Michael considered himself a somewhat patient person, but what little patience he had stored up over the years was quickly dwindling. The old bat was hiding something—he couldn't figure out what.
He moved from his spot near the fireplace to examine the photos lined up on the mantle. Most of them featured the old woman—Maggie, was it?—alongside another figure whose features were mostly obscured. Michael clenched his teeth. The clearest one was the only thing even remotely useful. Both the old hag and the person beside her were bundled in thick snow gear, only their eyes visible.
The harpy was saying something to Alexander—at least, that was what he assumed. His focus didn't register the words, not until he heard the heavy footfalls approaching.
His instincts screamed.
He turned.
And everything snapped into focus.
Something—someone—massive stood in the doorway. It was not the scrawny scientist he had been charged with babysitting. This figure was easily over seven feet tall, its presence overwhelming the small room. Blood streaked its clothing. Michael's pulse hammered.
The old bitch had been living with the damned alien.
His gun was in his hands before he had fully registered the movement. The barrel trained on the thing's center mass, finger tightening on the trigger.
"Put the scientist down," he ordered his voice deadly calm.
The creature blinked at him, tilting its head slightly as if only noticing him for the first time. Its eyes—golden, piercing—flickered between him and the unconscious man in its arms.
Then the sharp, distinct click of a shotgun being cocked filled the silence.
Michael's eyes flickered toward the source.
Maggie was standing firm, the barrel of her old shotgun leveled squarely at his chest. "You best be careful with where you're pointing that thing, son."
Flashback – Weyland-Yutani Research Facility, Four Years Ago
Michael stood outside the reinforced glass, staring into the containment cell. The thing inside watched him back, unmoving, studying him. A towering mass of muscle covered in mottled green and brown skin, its yellow eyes glowed with eerie intelligence. It was humanoid—barely—but its mandibles flexed, revealing sharp, tusk-like fangs.
It was the first time Michael had seen one alive.
"This is Subject Zero," came the smooth, clinical voice behind him.
Michael turned slightly, regarding Dr. Evelyn Penn as she stepped beside him. She wore the standard Weyland-Yutani lab coat, but there was something… off about her. Her smile was too sharp, her gaze too calculating.
"You know," she mused, tapping her long, perfectly manicured fingers against the data pad in her hands, "you're lucky, Agent James. Most of your kind only see these things when they're carving them open. You get to see it breathe."
Michael's jaw tightened. "And why am I here exactly?"
Dr. Penn finally looked up from her notes. Her smile widened just a fraction, but there was no warmth behind it. "Because we need to understand it. You have experience in the field. We want your insights."
Michael's gaze returned to the creature, watching the way it crouched, muscles coiled. He'd seen plenty of things die before. But this one… he wasn't so sure it feared death.
He exhaled sharply. "It's a predator. A soldier. It doesn't just kill—it hunts." His voice was flat, professional. "You're keeping it alive, but it's not a test subject to it. It's studying you just as much as you're studying it."
Dr. Penn chuckled softly. "Oh, I certainly hope so."
Michael turned his head sharply, frowning. "Excuse me?"
Her gaze lingered on the glass, a look of pure fascination gleaming in her eyes. "Do you know what separates us from the beasts, Agent James?" She barely waited for an answer. "We learn. We evolve. And when we find something better, stronger… we take what we can from it."
Michael's stomach twisted. There was something unsettling about the way she said better and stronger.
The Predator inside the cage let out a deep, rumbling growl. Its eyes locked onto Dr. Penn as though it understood her words. She smiled at it, pressing a single finger against the glass in a mockery of affection.
Michael took a slow step back. Psychotic.
Present
Michael's mind worked quickly, years of training snapping into place. He had found his target. After three years, the search was over. Angel was the alien.
Slowly, keeping one hand steady on his gun, he reached into his pocket and pressed a small device embedded in his jacket cuff. A silent distress signal was sent out. Within minutes, his backup would be here. It was only a matter of stalling until they arrived.
"I don't think you understand what you're protecting," Michael said coldly, keeping his gun leveled.
"Oh, I understand perfectly," Maggie replied. "What I don't understand is why you think you're walking out of here in one piece."
Angel, still holding the scientist, let out a slow exhale. "Alright, this is getting dramatic. Can someone explain why I'm suddenly the bad guy?"
Before anyone could respond, the air outside erupted with the sound of helicopter blades. Then, the sharp crack of gunfire.
Michael barely had time to react before the windows exploded inward, gunmen in black tactical gear pouring into the room.
Chaos erupted.
Maggie fired first, the boom of her shotgun deafening in the small space. One of Michael's men dropped. But they weren't here to negotiate—they returned fire instantly.
Angel moved before anyone else. Faster than she had any right to be. In one swift motion, she dropped Alexander onto the couch—where he immediately scrambled to the ground, pressing himself against the floor. His scientific mind overpowered his fear, forcing him to analyze rather than panic.
From his position, he observed everything. The speed at which Angel moved—far beyond human reflexes. The way she instinctively dodged incoming fire, her balance perfect, as if predicting each shot. Her muscles flexed unnaturally beneath her skin, a sign of something beyond normal human physiology. His brain screamed at him to take notes, but all he had was his memory.
One of the soldiers aimed directly at her, but she twisted mid-air, a shot grazing her ribs instead of hitting vital organs. She landed on her feet like a cat, barely fazed. That was when Alexander noticed something else—she wasn't just reacting. She was learning. Each attack she dodged was a calculated improvement over the last.
He swallowed hard. This wasn't just some mutation or genetic anomaly. She was something else entirely. Something that adapts.
Maggie fired again. And again. The old woman had the precision of someone who had spent her life behind a gun. But there were too many.
A bullet slammed into her shoulder.
She gasped, stumbling back, dropping the shotgun as blood bloomed across her sleeve.
"MAMA!" Angel's roar shook the room, but before she could get to her, another shot rang out.
Angel's world went white-hot with pain. Something hit her hard, sending her crashing onto the wooden floor. She barely registered the fact that she had been shot.
Michael watched, chest rising and falling rapidly, as his team closed in.
Alexander, still pressed against the floor, clenched his fists. He should be running. He should be terrified. But instead, his mind buzzed with realization.
The government wasn't just after Angel.
They wanted to study her.
Angel tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy. She turned her head—just enough to see her mother collapse beside her, blood pooling beneath her frail form.
Her vision blurred.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was her mother's still, unmoving hand reaching for hers.