. But your body has endured." He gestured subtly toward the glowing monitors displaying his vitals. "Enhanced metabolism, cardiovascular resilience, high pain tolerance. You are quite the soldier."
Lancashire held his gaze, his expression unreadable. But Osman saw it—the awareness, the understanding. The sergeant major knew exactly why he had been chosen.
And he also knew there was no escape.
The Unfolding Nightmare
Osman took a step back, positioning himself against the far wall, ensuring he had a full, unobstructed view of what was about to take place.
"Begin full data capture." His voice was calm, unwavering.
"Specify parameters," TIA inquired.
"All data streams. Video recordings. Activate the room sensors on all spectrums. I want everything recorded and analyzed."
The synthetics synchronized instantly, their glowing eyes flickering as the entire room came alive with silent observation.
Tiny, near-invisible sensor drones mounted along the walls blinked to life, detecting everything from temperature fluctuations to micro-movements in the air.
Every angle. Every detail. Every reaction.
All of it, preserved for study.
Osman allowed himself a small nod.
"Resume procedure."
TIA and MIA synchronized once more, and the machines resumed their silent work. The hovering transport unit drifted forward, positioning Lancashire directly in front of the containment field.
The egg twitched.
A deep, wet chitinous sound filled the chamber as the top of the egg slowly peeled open, the thick membrane folding back like the petals of a grotesque flower.
Lancashire stiffened against his restraints.
Then, it happened.
A sudden *blur of movement—*the facehugger launched forward, its long, spindly legs splaying out mid-air as it lunged straight for Lancashire's face.
Osman did not flinch.
His eyes remained fixed on the event unfolding before him, watching as the creature latched onto its host, its tail coiling tightly around Lancashire's throat.
Lancashire shook violently, his body straining against the restraints as the parasite fused itself to him. The soldier's muffled scream was brief, then quickly silenced as the facehugger completed its grip.
The observation chamber returned to silence.
Osman exhaled, stepping toward the exit.
To him, this was not an act of cruelty.
It was the first step toward creation.
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 7: Birth of the Chestburster)
The Countdown Begins
Osman stood in the observation chamber, hands clasped behind his back as he regarded the motionless figure of Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire. The facehugger was still attached, its long, spindly fingers clamped tightly around his head, the tail coiled like a noose around his throat. The monitors displayed Lancashire's vitals, erratic yet stable—for now.
"What is the usual time delay between implantation and emergence?" Osman's voice broke the silence.
Both synthetics, TIA and MIA, stood near the glowing control panel, their luminescent eyes flickering as they processed his question.
"The duration varies," TIA stated bluntly. "It is dependent on host physiology, metabolic rate, and genetic compatibility."
MIA continued, her tone more measured. "The embryo is currently rewriting the host's genetic structure. The process is accelerating. Estimated time frame: four to six hours."
Osman hummed in thought, eyes narrowing slightly as he observed Lancashire's shallow, rapid breathing. He could almost sense the transformation happening at a microscopic level—the silent war being waged within the host's body.
A perfect fusion of human and Xenomorph DNA.
This was the first true step toward unlocking their potential.
The Breaking Point
Hours passed.
The once-sterile chamber was now filled with the labored, agonized gasps of Joshua Lancashire. His body twitched violently, muscles seizing under the strain of the accelerated growth taking place inside him.
The facehugger lay lifeless beside him now—its purpose fulfilled, discarded like an empty husk.
Then, the convulsions began.
Osman watched as Lancashire's entire body arched off the table, a deep, guttural choking sound escaping his lips. His fingers curled into tight, unnatural claws, his veins bulging beneath his sweat-drenched skin.
The embryo was ready.
Osman's expression remained unreadable, but his voice cut through the rising tension.
"Activate the coolant system."
TIA and MIA moved instantly, their fingers gliding over the controls.
The hissing sound of coolant vents engaged, preparing to release an intermittent stream of sub-zero mist.
Osman's gaze lingered on Lancashire for a moment longer, then he turned sharply, striding out of the observation chamber. The automated doors slid shut behind him as he stepped into the control room, where an expansive holographic display projected Lancashire's vitals, internal scans, and the containment feed in real time.
He positioned himself at the main console, watching through the reinforced glass as the final moments played out.
The First Scream
Inside the chamber, Lancashire's back arched violently, his mouth opening in a final, silent cry of agony—
And then—
A sickening wet crack as his ribcage split apart.
The first spray of dark, glistening blood splattered across the operating table.
A small, grotesque shape erupted from Lancashire's chest, its elongated head glistening with mucus and afterbirth. A shrill, piercing screech echoed through the chamber as the newborn Chestburster wriggled free, its tiny claws flexing, already seeking movement.
The coolant system engaged immediately—a burst of freezing mist flooded the chamber, causing the creature to recoil violently.
"Continue coolant discharge in ten-second intervals." Osman's voice remained calm over the intercom.
The Chestburster hissed, its slick, serpentine body thrashing against the sudden cold. Each new burst of coolant slowed its frantic movements, forcing it into a semi-paralyzed state.
As soon as the creature's movements dulled, a containment field activated, sealing the newborn inside a transparent energy barrier.
An Unnatural Stillness
Osman stepped closer to the control panel, his cold eyes locked onto the live feed of the containment unit.
Inside, the Chestburster lay eerily still, its long, pale exoskeleton gleaming under the chamber lights.
But it wasn't mindless.
Unlike most newborn Xenomorphs, which instinctively lashed out in blind, animalistic aggression, this one simply watched.
Its tiny, dark form locked onto the camera.
Intelligent. Aware.
For the first time, Osman felt something stir in his chest—not fear, not apprehension… but intrigue.
"The first in over a century…" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
It was beautiful.
Not in any conventional sense, of course. To anyone else, it was a nightmarish aberration, a creature meant to be feared. But to Osman, it was a masterpiece of biology—the perfect fusion of human and Xenomorph traits.
And it was only the beginning.
Behind him, MIA and TIA observed silently as a containment team entered the chamber. A researcher, flanked by two additional synthetics in reinforced containment suits, approached Osman, waiting for instructions.
One of them hesitated before speaking. "Dr. Osman… what do you want us to do with this one?"
Osman's gaze never left the Chestburster, its serpentine tail coiling slightly, its small claws twitching as it continued to study its surroundings.
Finally, Osman answered.
"Keep it in the lower levels of the facility. It is the first—and thus, it must be kept." His tone was absolute. I will observe it later and decide what to do with it later on. I have more important things to focus on right now."
The researcher nodded and walked out of the room.
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 8: The First Clone—A Failure)
Preparation for the Next Phase
Dr. Nathaniel Osman stood in the observation room, gazing at the lifeless remains of Sergeant Major Joshua Lancashire strapped to the operating table. His body, though still and silent, was no longer truly human—Xenomorph DNA had already begun to integrate into his cellular structure.
Osman took a breath, his expression unreadable. There was still use for him.
He turned toward the intercom, pressing a button. "Remove the body. Place it in cryogenic storage." His tone was firm, final. "We may need to utilize it again."
Two personnel in protective suits entered, detaching the straps and carefully placing Lancashire's motionless form onto a hovering stretcher before wheeling it away. The door sealed shut behind them.
Without another word, Osman strode toward the exit, his two synthetics following closely behind.
They moved through the facility's sterile, dimly lit corridors, the faint hum of machinery the only sound accompanying their steps. They descended deeper into the structure, past reinforced bulkheads and security checkpoints, until they reached their destination:
The cloning laboratory.
The moment Osman stepped inside, the environment shifted.
A Laboratory of Creation
The lab was bathed in dim red lighting, casting eerie shadows across the cold, sterile surfaces. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and recycled oxygen. Rows of cloning pods lined the chamber, humming softly as they awaited their first test.
At the center of the room, a single containment tube stood empty.
Osman stepped toward the control panel, his gloved hands moving with surgical precision as he keyed in a sequence. A mechanical hiss followed, and a small canister slid into view from a secured compartment.
Inside was the first sample.
A small, pulsing biological mass suspended in a gel-like fluid—the raw material for the next stage of his work.
Without hesitation, Osman placed the sample into the chamber.
"Begin the sequence," he commanded.
Anomalous Growth
Within moments, the containment pod came to life.
The liquid inside the chamber began to swirl, biochemical stimulants saturating the organic matter. The sample twitched, then expanded—rapidly.
Osman's brow furrowed.
TIA's eyes flickered as she analyzed the readings.
"This exceeds standard maturation speeds."
MIA's expression remained neutral, though her voice carried a hint of unease. "Neural scans show erratic activity. The brain is forming abnormally."
Osman studied the data projected in front of him.
The hybrid's nervous system was overactive, its cells dividing at an uncontrolled rate. It was as though its body couldn't decide what it was becoming.
Then—
A violent shudder rippled through the cloning pod.
The embryonic form inside twitched, its half-formed limbs spasming. Its skeletal structure had not yet solidified, and yet it was already attempting movement.
The lab filled with the sound of wet, stretching flesh.
The red lights flickered.
A warning alarm blared.
MIA's voice was quiet, almost regretful. "It's destabilizing."
The hybrid convulsed violently, its form mutating uncontrollably—muscles bulging in unnatural proportions, its ribcage splitting apart before it could even take a breath.
The entire mass collapsed inward, dissolving into a thick, unrecognizable biological sludge.
The pod's internal sterilization system activated, reducing the remains to nothing but inert residue.
Osman did not react.
He simply observed.
Chapter 1: The Offer
(Part 9: The Threshold is Crossed)
The Silence After Failure
Dr. Nathaniel Osman stood motionless in the dimly lit laboratory, his eyes locked onto the sterilized cloning pod where his first experiment had collapsed into failure.
The lab was silent now. The only sound was the soft hum of machines, waiting for their next command.
His heart pounded—not in frustration, but in anticipation.
He was closer than ever.
Osman's fingers tapped against the control panel, bringing up holographic overlays of genetic readouts. He swept through the data, his gaze sharp, dissecting every anomaly, every deviation from what was expected.
The Queen that laid the egg—she was different. That difference had altered the DNA in ways he had yet to fully understand.
And that meant… the answer was already within his grasp.
Lessons from the Past
Osman pulled up the USM Auriga archives, filtering through century-old logs detailing the first Ripley clones.
Clones 1 through 7, each a grotesque experiment in trial and error. Each a failure… until the last.
He studied the genetic variations, analyzing the slight shifts in sequencing, the micro-adjustments that had led to the creation of Ripley 8—the first true hybrid.
He memorized every detail. Every failed calculation. Every breakthrough.
"Download these records into your memory banks," he ordered.
The two synthetics obeyed.
TIA's icy blue eyes flickered. "Processing. Data integration complete."
MIA followed. "Records stored. We now have access to all variations attempted in the past."
Osman nodded, his mind already forming the next step.
A New Perspective
The synthetics turned to face him.
TIA spoke first, blunt as always. "Perhaps the balance between Xenomorph and human DNA requires further refinement. The first attempt may have overcompensated in one direction."
MIA's voice was more measured, considering both scientific and psychological factors. "If we adjust the ratio, we may find a more stable equilibrium between intelligence and instinct."
Osman's jaw tightened. He gestured toward the holographic projection of Ripley 8's genetic structure.
"A century ago, they had no such options," he countered. "And yet they still managed to create Ripley 8—with primitive technology compared to what we have now."
He turned toward the cloning pod, his gaze unwavering.
"If they could do it then, we can do it sooner."
Unlocking the Queen's Secret
Everything pointed back to the Queen's DNA.
There was something buried deep within her genetic structure, something that twisted the normal rules of hybridization.
If he could decode it, then he could control it.
And control meant perfection.
Osman exhaled slowly.
"Initiate the second cloning attempt."
A New Beginning
The cloning chamber hissed as a new embryo was lowered into the containment pod.
The machines came to life, the liquid inside shimmering as the biological mass began to form.
Osman watched, unmoving.
Then—
A twitch.
A sudden pulse of movement beneath the translucent fluid.
The embryo shifted.
And then… its eyes snapped open.
Unnatural green eyes.
Osman's lips parted slightly, his breath steady, controlled.
A slow, satisfied murmur escaped him.
"This is only the beginning."
End of Chapter 1