Alien: Resurrection

RIPLEY

No.

CALL

(bitterly)

I guess you're more human than I thought.

RIPLEY

Why did you come here?

CALL

To kill you, remember?

(after a beat)

Because somebody has to.

RIPLEY

Well it's not me. I did my time. Now I just want to...

She stops dead, staring at a door.

"CLONING STORAGE FACILITY" is written on it. Stenciled beneath that is "numbers 1-7".

Ripley stares. Tries the door, which opens.

DISTEPHMO

That's not the way.

CHRISTIE

Ripley, we got no time for sightseeing.

Ripley is looking down at her arm, at the 8 tattooed on it.

She looks at Call. Looks back at wren.

WREN

Ripley... don't.

She enters.

CUT TO:

INT. CLONING STORAGE FACILITY – CONTINUOUS

She stands a moment, staring, before proceeding through it. Call stands in the doorway, others crowding behind her. Every face registers the horror of what they are seeing, but none more so than Ripley's

Numbers one through seven. The first failed efforts to clone Ripley.

They are lined up like museum exhibits – or side show freaks.

Here is the fetal Ripley, the fetal alien visible through its translucent chest. In a jar.

Here is a prematurely old, diseased Ripley, withered blue skin cling to Collapsed bones.

Here is an attempt to separate the alien and grow it without the host – boneless, bubbling tissue, weak and useless mouth rigored in midmew.

Each one more horrifying than the last, and the last the worst of all.

Ripley approaches, and stares at number seven.

A complete mixture of alien and human DNA. A tortured, disgusting hybrid, half Ripley, half nightmare.

Hooked up wires and machines, it lies on the tilted table, its head nearly level with Ripley's as she finally approaches it.

When it opens its eyes, they are hers.

It tuns its head ever so slightly to look at her. Recognizes her.

Ripley cannot even speak. She begins to shake slightly looking at number seven.

NUMBER SEVEN

Kill... us...

Ripley's eyes go saucered as it speaks out of nothing resembling a mouth.

Ripley staggers back a step, shaking now. This is too much to bear...

CALL

Ripley!

Ripley turns, slowly, still in a fever dream.

Call cocks the grenade launcher with a loud CRACK. Her eyes meet Ripley's.

Call tosses it to Ripley as the crew steps back and even as Ripley FIRES, a grenade chugging to the end of room and BURSTING in fire and noise, she FIRES another, tissue and steel exploding into flame, she turns to number seven, hand shakes momentarily... And she FIRES, the poor creature dissolving in a cloud of flame.

Freezing gas jets fill the room, extinguishing potential spread, but the heart of the firestorm continues to rage in the chamber.

She backs out, the crew waiting for her outside.

The launcher falls loudly to the ground. Ripley turns to Wren, her face rigid with pain.

Wren backs up a step, looking around him for protection that the others have no thought of providing.

CALL

Ripley... Don't do it.

Ripley stops, weariness suffusing her expression.

RIPLEY

Don't do what?

The tension passes. Wren breathes a little sigh of relief.

Call PUNCHES him across the jaw, his head whipping around as collapses to the ground.

Call starts down the hall, not even looking at him.

CALL

Don't do that.

Feeling his jaw, Wren actually smiles at the absurdity of all this. It's kind of winning.

Christie helps him up.

CHRISTIE

Had it coming, Doc.

Johner looks in at the burning lab.

JOHNER

What's the big deal? Fucking waste of ammo.

ST JUST

Let's move before anything comes to check out the noise.

JOHNER

Chicks, man....

DISTEPHANO

We go down from here.