Ripley: Endgame

Ripley stared at the cracked screen, the flicker of static throwing jagged shadows across the cramped cabin. “We’ve got to move before they—” she began, but the hiss of the transmitter cut her off, a garbled chorus of numbers and clicks spilling into the silence.

Jon slammed the door shut, the metal thud reverberating through the narrow hallway. “I’m not waiting for a signal that never comes.” He shoved the battered toolbox onto the floor, the clank of wrench and bolt echoing like a warning drum.

The floorboards beneath their boots creaked, each step a protest against the weight of their haste. Ripley’s fingers brushed the cold steel of the old pistol tucked in her belt, the grip familiar, reassuring. “You think the uplink’s still online?” she asked, eyes flicking to the dim glow of the emergency lights.

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