Chrysalis by Katja

"No...!" the blond-haired man gasps as he jolts up from his bed, face full of sweat, hands clenched toward his chest.

Dwayne Hicks immediately glances at his breastbone area, as if he were looking for something there. He breathes hard, puffing out loud which causes his chest to move up and down very rapidly. Soon, the weary man realizes something and slowly tries to keep a steady rhythm. He takes a deep swallow and looks through his surroundings very carefully, rapidly looking left to right, in the corners of the room, at the shadows looming about, above the ceiling, and towards the imaginary images in his head.

To Keisha, Hicks looks uncertain that his environment is safe. He's a hotwired man, looking for anything out of place. Good thing she shut off the oval monitor earlier. Likewise for that annoying computer's voice that kept repeating itself like a broken record of some sort. She can only pray that Hicks doesn't say a thing about the change of lighting.

Keisha frowns a bit when she sees him bow his head in despair, soon running a hand across his wet hair. Another one of those dreams again? Keisha feels like asking. He's been having them ever since he came here. There hasn't been a day where she's walked into this room without him sweating profusely and inhaling hard. She constantly has to monitor his condition, especially since he's still weak and, yes, frail. If not for the meds, he'd probably be screaming and hollering like a mad man. Jesus, just what the hell really happened to him out there?

"It's okay, Dwayne," Keisha smiles warmly and walks over to adjust his blanket. "Are you thirsty? I've got a bottle of water that has your name on it."

Her smile widens as she holds up the object she refers to, using the friendliest tone and face she can devise. A part of her feels heartbroken when Hicks just shakes his head, his face returning to the usual indifferent expression.

"I heard a woman's voice," he states without emotion, still bowing his head down, not looking at her.

Keisha bites on her lower lip, not wanting to acknowledge the situation that might be brewing. It's against regulation to tell patients anything. The station could blow and still she'd be required to remain silent, that's how confidential it has to be. Damn Phooka.

"It must've been me," she lies. A goofy smile forms on her lips. "Yeah. I like to... talk a lot to myself, you know?"

The blond man looks up, immediately stabbing his eyes against hers. Probing. It's obvious that he can see through her like a window, maybe even more. Those eyes... Keisha ponders. Sure, he might look young. He's, what, somewhere in his twenties? But those eyes... those are an old man's eyes that have seen a lot in their day. Who knows how much? Strangely enough, however, Hicks doesn't do a thing. He doesn't give her the rage he gave to Hikahi and Isis earlier on. He's quiet. Stone. Either he's too tired to say anything, or he already has found another weakness to her: a guilty conscience.

He finally lies back down, staring up at the ceiling but not really looking at it.

"Where are you?" Keisha finds herself asking, not understanding how this question slipped through her lips.

"I'm home. I'm where no one can touch me. I'm back with my squad before..." he stops himself, not going any further.

Squad? Keisha blinks. Squad. As in, military squad. Oh -- yes... NOW she remembers. She's heard Hikahi and Isis address their patient as Corporal several times, and yet she still managed to ignore the fact up to this day... the fact that he's a soldier. One of them. Maybe because thinking about it... would've brought back the pain... like right now. Funny how her mind could have been that selective in remembering. They didn't tell her an awful lot about her patient, but now she hears it ringing in her ears again how Isis addressed him as Corporal Hicks when she first woke him... and how mad Hikahi got with her for being so official with a man who had avoided death by the skin of his teeth. Her patient she's been caring about so much - he's a soldier. Time to finally face it.

Keisha takes a seat next to him, carefully lifting up the chair and setting it down so that it won't scrape the floor. Hikahi, after all, wants his department cleaned and nourished. Not scraped or trashed up. Otherwise, he'll probably make her clean up the entire sector like he did last time when she accidentally spilled coffee all over the medical instruments. Jerk. It wasn't her fault. First day here on the job and she was bound to have her first screw-up, right?

The room becomes silent as Keisha continues saying the word squad in her mind. A part of her grows numb just thinking of that small and simple word. Her hands shake a little. Squad. No, she demands, don't think of that word. Think of something else. Don't think of the things associated with that word. It'll make you go nuts.

Keisha inhales sharply and slowly throws back her head, gazing up at the lights on the ceiling. Whatever caused the Emergency System to activate it must be big. The blue lights are still on. The doors are still sealed. And she's pretty sure that if she left the oval monitor on, it'd still be flashing black and red. Dead.

She closes her eyes for a moment, moving uncomfortably in her seat, hugging herself with her slender arms. She tries not to think of all the images that are associated with squad but even the light blue color is depressing. The walls in the room aren't helping either. They're so plain and lifeless that the blue hue bounces off of it, bending and reflecting onto other things, overall creating the illusion that this room is an endless abyss to nowhere. It's horrible. It's just so horrible.

A guinea pig, that's how she feels right now. She's a guinea pig stuck in a maze that happens to be called a name and placed of the highest prestige. The smell of decay from this endless labyrinth is overbearing too. She can literally sniff it every time she ventures out, inhaling a sense of ugliness and inhumanity. A person can go nuts here, suffering from what some like to call cabin fever. Lord, she hopes these confused thoughts she has aren't its first symptoms!

Her arms hug her tighter, comforting but suffocating her all at the same time. It's strange though, Keisha ponders absently. It's strange that she feels that while everything is still in place and everyone is still the same... some kind of change has happened here. She can feel it, even have it at the tip of her tongue. She can't find a name for it. She can't pinpoint this change. And yet, it's here. Somewhere in this station, something has stirred from its slumber, waiting for its introduction. Can this be a good thing or a bad thing? She doesn't know.

The young nurse glances back at Hicks who's still observing the plain wall above his head, his eyes not even blinking. His face is still, like a river put to a halt. The river is empty and it doesn't move. It's just there. He probably feels like a guinea pig too, Keisha concludes rather sadly. In fact, his question on why Hikahi saved him has crossed her mind several times just as well. It's not like she didn't want him to be saved. If she had the same talent Hikahi has, she'd be all over the universe, healing as many people as she could. Saving them. But why? She wonders. Why go through all this trouble for just one man? Why did Hikahi agree to devote his entire attention to a man that doesn't appear any different than the men in this station? Even Isis was here, showing great (well, somewhat, great) interest in Hicks. There has to be something, some sort of link to this question.

Keisha pulls her gaze away from Hicks, trying not to think of that word squad again. She sits further into her seat and pulls her knees up, underneath her chin. It's now that she feels very lonely. Without this man beside her, a man she still hasn't figured out quite yet and who muttered that awful squad word moments ago, she'd be all alone by herself. Alone...

Alone. Keisha closes her eyes; trying hard not to remember the last time she was alone and first heard the term squad. She tries hard not to see that little black girl with matted dreadlocks, eyes as huge as a bird. A girl that was once a small version of herself. She's screaming and crying right now in her mind. Alone. Afraid. Angry. Her cheeks are puffy from all the crying and her full brown lips quiver. Mouth opened, wet. Hands covering her ears to block out the gunfire surrounding her.

Squad...

Keisha swallows hard, feeling violated as a part of a memory tries to rape her brain, consuming it with painful images and thoughts. All of them playing in slow motion. Yelling. Terror. Suffering. Loneliness. Squad.

Having enough of it, Keisha decides to open her eyes, as if to eject the movie from her mind. She knows that the memory will come to stalk her at a later time. The word too. Probably tomorrow, maybe even tonight it'll nag at her. But she can't bear to go into any of those things right now. It's just... too painful.

Opening her eyes, she expects to see everything as she left it. To her surprise, however, a change has come. The moment she opens her eyes she finds Hicks staring right back at her. His eyes revealing something in them right now. Even though his face remains hard like a stone wall, something is finally showing in those old eyes of his. The river is starting to move, even if there remains a type of resistance from the currents.

She's surprised. Did... did he see her painful expression? Did he actually catch her off guard while her mind was running amuck? Did he... actually see that little black girl with matted dreadlocks? Screaming? Terrified? Did he see her too?

Hicks shifts his attention back up to the ceiling. His face returns to its usual, flat posture. He blinks indifferently. Keisha finds herself almost smiling, despite this odd behavior. Keisha smiles because she realizes that she, too, caught him off guard. She almost saw a concerned human being behind those old eyes. Could it be all a show then? Could there be a living, breathing man behind this rock?

The doors remain locked. The lights remain blue. And somewhere in this station, a sense of horror is happening. And yet, it doesn't matter to her anymore. A change is coming. Even though she can't quite name it... it's here. With her.

Suddenly, Keisha doesn't feel so scared anymore.

"That's a pretty mean cappuccino you've got here. Another high-tech secret of your auto-chef, or is it just a special blend?" Rosselli looks up from his steaming porcelain cup, eyebrows raised in appreciation. I can tell he's still in a good mood, despite the meeting lasting for three hours already without an end in sight. His female partner, Fiona Vox, who's sitting to his right side at the table, cradling her round stomach, shows the strain of the high-intensity conference more clearly. She's looking pale, with a touch of gray, and her enervated frown at each question she doesn't deem absolutely necessary is a hint for us to step on it and not drag each subject on to eternity. Man, she's annoying! If she doesn't feel so hot, why is she here?

"It's a homegrown blend from our gardens," I answer the executive's question with a smile. What did Darwin say? Flirt with him? Keep him happy? Keep him from asking unwelcome questions? I can do that. After all, he's a not too bad-looking man: Somewhere in his 40's, dark hair with some dignified gray in-between and the classic features of a Roman statue. The dark, expensive suit compliments his trim body. He's also radiating the power he possesses without crossing the border into arrogance. Definitely interesting... but there's this bitchy partner of his, who also happens to be his fiancée... and very obviously pregnant, who's preventing me from intensifying this flirt. "The trees are imports from Brazil, Earth, genetically enhanced to make them grow faster and intensify the beans' flavor. And our processing methods are pretty unusual, too, and add to the flavor as well." My grin broadens together with Rosselli's. "I could tell you about it, but I'd have to kill you afterwards. It's the station's biggest secret."

"I bet!" he smirks and takes another swig.

"Just enjoy it while you're here, 'cause you won't get a better cappuccino in the whole wide universe."

He licks the cream off his lips and exchanges a glance with his pissy partner. I'm amused. Is she actually jealous?

"I'd sign that any time!" Swallowing, he adds: "I'm seriously thinking there's some money in this for the company. We should open Weyland Yutani coffee-shops galaxy-wide. We'd blast Starbuck's asses out of the water sky-high with this!"

"A coffee shop, huh?" I laugh. "Weyland Yutani -- Building better worlds... and serving you the coffee of a lifetime. How's that?" He points his spoon at me, nodding.

"We'll do this, Isis! I'll be knocking at your door when the day comes. Remember my words!" Seeing Darwin return from the break she asked for fifteen minutes ago, he sighs. It's time for business again. I give him an approving smirk and return to my seat at the end of the long conference table to see my boss enter, Kurtz in her wake. Did they talk about last night? I know she was in his office prior to this meeting, but I can't tell for how long. Their faces don't tell me anything as they're making their way to their seats again. I observe my alter ego for a moment longer, still astonished she's looking like she does -- highly awake and concentrated, her high-powered brain as capable as ever -- despite last night. I guess she's helped it a bit with a little eye-opening cocktail of her own device straight into the vein, but still... there are no dark circles under her eyes, nothing indicates she just spent a night without sleep, faced the gruesome death of three people and got almost chopped up herself -- both in the true sense of the word and later by Kurtz. Quite remarkable, really. Is she just pretending it doesn't bother her, or doesn't she care at all? Even to my almost infinite processing capabilities, she remains a mystery.

Getting the alien back into its cage was ... complicated, to say the least. Darwin had been frightened for the first time since I've known her, which resulted in her constantly giving me good advice and orders for each step of the way, until I found myself being more distracted by her voice -- as I couldn't very well completely ignore her as I do with people of lesser power -- than any other disturbance we encountered on our way to the Ivory Tower. To say we were happy when the creature was back in its stasis-protected hive would be the understatement of the year. I left Darwin in her office to ponder over her strategy with Kurtz to get some rest for the remaining three hours of the night... I was surprised to find I needed it. The day had been turbulent and hectic from the minute I had started in the morning. So I went home through the deserted corridors -- and couldn't resist plugging into Phooka's system once more to get my message out to Rogue. The opportunity had been too good to let it pass. And when I finally got home... I found Alexander waiting for me. Or ... not really. He was there, yes, but not waiting for me. His blood-shot eyes told me he was still on the retina-drug, and even if I hadn't seen them, his strange behavior was unmistakable. I remembered once again that Darwin told me to quit on him... but after that day, I just didn't have the energy left in me and just sank onto my side of the bed to stare at the ceiling and go on mental stand-by for 180 minutes.

"-t you're going to do with them?" Rosselli's voice wakes me from my unpleasant memories. He has both hands closed around his coffee-mug and looks at Darwin with an eager anticipation I can't help but feel uneasy about given the nightly events. "I mean, you showed us the photos, the videoclips... it's all looking as interesting as Carter Burke promised, but do you already know how you are going to proceed? What's your purpose with this project? We're talking BioWeapons here, aren't we?"

Darwin stands behind her chair with both hands on the back-rest and looks down on the mighty executive with the cool, professional look I'm familiar with.

"Yes, that's one of the options we're going to explore."

"One? What's the other?"

"The creature, as you have seen from the footage, seems to possess amazing regenerative powers," Kurtz replies, taking the words out of his young protégé's mouth. After all, this is going to be his part of the project. He should be the one who knows the most about it. "We cut them up, they bleed for a few seconds -- and the cut will heal completely and without a trace within a minute at the most. We are planning on exploring just how far-reaching this potential is. The way it looks, we could very well be standing in front of an omnipotent cure for most known diseases like cancer... Parkinson... Collani's Syndrome... the Arcturian Fever...you name it."

I understand Kurtz's uncharacteristic excitement. After all, it's a well-known secret here on Phooka that he lost his entire family to Collani's syndrome, a deadly bone disease that plagues the population of his homeworld Antarius. But there are skeptical lines on Vox's brow.

"A cure for diseases as diverse as cancer and Arcturian Fever?"

"It's very possible. We're really just standing at the beginning of our research. As soon as we have a way of disabling the molecular acid the creatures have for blood, we'll be able to conduct extensive genetic research."

"Which-" Darwin injects, turning on her heel and strutting down the room in front of the screen, "- is also going to be one of our approaches for the BioWeapons project." Coming to a halt next to her female counterpart, she clears her throat and stabs her light-blue eyes against Vox's. "The first one will be the behavioral approach.-"

"Meaning?"

"We'll be working with the creatures and explore their capacity to be trained for military purposes."

The company representative utters a sarcastic laugh.

"You mean, you say "Bite!" -- and they'll take off like guard dogs?"

Darwin remains calm.

"Essentially, yes. Of course we can already say with absolute clarity that the creature's capabilities are much greater than those of dogs. They've already shown substantial intelligence in many tests, and if I may remind you of the footage from the Sulaco's data-base, they've also shown remarkable skills with regards to strategic thinking. They are able to go through metal walls, they are just as adapted to water as to land, they are more cunning than any known predator... and their shape alone should be enough to put the fear of God into any potential enemy. Not to mention their relentless determination towards their prey."

Rosselli places his elbows onto the table and rests his chin on his hands, brown eyes keenly observing the young genius.

"What do you mean by substantial intelligence? Like a dog? Human? Or...?" He lets the question stand in the room. Darwin folds her hands.

"No, Mr. Rosselli. Comparing them to dogs would be an insult. I'd say that we are dealing with an intelligence of at least -- at least -- chimpanzee proportions here." She sees him inhale and looks satisfied. After all, she herself is not one to get all excited that easily. She wants Rosselli to understand what we might have in our hands here. "Right now, we are standing on the verge of starting a series of extensive genetic experiments with a number of specifically chosen test persons, each one offering a variety of vastly different character traits and bodily preferences. The only remaining obstacle so far is that we have yet to find a means of extracting their DNA without our instruments dissolving in their blood. We are on a good way towards solving this problem though, and the testing of the newly developed equipment will take place in the next few days, probably within the next week. I am very optimistic it will pass -- and then we will get started on our main project."

"Just one question..." The executive has folded his hands on the table and presses his thumbs together, not looking at the scientist.

"Yes?"

"How do you intend to keep the xenomorphs in check once you dumped them onto some unsuspecting enemy troops? Even provided you can train them so far that you feel comfortable using them... you know, there are even accidents with circus lions and tigers, or dogs, animals which have been trained for entertainment and work for hundreds of years. Say they follow your orders to the point where you let them loose against the enemy... and they escape. How are you going to deal with them? What is your backup in that case? You can't very well run the risk of endangering the entire planet with a plague of these things."

"You are perfectly right." She remains calm. "I actually thought of that. We are planning to build a genetic weakness into them. Make them dependent on an enzyme, hormone, or whatever it is they need to live. We are going to define it as soon as we've got the equipment for it. Their bodies will then be programmed to not be able to produce the substance by itself. They will depend on us to supply it to them, and if they decide to run from us, they are going to die within, let's say, a time span of 48 hours." She props her hands against her hips and waits for Rosselli's approving nod, before she turns her back on us again and lifts her eyes towards the plasma screen, which now shows a picture of Raven staring indifferently into the camera. I turn my head slightly to watch for reactions on the two executives' faces. Have they heard of the killer? Even if not -- the psycho's image should be enough to provoke a reaction -- all his cruelty and brutality is plainly visible on his face as he gives the camera a derogatory smirk now. The two remain calm, but I see Rosselli slightly lift one eyebrow, seemingly impressed by the mountain of muscle.

"Again we are following two different paths with our genetic program. The test person you're seeing here was selected for his impressive physique and natural aggressiveness. He is a convicted serial killer with the reputation of being a beast in a human body and a record of 123 confirmed murders, possibly more. He already is able to literally go through walls. Our psychological evaluation detected a total lack of morals, ethics or any capacity for compassion or regret. The interesting thing is that -- while his behavior would lead the observer to the conclusion that the person must be a schizophrenic -- he doesn't appear to suffer from any mental disease at all. Quite possibly we are dealing with a man here who is as normal as you or I -- except that his hobby -- or rather sport -- is to kill people. His record reveals that while there had been a few women among his victims, he has a distinct preference for strong, capable men in their prime. You probably heard of Collin Jefferson, the star of Modern Gladiators..."

Rosselli straightens in his seat.

"Indeed. The case had been covered by the media throughout the Northern Territories! I --" His eyes grow large in understanding. "You mean..." a short nod towards the image on the screen "that guy killed him? Damn! I've seen him fight myself! That man was invincible! A mountain!" He stares at Raven, incredulous. "Wow! How did you get a hold of him?" His partner doesn't look as enthusiastic as she grabs his hand now.

"He sat in a death cell on Beringh II and was awaiting his execution. We just played a few cards right and bought him out."

The woman at Rosselli's side narrows her eyes.

"And what exactly are you planning to do with him? You say you'll use him for genetic tests. How? What are you aiming at with him?"

Darwin folds her arms and glances up at Raven's now frozen image.

"He is supposed to be the design for a human warrior who can be dropped into hostile territory and decimate the enemy with a combination of human wits and animal ferocity. We don't aim at making him controllable, since the object of any such mission will most likely be terminated by the enemy sooner or later anyway. I'd define him as a human bomb. If we are successful with this, it would open a path for us to bring convicted and sentenced murderers to good use for the community instead of simply disposing of them."

'Wow!', I think, outwardly keeping a straight face. My CPU tells me that Darwin must be one of the most unethical people in the entire civilized universe. They'd burn her for this line of reasoning back on Mother Earth! I'm curious to hear the couple's reaction to that and don't have to wait another second for it. Santiago Rosselli's handsome face is wearing an expression of amused disbelief as he leans forward onto the table.

"This is about the most radical suggestion I've ever heard, I believe!"

"Yeah, well..." Darwin shrugs, unfazed, "- isn't this why we built this station? To have a place where we could follow those radical suggestions without having to worry about the desk-jockeys and bureaucrats back home? I was under the impression that we're all here to find new ways of approaching things." Her opposite raises his hands defensively.

"Wait! Stop! I didn't say that was a bad thing, did I?" They stare at each other, and the hard expression in my bosses eyes melts to an amused spark.

"No. You didn't."

"See?" Rosselli leans back and folds his well-manicured hands in the lap of his expensive designer-suit comfortably. His partner doesn't say anything, nor does her facial expression tell me what she's thinking. She rather appears to be ... bored, actually. She's not even looking at us, but at her watch. "So, he's going to become a human bomb. I'm already feeling sorry for the poor guys who'll meet him. Interesting idea. The governments spent millions on accommodating this kind of human scum. It's about time they started giving us something back for that money!" He grins. "I like it. What else?"

Darwin raises the hand with the remote and clicks Raven away... to replace him with an archive photo of our Marine corporal. I remember it's from the USCM database and therefore downloaded it myself -- but still I find myself looking in surprise at the image. The man on the picture doesn't seem to have a lot in common with the man we are nurturing back to health down in Sickbay. The man on the picture has an intense, questioning glance that seems to virtually pierce the screen. He looks capable, self-confident and like the elite soldier he is. Even though he's nowhere near as muscular as Raven, his broad shoulders and what can be seen of his upper arms and chest looks impressive enough... and stands in sharp contrast to the skinny, emaciated patient with the hollow, old eyes he is now. His hair is short and neatly cropped in the fashion of the USCM instead of unusually long and unkempt as it is now, and he is not wearing a beard. From the looks of it, he must have been grounded at Hadley's Hope for quite some time. For the first time I find myself wondering what happened to him and his squad on Acheron... apart from the aliens. How come he's the only survivor... except for the girl? Was he smarter? Stronger? Faster? Or did he simply have more luck than his dead brothers in arms? If you can call it luck... after having heard Darwin's plan for Raven, I'm sure the one for him won't be much nicer.

"Our second test object is a former corporal with the USCM. He-"

"A former corporal?" It's again Rosselli who injects that question. "Meaning what? He left them and applied here for an update? To become one of your human bombs?"

"Hardly." Vox graces us with her attention for a brief moment to treat us to her sarcastic reply. Darwin nods at her skepticism.

"Let's say we... found him."

"Found him!" The company representative grins, incredulous. "Flying through space, waiting to get a lift to New Brisbane? Without his squad? I was under the impression that Colonial Marines go nowhere without their-"

"Are the circumstances of his ending up here important to you or would you rather like to hear about his place in our project?" Darwin's patience with Rosselli's playfulness just ended. I hope she doesn't cross the border and annoy him, because -- even though the Elyseeum-born Weyland Yutani chairman has been in a good mood the entire morning -- he has a reputation of being just as cold and ruthless as his young opposite. He must be, or he wouldn't have climbed up to the position he's holding now. In fact, the good-natured smile that's been sitting on his face up to now seems to crack a little, and there's definitely a warning spark in his brown eyes. He knows about Darwin's untouchable status, at the same time telling her without words he won't tolerate everything from her. And his fiancée looks even more furious. How dare that blonde bitch address her mighty man like that?

"And what is his place in the project?" Rosselli inquires in a crisp tone. He's annoyed alright. But also pro enough to let her go on and not make a fuss... at least not yet. And my boss appears to have received his message, since she continues with a calmer voice, somehow acknowledging her screw-up by that. It's as close as she'll ever come to actually saying sorry.

"The thing we want to accomplish with the corporal's help is a different one than the concept of a human bomb. In contrast to the criminals we will be using for this part of the project, we are aware that the training and education of special forces soldiers is a costly and time-consuming enterprise, and it is desirable that the recipient should be able to make use of his skills repeatedly and not just once. So while the criminals will be developed as the ultimate assassin, the military branch of our research will be to create the ultimate soldier."

Rosselli leans back again, folding his hands. He looks fascinated.

"We don't know yet what kind of special skills -- except for their agility and ferocity and fast regenerative powers -- the aliens possess, but since they don't have any visible eyes, ears or nose, we think it is safe to assume that they see their environment through a completely different set of senses than we do. The large head for example could be pointing towards something like the dolphin sonar system, but as this would all be nothing but speculation at this point, I don't want to waste your time reciting all of our assumptions now. Just imagine this: A super-soldier who would be able to navigate even in complete darkness or mist, able to scan his surroundings by sonar and infrared vision and detect an ambush by the electrical emissions of the weapons or pheromones of the waiting hostile soldiers. A soldier who would be virtually impossible to bring down in hand-to-hand combat, whose agility, strength and reflexes would be maybe 100 times faster than those of his opponents and who would be able to heal up within a minute whenever a shot actually found him, but with a human mind controlling all this power. A soldier, who would be able to communicate with his squad by means virtually impossible to detect by the enemy, safer than any code a computer or human could come up with." She makes a dramatic pause to let it sink in and raises her chin, looking down on the fascinated executive. "Do you see it?"

"Very clearly," he agrees, obviously intrigued by the idea, which Darwin takes as an invitation to go on. Turning her back on us again, she looks up to the picture of Dwayne Hicks, whose questioning stare appears to dare her to go on.

"The soldier we have in our hands seems to be ideal for the project for the following reasons: His record credits him with a reputation of being extremely calm and premeditated under fire. He is much-respected by his team members and has a good understanding of strategy and unnaturally acute instincts which -- if we take the official reports at face value -- enabled him and his squad to come out of some rather precarious situations unscathed -- his survival as the only member of his team can be counted as proof of that. According to his squad leader he is definite future leadership material." She turns around again. "I would say this makes him a wonderful candidate for our genetic update. With his calm and rational mind, he should be able to handle everything which will accompany the change. Yes?" Rosselli has lifted his hand, as if he were in school.

"This all sounds very fascinating, Miss Darwin, even if it raises more questions than I could ask right now. I'm just wondering... will the man know about the experiment? Or are you going to use him as a lab rat? Strap him down, inject him with the stuff... and monitor the outcome? And if you do -- don't you think he might get a tad uncooperative when he realizes what's happening to him? He could get dangerous."

"We intend to make him dangerous, Mr. Rosselli," Darwin states plainly. "We also intend to make him controllable. And we do have our own subtle little ways of assuring us of his cooperation, don't worry." Another brief pause. At last, she pulls her chair back to join us at the conference table. "The main problem right now is that we will first have to build him up again. His condition when we found him was rather critical, and he has lost most of his strength. We are gradually nurturing him back to health right now, but even optimistically estimated, he won't be ready for Perfect Soldier until eight to ten weeks from now. Which won't pose a problem since we are not in a hurry. Are we?"

"Of course not." Rosselli musters the picture for a few moments longer, before he turns his attention back to his partner, who is definitely looking gray now. "Fiona? You're not looking too good, if I may say so."

"I'm not feeling too good," she says, cradling her round stomach. "I'd like to get back to our room now. I mean, we are done here anyway, aren't we?"

"Yes, I believe we are," her future trophy husband states, satisfied. His gaze finds Kurtz', mine, and then wanders to our female genius to see whether he's indeed right, getting the approving nod he's waiting for. I can tell Darwin would be glad if this would indeed be it. So far she's managed to steer away from any potentially dangerous questions that would force her to lie about last night's events. Thank God for pregnancy nausea, huh? I'm wondering though why she didn't mention the girl. After all, she's a piece of our genetic engineering puzzle, too. But okay, since she doesn't do anything without a reason, there must be one for her keeping the lid on this little piece of information, too.

We all get up, and Kurtz, ever the responsible and hospitable host, asks whether there is anything he can do for our prized guests. They leave the conference room ahead of us, while Darwin's still busy -- or pretends to be busy -- collecting her files and turning off the multimedia show we put on for them.

"Miss Darwin?" Rosselli's stopped and looks back at us questioningly. "We're going to leave again this afternoon. Are we going to see you before that?"

"Sure," she replies. "I will be at the dock. See that you get some rest until then."

"Okay... we'll see you then." They follow Kurtz through Phooka's labyrinth of corridors and leave us alone. My boss pauses and looks up from the pile of files she's collected from around the table, exhaling deeply. Her eyes find me, and I see relief in them. So she has been worrying. "That went rather well, Isis, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yup," I do. "He was quite the happy camper today, wasn't he? Must have been the cappuccino."

"You didn't spike it, did you?" she grins.

"It doesn't need spiking. It's perfect. And I gave it my best try to follow your orders and wrap him a bit around our fingers." Her facial expression grows solemn, and I ask myself whether I said something wrong.

"Yeah... you were quite good at it..." Her gaze seems to go right through me for a long, uncomfortable moment where I don't know what she's thinking of. Then a slight smile starts spreading over her small lips, and I can tell another one of her marvelous ideas has hit when she wakes from her thoughtfulness to acknowledge my presence again. "You know, we could put this to good use..."

"Put what to good use?" I ask, alarmed. "I'm not going to be Phooka's official flirting machine from now on." Amazingly enough, she laughs.

"What a shame! Rosselli was practically drooling all over you!" I start to object, but she won't have it. "No, no... know what we do?"

"Regarding what?" I sit my behind down on the table.

"Our wonderful, priceless Marine Corporal..." she nods into the general direction of the plasma screen. "Rosselli's right: He'll hate our guts as soon as we get started on him. Maybe even earlier given your reports. He's equating us with Carter Burke. Burke screwed him and his squad, and since we're also company representatives, he expects us to screw him as well. Which we'll do... It will be hard getting his cooperation... We can probably do without it to a certain degree, inject him with the stuff and the likes, but to fully know what's going on in him -- apart from what the PDT will show -- we need for him to tell us."

"And so we do what?" I still can't see where she's going with this. The cryptic smile's back on her lips as she looks at me with renewed interest.

"We'll build you up as his confidante."

"Excuse me?" My tone should tell her I'm not amused, but she's excited now, and I know whatever I'm going to bring up against her idea, she won't care. Things always go her way, period. Her smile broadens into a full-fledged grin as she grows increasingly more excited with what her one-of-a-kind-mind has come up with.

"Human's are simple, Isis," she starts pitching her idea to me. "They have certain ... needs... that need to be fulfilled, especially people who have been in tough situations... like our Corporal. He's the sole survivor of his squad. He's feeling lonely... and after what Burke did to him, he's highly suspicious of us and suspects some shit is going to happen to him."

"He got that right."

"Yes, he does. And he'll clam up and not give us anything as soon as we're starting to cause him grief... But he'll still be lonely. And he'll need to unload some of the shit, or he'll go nuts. Don't look at me like that, Isis, just believe me. Humans are like that. They need each other. They need someone to share their life with. Someone to bond with... to have a secret with, especially if they find themselves in a bad situation. And you are going to be the one he'll spill his secrets to."

"Really?" I lift my eyebrows skeptically. "I was rather under the impression he doesn't like me. How are we going to turn me into his best friend? Brainwash him?"

She has the answer ready.

"By putting you onto the same level. By making you an outcast." I can tell I'm going to love this plan...! Darwin takes my dubious silence as an invitation to go into detail. "If we start discriminating you for being just a dumb machine, we might be able to build you up as a trustworthy person for him. His file says he's been around synthetics throughout his military career and never had any problems with them. He might just take your side, simply because he can relate... and it'll make the situation easier to bear for him if he has someone to share his hatred for us... What?"

Oh, so she did notice my enthusiastic expression!

"I don't know..."

"But I do, Isis," she beams, an alien sight even to me. "I know this will work. We just have to play our roles well, and he'll swallow it hook, line and sinker."

"I'm not the most compassionate one," I'm still very dubious. "I don't know how-" She waves me off.

"Oh, come on, Isis! You are even smarter than me! Surely you must be able to grasp the concept of compassion, or at least fake it. All you need to change is tell this man how poor he his, how much you wish he'd be able to go home or were better, and how much you feel for him. Keep your tongue in check and he'd think you'd be but a little assistant instead of a super genius. Just think everybody's above you and authorized to give you orders. And that you're going to pay for it as soon as you utter a single syllable of a complaint. What's so hard to understand about that?"

"I don't like it."

At last, her smile's dropping from her face and the earnest expression she's usually wearing is back.

"You are not supposed to, Isis. This is work. It's a requirement for our project to get the results we are striving for. Your nature makes you ideal for this task. You are up to this, and you will do it. Do we have an understanding?"

For the first time since I've known her (seems there are many first times today), I'm angry at her. She's playing big boss with me. Looks as if she's already started to act on her idea. I wanted to ask her about her conversation with Kurtz prior to the meeting, but right now I don't feel like it at all. Bad timing. She's the Ice Queen now, and her glance that's mustering me is nothing but frosty as she waits for my answer. I swallow what I want to say. Nothing I could say could possibly change her mind, so I give her the curt nod she demands.

"Good." She picks up the files and prepares to leave the room. Taking a last look around, she sees the left cups on the table. "Could you please put those into the kitchen and clean the table afterwards? Thanks." She disappears, leaving me, ready to burst.

Hadley's Hope -- Day 6 -- 1700 hours

He's standing at the door to Operations, the bag in his left hand, lit cigarette in his right hand, wondering whether he should really intersperse with this. Two days ago it had felt like a good idea to him. Heck, even plausible. Lighten up the mood, rip them out of their stupor and gloomy thoughts and maybe even put a smile on their faces for a moment or two, right? Even if he didn't feel so himself. Even with Apone's dying voice playing in his head in an endless loop... or the knowledge that there's only the ridiculous amount of 10 (!) grenades separating them from the most horrible death one could envision. He lets the smoke out, slowly, seeing it trail off into the room lazily. Fact is, they need to forget about this for a while -- urgently. Or they'll all go crazy. He's doing the right thing, even though he knows they'll probably look at him at first as if he announced the aliens had issued an official report saying they all converted to vegetarianism from this day on. They're going to think the constant stress made him lose his marbles. Whatever. No pain, no gain, right? He lifts the hand with the almost burnt-down cigarette and throws it onto the floor, grinding his heel on it to put it out... and gives himself a mental kick to proceed.

Vasquez is the only one who turns her head when she hears him enter, and from the way her eyes wander down to the bag he's carrying and back to his face with a knowing smirk, he can tell she still approves of what he's trying to do here. So he plunges ahead. Go on, soldier! Make an idiot of yourself!

"Anybody check the date today?" he inquires, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. Bewildered, uninterested faces wherever he looks. "Nobody?"

"Huh? What?" Hudson barely pauses to look up from the dog-eared, stained magazine he found somewhere in the back. "Why? Is it your birthday or what? I know it ain't Independence Day -- we've already had the fireworks."

His sarcastic reply is funny enough to send a brief smile across his superior's face, a nice contrast to the earnest and concerned expression the Corporal has been carrying around for the past days.

"Yeah, it's December, right?" Hicks tilts his head to meet Vasquez' dark eyes. He's glad she's helping him out here by playing along. "Must be. Ain't easy keeping up with time when you're constantly in and out of hypersleep, but we departed at the end of November. Let's see, three weeks in deep-freeze... plus one week in this rat hole makes it... oh no... You don't mean-"

"Yup. December 25th. That's today."

"Great," Hudson grumbles, without looking up this time. "Did the aliens propose a cease-fire for the holidays or what's the big deal?"

"Hudson --" Hicks inhales deeply, and it becomes half a sigh, "as a personal favor for me on Christmas: Would you stop that motormouth of yours for a few minutes, please? You're killing my Christmas spirit, and I get cranky when that happens." They glare at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, until -- there is this twitching at the corners of his mouth suddenly, which Hicks finds impossible to ignore. It soon turns into a broad grin, which his teammate shares. "Damn Will, you're still the comedian around here, huh?"

Hudson shrugs, tongue-in-cheek, satisfied with the results of his remark.

"Hey, that's why I was assigned to this outfit, remember? I'm the Entertainment Officer." Now they're actually laughing. Hicks shakes his head to himself, still smiling and grateful for the little spark of optimism. By God, they need it!

"Okay, I agree, you're doing a pretty good job. But can I have a few secs for my announcement now without you making a joke of it?"

"Hey, suit yourself, Hicks. I just thought Christmas is such a ridiculous thing in our position, I couldn't resist."

Hicks settles down in one of the chairs and puts the big bag he has been carrying around on the ground between his feet. The faint trace of a smile is still on his lips, even though Hudson's last remark angered him. Ridiculous, huh? He's making a fool of himself here in an attempt to improve the general mood and to keep the others in good spirit. He usually isn't the guy to step out into the limelight and entertain the others, and damn Will for not sensing what he's trying to achieve here. They need something positive. They need it bad, and even if a few laughs will be all he gets in the end, it will definitely be better than to just keep everybody brooding over their sinister thoughts.

"So, it's Christmas time indeed. But don't be afraid. I won't ask anybody to sing, although I know that Vasquez here has a great voice once she decides to put aside her macha attitude and behave like a female."

"How would you know?" the Mexican smartgun operator grins. "You've never heard me sing."

"Wanna bet?" Hicks smirks cryptically... "You know how many times I felt I was completely alone, just to find out later that someone was watching my every move?"

"You mean the walls have ears?"

"They definitely do..." They smile at each other, then Hicks reaches down to the large, bulky bag, which Vasquez immediately recognizes as the one he took with him the other night. "However, if anyone feels an unstoppable urge to sing or tap-dance or recite a poem for us or whatever, I won't intervene. Anybody...?" He looks up briefly, his hands already busy opening the mysterious bag. "Okay... Then let's go on with the show. I know you're all anxious to know what I've got here, right?" His hand comes out with a small package. "With the exception of one thing, everything I got here is meant for us all. Just some small things to make life a little nicer for the next week. You'll have to forgive me for the sloppy presentation though, as I couldn't find any wrapping paper. I hope you won't hold this against me." He throws the package towards Vasquez, who catches it by reflex. A deck of cards. She grins, delighted..

"Anti-boredom-medication? Good thinking, boss. Thanks a lot."

Hicks cocks an eyebrow in appreciation and digs something new out of the bag, this time handing it over to Gorman.

"Lieutenant?"

"What is it?" Ripley asks curiously. He holds it up.

"Coffee."

"Real coffee," Hicks adds. "Not this vile stuff Weyland Yutani serves." His gaze glides over his companions and stops at Burke, who -- as usual -- doesn't let the challenge go unanswered.

"Corporal, you know full well that real coffee is a luxury we cannot afford. It's too expensive to-"

"- to be wasted on simple terraformers? Normal people? Anyone not on Weyland Yutani's list of V.I.P.s?" Hicks smiles acidly. "That's weird. I always believed the company to be filthy rich." He doesn't wait for Burke's reply to dig up two more pounds of coffee and press one of the vacuum-sealed packages into the company rep's reluctant hands. "Since you sound as if you poor Weyland Yutani executives usually live on water and dry bread alone, I'm inviting you to a real treat. Here you go. Enjoy." Ignoring the sinister glance Burke awards him with, he passes on the other package to Ripley. "And that's yours."

"Thanks..." She hesitates, but then decides to continue nevertheless. She needs to know. "Where did you find all this? It sure as hell wasn't in the perimeter."

There it is. The question he's been afraid to hear... and of course it's her who utters it. But maybe there's still a chance to get around it.

"You don't ask Santa where he gets his gifts."

"You've been outside, haven't you?" Heads turn, and all of a sudden Hicks finds himself the object of interest for six inquiring pairs of eyes. "You risked your life, just for this?" He inhales deeply and looks over to Vasquez, the only one who knows for sure. The Mexican shrugs, and he switches his attention back to Ripley. His voice grows serious, with an edge to it she can't miss.

"It wasn't the initial reason for going out. I'm not stupid, and I'm not into suicide either, even if having enlisted in the USCM might count as proof of that for some people. I had to check on the circuits in C-Block anyway since we had a malfunction on one of the cameras, and I just sort of kept my eyes open while I did that. That's all there is to it. No reason to get all excited."

But she isn't satisfied.

"Something could have happened. We cannot afford to lose our team leader."

"Oh yeah?" Hicks is rapidly getting pissed off now. No way of hiding it anymore. Who does she think she is to question him openly in front of the others? "Who then? Who can we afford to lose? Hudson? Vasquez? Or Bishop, since he's just a machine?" He realizes he's raised his voice and struggles to calm down again with a deep breath. "Listen, Ripley, I can assure you I'm very aware of my responsibilities, and I won't take unnecessary risks, but I sure as hell won't hole up in here for the next two weeks and play dead. It was my decision to leave the perimeter, and it was completely asked for. We need those monitors to work, so I got the job done." He doesn't flinch from her scrutinizing stare, but his Christmas spirit has departed for good. Wonderful. Try to improve the mood, and this is what you get! Nice going, he thinks angrily.

"Dwayne? Dwayne..."

It's a strange voice that's calling him. Strange, because it doesn't seem to belong to anyone in the room. It's unmistakably female, but neither Vasquez nor Ripley nor Newt. So who -- Somewhere in his subconscience, a switch gets turned and a reality check tells him he must be dreaming. The realization makes him wake at once and causes him to stare in profound confusion into the young, colored face of Keisha he's familiar with by now.

"Huh?" Still drowsy, his vocal cords refuse to work, and he breaks into a cough.

"Hey... easy there!" A glass enters his line of vision. "Need a drink?"

He takes it and downs the almost tasteless liquid with three quick gulps. Finally, the coughing subsides and he's able to concentrate on his visitor as she asks him: "I'm sorry for waking you, but we've got to start on making you feel better. Like, I'm sure you're sick and tired of all this stuff here hanging by your side, right?" She points at the IV-lines.

"Yeah..." So?

She lights up, even if he doesn't sound as enthusiastic as she had hoped for. His voice is as flat and lifeless as before. Inwardly sighing, she asks herself silently whether her patient will ever warm up to her. She's trying so hard to make him comfortable!

"So, what would you say if we took them out today? What does your stomach say, Dwayne? Do you feel up to trying something more solid than the stuff we've been feeding you for the past weeks? We've got to get you accustomed to eating again, you know? It's so much better than this liquid stuff!"

His face gets this stone-set look again that's telling her he doesn't appreciate her efforts of improving his mood even the least bit. It's that angry, defensive look, that come any closer and I bite! look she only knows from dogs. Sadly, she recognizes he's still seeing her as the enemy. He doesn't make any difference between Isis, Hikahi or her, probably even feels patronized by her. Well, but at least he's stretching his neck a bit in an attempt to check out the small white bowl she's got in her hand. Got to be thankful for even the smallest steps, she thinks. He's unlikely to fall into her arms in the near future.

"What is it?"

She smiles at his obvious dismay and sits down on his bed, taking a spoon and the bowl to hold it right under Hicks' nose. Its smell does nothing for his appetite. Artificial, if anything. Likewise its appearance: a creamy yellow glob that looks like molten plastic. His stomach heaves even at the sight of this.

"Protein, vitamins, minerals... it's probably the healthiest stuff you'll ever get to eat. It's also got tons of calories." She smiles at him. "You need to regain some strength, and as I am sure your stomach will take a while until it'll let you eat decent portions again, we've got to outsmart it." He's still looking appalled. "Hey, I know it looks like a glob of paint, but it actually tastes pretty good... I even brought you my favorite flavor, see?" She puts the spoon in her mouth and closes her eyes. "Mmmm... vanilla!"

He doesn't smile with her. Even if she seems innocent enough -- heck, what evil could she really have done in those 16 or 17 years of her life? -- she's Weyland Yutani staff, and he can't help but feel threatened. But still, he considers. He must start eating again if he ever wants to get out of this depressing room, even if he's still half inside that dream, or rather, his memories, and doesn't feel hungry at all. Also, it's the first time that the nausea that's been plaguing him has dissipated to an endurable level, and he's not intend on inviting it back. Truth is, right now, eating's probably the last thing on his mind - but still ... he's got to get some flesh onto his bones again, right? He hates his current weakness, hates the feeling of not being in control of his body, of how it betrays him every time he even tries to sit up, and he hates to lie around here, wasting the days and nights away feeling like a turtle some cruel child has turned onto its back. Yeah, he wants that feeling gone... even if what will happen once he's his old self again is not clear.

"I don't know..."

"Just try it," she encourages him, offering him a new spoon. "You'll like it. I'm sure. Wait a moment, I'll help you sit. Here." She puts the bowls into his hands.

Somehow, even though he's fighting it, Hicks feels just the slightest smile tug at the corners of his mouth while the young nurse bends forward to get the remote for his bed and raises the head end. He doesn't want it to show, dammit, but she's just so intend on cheering him up...! A little wooziness overcomes him as soon as he sits, and he tries to blink it away, when something on the table to his left catches his attention, a curious red glow which doesn't seem to belong here. He pauses, not sure what to think of what his eyes show him. It's surreal. Utterly confused, he tries to blink it away, too. Just what the heck is in those IV packages they gave him? He must be hallucinating! Hell, he's been in a coma for the past three weeks, he's still drugged and probably stoned for the next three weeks to come -- but still, the thing on the table stubbornly refuses to disappear, however hard he squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again: a forty centimeter tall ... illuminated...Santa Claus! A white and red assault on his taste too psychedelic to be real -- but reminding him vividly of the scene he just remembered in his sleep. Christmas... the last -- rotten -- Christmas with his squad, something he doesn't want to think of at all! His perplexity is so obvious, his caretaker's feeling inclined to explain the strange sight to him.

"I know it's tacky, but this room is just so depressing and sterile and..." Keisha shrugs, looking a bit abashed. "I just thought it might lighten up your spirits, even though it's been a while since Christmas. Make ya smile, ya know?" He's still staring at the statue, obviously far away in his mind. When he finally shifts his attention back at her, it's looking like he's waking from some kind of unpleasant dream, and she feels regretful. "Then again... do you want me to put it away?"

"Yes." Stirring with the spoon in the yellow glob of whatever-it-is, he hears himself. His harsh tone. Second thoughts make him add a lighter "Please", which takes the edge of his reply a bit. Inhaling deeply, he tastes the first spoon of paint, expecting his stomach to outright reject the stuff. He feels it heave even as he's still pushing it around in his mouth without swallowing. His caretaker can't help but laugh at his skeptic face.

"You don't like it, huh? Just wait a few moments. It'll grow on you." She holds up the remote she used to change the bed's position. "I've also got something else for you here. We didn't use it these past days since you appeared to have problems in differentiating between Illuso and reality, but since we're quitting the drugs now, you might as well have it back. I programmed some of them myself. Like this!" She pushes a button, and suddenly they are surrounded by a lush tropical rainforest. Keisha smiles and holds out her hand to let a virtual hummingbird land on it. "What do you think?"

"Nice." His flat voice indicates he couldn't care less, as he shovels another spoon of glob into his mouth. It's really not so bad after all. Certainly not Haute Cuisine, but eatable... A moment later, a red and white striped dragonfish swims into his line of vision, as he finds himself on top of a coral reef brimming with life. A swarm of little silvery fish dances around his head, and he has to close his eyes as he feels his balance go.

"I'm sorry," he hears Keisha's apologetic voice, and the next moment all the exotic noises are gone, telling him she switched the illuso off. He blinks. Yeah, it's gone alright. "You got problems with this?"

"Uh-huh." His vision's still a bit shaky. It's a somewhat unsettling experience for him to be so sensible to everyday features all of a sudden. Letting the bowl sink, he waits for the nausea to ebb. His appetite has left for good. "How long will it go on like this?"

"The readjustment problems?" He nods, holding on to the edge of his mattress, afraid to fall. "It depends. It differs from person to person. -- You done with that?" She takes the bowl out of his hand. "But you've been greatly improving over the last few days. I'm sure you'll soon be over it. See, you already managed to eat some. That's real improvement!"

"Whoopee..." Finally his sight stumbles back into focus, and he sees her frown, accompanied by a deep, audible sigh.

"I don't get it, Dwayne... just why are you so unfriendly to me?" she complains, sadly, but for the first time with an edge to her voice that surprises Hicks. "What did I do to you?" He furrows his brow at her question, but before he can even think of an answer, she continues, anger raising her voice. "You've been nothing but scoffing at me since you woke! Now I understand you went through some hard times and therefore don't trust us. I understand you lost people you cared for, but that's all no excuse for being rude -- at least not towards me! I've been pulling double-shifts ever since they brought you here! I lost quite some sleep over your wellbeing! I'm trying to cheer you up, you bark at me. I'm being friendly, you bark at me or ignore me. Isis is right: You are ungrateful!" She glares at him, and her face looks flushed as if all the blood in her body accumulated in her head. The sudden explosion of temperament from the always shy and quiet girl leaves the Marine speechless -- and -- to his surprise - feeling somewhat guilty -- for a moment during which they just stare at each other. She's out of breath and obviously just as surprised about that burst of emotion as the object of her anger. The realization about what she just said slowly starts to seep into her awareness. "I... I'm sorry," she stammers, not knowing what come over her. "I had no right-"

He raises his hand.

"No. No... you're right." He can't believe hearing his own voice say this. But the truth is -- he does feel kinda sorry. He's not usually like that. And yes, he has noticed how much effort the youth has been putting into helping him with both the burden of his loss and his injury. Her sympathy for him appears to be genuine and not manufactured, as he could see in her face just the night before when he had caught her off guard, the shadow of painful memories all to visible on her usually cheerful, sweet face. So even if he wants to see everybody on this station as the enemy -- she's not. She's just a teenager. And somehow, she seems to be able to relate to his gloomy state of mind. He swallows. It's never easy saying what he has to say. "I'm being an ass. I'm sorry." His fingers work the fabric of the blanket without him being aware of it. "I didn't mean to..." He inhales heavily, and his green eyes meet hers in an honestly apologetic glance. "I'm not usually like this. It's just..." an all-encompassing gesture "-the circumstances." He shrugs helplessly, at a loss for the right words, and winces at the slight stab of pain through his neck and right shoulder blade. "I'm sorry, really. You probably don't deserve this... it's just..."

Now it's on her to smile.

"It's okay. You don't have to explain. I understand you're going through some hard times. I just... I just want you to know that -- even though I don't know about Dr. Hikahi and Isis -- you can trust me. I'm not the enemy, Dwayne... I just want to help you. I'm but a little nurse." Oh Lord, she's feeling sheepish now. If that didn't sound corny! But -- surprisingly -- he smiles back, just the slightest bit, causing her heart to jump with excitement. She can't know she just uttered his thoughts out loud. Can it be the ice has finally melted?

"Maybe... we got off on the wrong foot," Hicks concludes quietly, still feeling uncomfortable. It's so much easier barking at everyone for causing him grief. Differentiating between people will only complicate things.

"Tell you what," Keisha suggest with a wink. "How about we forget about this and start from scratch? Like, I'm ridding you of those darn annoying IV-lines, you say Thank you, Keisha... and then you take all your courage and eat the rest of the luxurious meal I brought you... and if you're feeling up to it later, we could give it a first try at putting you on your two feet again. What do you say?"

That slight smile is still on his face. She's easy to apologize to. She's eager to forget. Maybe he's really going to feel better if he accepts her help. He gives her a little, approving nod.

"Sounds good."

Hadley's Hope -- Day 6 -- 1800 hours

Hicks watches the monitors absently. Soon, his eyes itch after staring at the brightness illuminating from the screens for too long. When he looks away he sees dark dots all over his line of vision, small and many. The exhausted Corporal shuts his eyes tightly, rubbing them with his hands' palms to make the annoying throbbing pain go away. Lord, he's be sitting here for nearly two hours. Watching. Waiting. Anxious. He doesn't know exactly what he's waiting for. Maybe it's for a sign, maybe of some kind of hope. Perhaps somewhere along the way, some unexpected thing will happen that'll change the way things are headed for. Yeah. Right... like this is the type of place to dream? Hope. Kinda funny that this is the name of colony. Hadley's Hope. Sheeit, Hadley's Hell is more like it.

He softly groans and shifts his weight against his seat, slumping. His back and ass hurt like hell, fed up with just staying here. You see? This is the reason why he chose grunt work than be one of those stuck-up Lieutenants. Sure, he's got the talents and right stuff to push up a rank or two. Hell, he'd probably big a top guy like the Sarge (Apone... better not to think of him right now). But he can't stand the idea of the sitting and bossing 'round, sitting on his ass all day long ordering so-and-so to carry this-and-that. And then dealing with jerks like Burke all day long who think, because the pen is mightier than the sword, that he can be bribed. Fucking desktop jocks. Give 'em a thousand credits and they'll ask you how far do you want them to jump.

For a second, Hicks thinks of getting up to stretch. At least, to get his legs some circulation and arms moving again. But the fear of letting his guard down just for one second creeps up to him, gnawing at him like the mice chewing on the ceiling's walls. Messing up here can mean Armageddon. Probably worse than even that. No, he isn't going to fuck around with these bastards. He learned a long way back that the moment you put down your guard you'll be in a world of hurt. (That's right soldier. You remember that...)

Hicks reaches into his left leg pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes, hoping the spike of nicotine can keep him awake and alert. No need to remember that smoking causes cancer bullshit anymore, he thinks humorously to himself. Hell, he'd trade dying from cancer over dying like those colonists on the sublevel anytime. And who ever paid attention to that general surgeons label, anyway? About the only one who nags about it was Will back in the early days. Sheeit, he can remember all the times that crazy com-tech of theirs just loved to dog mouth the Sarge concerning his stash of stogies. Ha! He remembers that time when Will dumped all of the Sarge's stogies' tips with gunpowder! Damn well almost killed Apone if it weren't for Frost and his big mouth!

The lone Corporal chuckles whole-heartedly. He can vividly remember the expression on Apone's face before he raised the lighter to his stogie. And then Frost screaming but laughing his warning out to him. Damn... those were some good times... (No, man, don't think about them. It's better to leave the past behind, just concentrate on the now.)

Without another thought, Hicks opens his small pack of cigarettes and glances down. He frowns abruptly, causing several lines on his forehead.

"Shit..." he curses softly to himself, soon lifting up a single, slightly bent, cigarette. Some of its tip's ashes spills over his index finger. "Last one..."

Last one, he thinks. Sighing, he slumps further into his seat and lights it, cupping his hand over his lighter so that the flame won't burn out. He puts the lighter away and inhales sharply. Afterwards, he looks at the cigarette.

Last one... he thinks again. It might be the last one he'll ever smoke. It might be the last smoke he'll ever take into his body before those bastards take it and impregnate it with one of those monsters. The woman... the woman he saw begging Dietrich to kill her. Is that how he's going to turn out? Begging? Desiring for an end? Will someone be there to grant him his wish before it splits his chest into half, tearing him apart like a coconut? When's he going to buy it like that? When is he going to feel a living and breathing organism kick and tear inside his chest? Today? Tomorrow? How about next Friday? Yeah, Friday. Friday is a good time to go. Isn't it? Dwayne shakes his head. (No. Don't think of that. Not right now. Stay focused. Stop this shit.)

He wants to pay close attention to the images revealed from the surveillance cams. Yet, his mind isn't in the zone today. For all the life of him, he can't stay fully alert. A part of him wants to think of breezy beaches and a nice glass of Tequila. It still wants to think that this whole mess is just another dream. It still wants to think he'll eventually wake up and see that poor-ass gunner, Drake, waking up beside his capsule, hear Hudson's constant complaining about the food and the lack of getting laid, see the Sergeant bragging on and on about the God almighty Corps, smell the metallic odor of the Sulaco as it drifts them to the next mission. (Buddha, no need to think so much, man. It ain't happening. It's all real. Everything. You. Ripley. Death. The bastards. They're all here. And unless you get with the program, man, you're going to keep realizing that.)

The Corporal tries to agree but finds his mind consumed with wishful thinking. Hoping. Sometimes, he thinks he's the only one here still possessing that human quality.

Just an hour ago, he thought he did something nice. No, not nice. Human. They had been here in this Hell forsaken planet for too long, too short to get the rescue team in, but too long to settle at ease. He thought they'd welcome the change of pace. After all, it's Christmas. It's supposed to be that time of the year where everyone's problems were halted for a moment or two, where everyone pretended to be human for about twenty-four hours, drinking eggnog, talking with friends and relatives, opening presents, and singing the twelve fucking days of Christmas! Yet... he should've known better. This was no place for that damn jolly fat man. No sir. It was a time to stay alert and live under unforgiving conditions. Or, at least, that's how Ripley and that prick, Burke, saw it.

Sure, he can understand Ripley and how she see things. The woman has balls as hard as steel and he'd have her watching his ass anytime. Lord knows to have to live through that misery of hers and then come back for more... it's enough to make an insane man sane. But why is it so hard for her to, at least, acknowledge a festive occasion? Joy, happiness, love, friendship... these are the things that separates their species from all the others. It makes them special and somehow... better than the rest. Of course, this could just be the little boy in him that still believes that kind of shit, the boy who still believes in the good side of stuff. Optimistic as ever. Maybe that kid is dead, maybe he died a long time ago. Or maybe he died when he landed on this hellhole...

Before he can finish that last thought, he hears the doorlock open. Not bothering to stand, he swirls around in his chair to see his visitor. The face he makes is anything but warm.

"Hello, Ripley," he greets tonelessly. Hello, Mrs. Grinch, his mind actually says.

Ripley stands there, her face unreadable. She stares at the rows of monitors, studying each of their images. All they show are empty corridors and compartments along with the corpses of aliens that were killed six days ago.

"Hello, Hicks," finally comes her reply, Ripley still observing the monitors.

Only once does she blink, her body making little movement. She seems too cautious to think of addressing her reason for being here. In another time or lifetime, he might mistake her for a soldier since she fits the profile well. Quiet. Strong. Patient.

He inhales a bit of his cigarette, waiting for her to state her reasoning for being here. Others would just plain out ask for it. Him? No, he'll wait it out. He's not going anywhere anyway. And his old man always told him when he was a pup to never rush a person. It's damn right rude and an indication of a bad soldier.

After a long time, he sees Ripley manage to finally turn away from the monitors and descend the small flight of stairs to meet him at ground level.

"Everything's quiet in this neck of the woods," Hicks snorts out loud and lies back against his seat, moving it left to right. "So why are you here? Afraid I screwed up again?"

Ripley shoots a glance at him, noticing the sarcastic tone he used. Deep down he regrets it. He braces for what is to come, expecting it to be an ugly stare. Surprisingly enough, however, it isn't. If anything, her face is soft.

She takes a couple of steps forward until she is within a foot away from him. She sits on the counter where the consoles he's currently observing are placed. Behind her, there is a clear visual of the sentry guns and dead alien bodies. The silent woman sits there.

"I appreciate your effort in lightening up the mood, Hicks," she replies briskly, "We could all use it. There's little warmth in this place. Funny, that they should call it Hadley's Hope of all things."

Hicks exhales his cigarette slowly, letting the nicotine kick in some. Through the smoke, his eyes study Ripley carefully, already reading between the lines.

"Yeah," he mentions quietly and inhales again, looking at her. "But you still feel that I did wrong by going out, don't you?"

Ripley blinks. She then nods, confident at herself again.

"Yes... you could've gotten yourself killed, Hicks." Her dark eyes narrow, sparking some intensity in them. "And for what? A couple of coffee packets?"

Hicks laughs in response, but it's a lifeless laugh. It's dry and somewhat depressing.

"You know my little side adventure meant more than that, Ripley," he smiles, a thin weary one. He sits against his chair, glancing briefly at the monitors.

Ripley remains quiet, still wanting an explanation. Man, he thinks, she's one of those black and white people, right? The type who can't get a joke? The type who'd rather have right and wrong answers than accept the middle? The in-between? Fine. He can play that game.

"I don't want to buy it in this place knowing that I just sat here." His eyes are as intense as his voice. "I want to make the most of what's left than wait."

"You aren't going to die," Ripley argues as matter-of-fact and stares at the monitor revealing a pile of alien corpses. "Not if we play our cards right, anyway."

"I didn't mean it like that," he leans forward in his chair, clasping his hands together and putting them on his knees. "I mean... are we just going to stay put here and act like robots? I was in some tough shit at the beginning of my cadet years. After that, they threw us in with the dogs. I've seen friends killed. Children. Moms. Dads. Even through that, even through that human cruelty I witnessed, I still held the belief of a better place. I still believed that somewhere down the line, we were better than that. Yeah, you can call me an optimistic type of guy, even if I'm just another dumb ass grunt, but there's more to life than just waiting, Ripley. It's Christmas... don't you think that this is one of those times where we can act human? For a moment, at least?"

Ripley just stares at him, her arms slowly crossing across her chest. Her eyes reveal something hurtful in them somehow. He's not the cause for her distress, though, something else is. Something more painful. It's that glance, the one he saw when she heard Apone's dying voice.

He learned a long time ago to read between the lines through a person's eyes. He finds it hard to believe, though, that Ripley is one of those people who keeps things down to the lock bolt. But she's a mystery, isn't she? Back on Gateway, the Sergeant and that clean boy, Gorman, gave them discs containing Ripley's briefing. From the get-go, he noticed something different about her. What in the Devil's name would make a person come back here, knowing what waited on the other side?

Ripley still doesn't say anything.

"It isn't your fault..." he says softly and gestures at the entire room, "None of this shit is your fault. It never was."

She rubs the back of her neck, looking awfully tired now. She probably didn't hear him say that. He said it too low. After all, he, too, is coping with some issues of his own. At several points during his stay here, he's blamed himself for his comrades' deaths, thinking that he could've somehow saved them. At another point, he even blamed Ripley. If not for her, they wouldn't be here fighting for their lives. But the fact is, he can't go back through time to fix things. And civilians like Ripley don't have the necessary power to order a squad of marines to do as they please. The company, on the other hand, does.

"You should get some rest. You look like you could use it," Hicks replies looking back at the monitors. "I can handle things here perfectly fine, Ripley."

"And this comes from a man who was dosing off on his way here?" she finally says, actually finding the strength to smile. "No. That's okay. I'm fine. I guess I came here to say... I just wanted to tell you..."

Dwayne shifts his attention back to the woman. It looks like she wants to tell him something but can't. It must be big since she doesn't appear to be the type of person to get swallowed up over something.

"Hicks... I want to tell you that I'm sorry."

"Huh?" he raises his eyes in surprise, "You're sorry? For what?"

"For being such a bitch back there. For barking at you. I know you did it in good intention, but, I don't like the idea of risking lives here. Yours and Newt's especially." Her face becomes stone until a small smile emerges on her lips. "I really am a bitch once you get to know me better."

He grins, showing white teeth. "Jeez. Thanks for the warning, Ripley. You could've told me this sooner, y' know."

"Ellen," she smiles and nods a little. "My name's Ellen."

"Dwayne," he replies, "Kind of weird addressing each other by our last names, isn't it? It's like we're no longer individuals but just faceless people addressed by numbers and ranks."

"Yeah," she looks back at the monitors, viewing one that offers footage of Hadley's Hope exterior.

The camera angle moves a little, jolted by the heavy wind outside. Several objects fly across, including a Weyland Yutani sign that tumbles away from the camera's view. The entire outside environment is empty of people. There's only damaged property and dust. It's basically a graveyard. Ripley closes her eyes.

"I must've been out of my mind to have come here. And here I thought I'd being getting some closure. I was wrong..."

The Corporal notices the look of depression on her face. He sees her open her eyes, watching and studying each detail the monitors reveal to her. Even though it's apparent that she's tired, she seems bent to fight on, to struggle. He has no idea where she gets this juice from, but it certainly is inspiring.

"So why did you come?" he asks, voice quiet. "Why not have left it alone and be safe?"

"Safe?" snorts Ripley, "I'm not safe. No one is. Not as long as those things are out there."

Hicks watches the flood of frustration run over her face. He can't help but to feel helpless. And curious.

"I read the tapes you made prior to coming here," he starts, "You mentioned that this all started after investigating a SOS coming from a ship, a derelict ship. Am I right?"

"Yes, that's where Kane got infected. There were thousands of eggs there. Thousands."

"Is it still here? On this planet?"

"Yeah," she nods rather depressed.

"So, then, we wait for the rescue team to arrive and blow this mother out of the sky too. We'll take out the entire enchilada and finish it. In a day or two, Acheron will be quarantined so that we're positive that we've got each and every one of them."

"I wish it were that easy, Dwayne, but the company is going to give us hell."

"The company? What do they have to do with this?"

"Everything. They're the ones that started this shit."

Hicks becomes quiet.