[Morning]
Alex locked the door behind him, slipping the keycard into his coat pocket. Dressed in a charcoal hoodie, sunglasses, and a duffle bag slung across his shoulder, he looked more like a vacationer heading to Aspen than the man who survived a sniper ambush and took down a hit squad just last night.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He paused, tugged it out, thumb hovering over the screen.
[Text from: Chloe Decker]
"Hey. Just wanted to say thanks again. Trixie stayed up half the night reading. She screamed when she found the pin. She also said you're cooler than Spider-Man. So yeah. You've officially ruined my parenting."
Alex smiled. A small one. The rare kind that made him look boyish.
He tapped out a reply.
[To: Chloe]
"Mission accomplished. I accept payment in the form of pancakes next time I'm in town."
The message sent.
Seconds later, another buzz.
[Chloe]
"Deal. But you're doing the dishes. Also, Trixie now wants to be a comic book editor. So if she ends up dropping science for superheroes, I'm sending her resume to Titan."
Alex chuckled and started toward the garage.
[To: Chloe]
"Noted. Titan's got a desk waiting for her."
He put his phone away.
The garage door lifted with a soft hydraulic hiss.
The Lotus Sport Exige 240R sat gleaming in the morning light, its sleek black frame glinting with menace and class. Alex approached it like it was alive, running a hand over the hood before tossing his bag into the passenger seat.
"Oh, yeah. My sweet baby."
As he opened the door and slid in, his phone buzzed again.
[Text from: Rachel]
"Private jet's prepped at Van Nuys. Hangar 4. Takeoff window's tight, try not to stop for snacks."
[Reply]
"No promises."
He started the engine. The Lotus growled to life.
The garage filled with the low purr of acceleration as he backed out slowly.
Then he stopped.
Another buzz.
[Chloe]
"Stay safe, Alex. Seriously."
This time, he didn't reply right away.
He stared at the screen.
Then typed:
[To: Chloe]
"You too, Detective. Give Trixie a high five for me."
A beat.
Then one more message:
[To: Chloe]
"Also… I never forget a promise. Just saying 😉"
He locked the garage and drove out of the driveway, tires squealing just enough to echo his mood.
The city fell behind him, block by block.
..
[New York] [Roughly, 5 Hours Later]
[Van Nuys ➝ Wilson Studios Private Hangar, JFK]
The plane landed...
The hangar doors were already halfway open, and waiting just beyond them was a matte-black SUV, windows tinted, engine running. A man in a dark gray tactical coat stood beside it, watching the jet with the stillness of a statue.
A bit far from there, outside, there were six other cars scattered around for his security.
Rachel leaned against the SUV's passenger door, one booted foot crossed over the other, arms folded. She was dressed in a dark turtleneck and coat, hair pinned up, sunglasses low on her nose. She didn't look like a secretary. She looked like someone who could order a drone strike and then walk into a boardroom without missing a beat.
The jet's side door opened.
Alex stepped out a moment later, hoodie up, duffle bag slung over one shoulder. His walk was slow, unbothered. Tired, maybe, but not from the flight.
Rachel took one look at him and immediately clocked the difference. His posture was a little tighter. Eyes a little sharper. Like the part of him that used to hide behind his charm had decided to get serious.
He stopped in front of her.
"You alright?" she asked quietly.
He leaned down, just enough to brush his lips near her ear, and whispered, "You're going to pay tonight. Squirt level. No mercy." (They will talk after the shoot)
Rachel didn't flinch. She just smirked, straightened her jacket, and opened the SUV door for him.
"Looking forward to it, boss."
Alex slid into the back seat without another word. The door shut with a quiet click. The driver took his seat.
The new security team was already in motion. Two black sedans flanked the SUV as they rolled out of the hangar.
Inside the SUV, Rachel checked her tablet, flipping through his updated schedule.
"You've got forty-eight minutes to shower, eat, and transform into a man who wasn't ambushed last night."
Alex leaned his head back. "Easy."
She looked at him over the edge of her glasses. "Want me to reschedule the afternoon meetings?"
"No. Let's keep the day normal. I want it boring."
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "You kill seven people, disappear from a crime scene, and your definition of boring is 'finish the shoot on time'?"
He gave her a small grin. "What's the point of chaos if you can't return to routine?"
Rachel swiped through her tablet again.
"And the car?"
"Team's already on it. Cargo manifest confirmed. It'll be at the studio garage by tomorrow."
"Good. And the scene breakdown for today?"
He reached into the duffle and pulled out a printed script, flipping through the pages until he found the circled scene numbers.
"Scene 14, 18, and 20. Nostromo corridor. Ripley and Ash confrontation. Then the early airlock malfunction sequence."
"Scarlett's already on set. Says she needs to get into the character and mood. She's really a hard-working girl."
"Good. Make sure someone brings her a hot tea. She likes the one with ginger and cinnamon."
Rachel turned her attention back to the window. The city skyline started peeking through the gray edges of the expressway.
"I spoke to our internal PR contact. LAPD is running with a 'botched robbery' cover. No mention of you. We got it all under control," She explained.
"And the eyewitness? You know, there were civilians, right?" he asked without looking at her.
Rachel shook her head. "No witnesses with clear memory. Too much panic. One guy's claiming aliens showed up. Another thought it was a scene from a movie. As I said, we got it under control."
Alex didn't react. Just stared out the window.
"Good," he said quietly.
Rachel watched him for another second, then went back to her tablet.
The SUV turned onto the private entrance of Wilson Studios. Security waved them through without pause. Everything was smooth, familiar. Just another day in a studio where entire universes were built from scratch.
As the car slowed near Wilson Studios, Rachel tapped the screen one last time.
"Oh, and the reporter from The Hollywood Reporter wants to shadow the set tomorrow. She's promised zero spoilers, just behind-the-scenes material."
"Only if she agrees to sign a triple NDA and gets her phone bagged."
Rachel grinned. "Already sent. She's on her way to get fingerprinted."
Alex pushed open the car door and stepped out.
He quickly cleaned up, took a bath, ate some protein bars, and his favourite lemonade. Then went straight for the set.
...
[Day 2: Alien Shoot]
The studio was alive with movement. Camera cranes floated like steel vultures over the massive set. Cables snaked across the floor, marked off with fluorescent tape. Grips moved quietly. Sound engineers checked their feeds. Someone wheeled in a tray of coffee and protein bars. The entire Nostromo corridor was lit in eerie blue tones. Fog machines hissed. The walls looked like they were sweating oil.
Alex stepped onto the set freshly showered, dressed in black jeans, boots, and a fitted dark gray long-sleeve shirt. Clean, alert, sharp.
The second he appeared, the energy shifted. Not dramatically, not loud. But focused. People moved faster. Eyes snapped to him. Even the air got quieter.
Rachel walked just behind him, tablet in hand, running point on logistics.
"Scarlett's already in costume. She's been pacing in the airlock tunnel for twenty minutes. Your tea order's being brewed."
Alex nodded once. "Good."
He scanned the set, then looked at the director of photography, a stocky man with thinning hair and eyes like lenses.
"How's the camera rig for the corridor tracking shot?"
"Ready. We did a dry run this morning. You'll love it."
"Show me after the take."
He moved toward the crew huddled around the monitors. One of the assistant directors handed him the slate with today's lineup.
"Scene 14. Ripley corners Ash about the mission reroute. Then we reset for 18, airlock tension."
"Good," Alex said, eyes scanning the setup.
Veronica Cartwright was on standby, getting a quick powder touch-up. Ian Holm sat with a script in hand, his face unreadable. A method actor through and through. Scarlett Johansson leaned against the corridor wall in full Ripley mode, grease smudged across her tank top, expression cold and distant.
She looked up when Alex approached.
"Morning," she said, voice a bit rough.
"Morning," Alex said with a warm smile.
"You look tired," She said, raising an eyebrow.
"So are you."
"Had to rehearse and make it perfect. So, yeah, been busy," She said, leaning on the metal wall.
"Me too. Killing assassins, dodging bullets, kissing a beautiful girl... So, yeah. Pretty busy night. Couldn't get much sleep," Alex told her the truth about last night, but who the hell would believe that? Not her, not any sane person. And the way he said it, smiling, made it sound like a joke.
Scarlett snorted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Kissing a beautiful girl, huh? That supposed to be me?"
Alex smiled, just enough to be irritating. "Well, I did say beautiful."
She rolled her eyes, but there was a spark of amusement there.
"You're impossible."
"And yet, you love me. Maybe I grow on people."
"Like a fungus."
"A charming, highly paid fungus with visionary instincts."
Scarlett gave him a once-over, unimpressed. "Visionary, sure. But if I find out you're actually writing a comic about alien tentacle romance based on this shoot, I'm walking."
Alex looked thoughtfully at the set. "Not a bad idea. Ripley vs. the Slime King. Has a nice ring to it."
Scarlett tilted her head. "I hate you."
"I know. Now get ready. We're rolling in five."
Her smirk faded as she shifted back into Ripley mode. She cracked her knuckles and adjusted the strap on her shoulder. Alex watched the change, how the tension hit her posture, how her eyes hardened, how Scarlett vanished, and Ripley stepped forward.
"Alright," he said, louder now. The crew straightened. "Scene 14. Ash confrontation. We're pushing into the corridor, one-take tracking. Keep it tight, keep it uncomfortable. Ripley's not yelling. She's digging."
He turned to Ian Holm, calm but direct.
"Ash doesn't blink. Doesn't get defensive. You're answering the questions she thinks she's asking, not the ones she should be asking. Understood?"
Ian nodded once.
Alex tapped his headset. "Roll sound."
A tech gave the signal.
"Camera one, you're walking with her. Camera two stays back until she steps into Ash's space."
He glanced around. Everyone in position.
"Quiet on set."
The crew went still.
"Rolling."
"Speed," came the replies.
"Scene 14, take one... action."
Scarlett stepped into frame, boots echoing through the steel corridor. The lighting was sharp, shadows dancing against the grated floor.
She moved with purpose, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. Ripley wasn't angry. She was surgical. That was the point.
She stopped a foot in front of Ash.
"You rerouted the flight path," she said. Calm. Icy. "Why?"
Ash didn't blink. "Standard protocol when a distress beacon is identified."
"You didn't inform the crew."
"You were in cryo. There was no delay. The crew was awakened at the appropriate moment."
Ripley narrowed her eyes.
"Bullshit."
Alex leaned in near the monitor, fingers steepled just under his chin. He watched the frame, the way the lights flickered over their faces, how Scarlett's jaw clenched just enough, the silence before each line.
Scarlett stepped in closer. Inches from Holm now. "I've read the logs. The beacon wasn't standard. It was tagged 'unknown.' You changed the course after Mother flagged it as potentially dangerous."
Ash stared at her. Perfectly still.
"I acted within my authority."
"You acted without mine," Ripley said, voice still low, but sharper now.
The tension in the air was palpable.
Alex spoke into his headset. "Camera two, slide in. Now."
The second camera glided forward, catching the shift, Ripley stepping closer, Ash not stepping back.
"You're hiding something," Ripley said.
"I don't hide."
"Then tell me what the company knows."
"I can't."
"Won't."
Ash didn't respond.
Scarlett's jaw flexed. "This crew dies, you die first. That's a promise."
She turned and walked away, boots hitting the metal in perfect rhythm.
Alex held the silence for two more seconds.
Then: "Cut."
The room stayed quiet.
Then Rachel gave a subtle nod, and the crew exhaled all at once. Scarlett stepped out of frame, grabbing a towel from a nearby chair and wiping her hands.
Alex stood up, expression thoughtful.
"Playback. From Camera One."
The assistant pulled it up. The scene ran again on the monitor. Alex didn't blink.
After it finished, he nodded once.
"Perfect."
.
.
[Skip to the final scene]
The lights dimmed to a deep crimson hue. Warning strobes pulsed rhythmically along the floor panels. The sound of distant alarms throbbed under the floor, not deafening, just enough to crawl under the skin. Fog bled out of a nearby corridor vent. The set was locked.
Scarlett crouched beside a console inside the emergency airlock chamber, breathing hard. The Ripley suit clung to her skin now, soaked from the condensation and layers of effort she'd put into the performance all day. Her hair, matted and stuck to her forehead, added to the realism. No glam. Just fear and fury.
She glanced through the small window, as if tracking something outside in the dark. The monitor displayed static.
Alex stood just outside the shot, one hand on the monitor bank, the other resting against his jaw. His eyes never left her face.
"Scarlett," he called softly. "Breathe slower. Don't act afraid. Be afraid. You're not waiting for the alien. You're realizing no one is coming to help. This is your fight now."
She nodded without looking back.
"Rolling," the assistant director called out.
"Scene 20. Emergency Airlock Isolation. Take two. Action."
Scarlett's breathing shifted, quieter now. Internal. She leaned against the console, her eyes darting as the red light from the warning strobes hit her skin. Her fingers hovered over the airlock control. Tension rippled through her body, and not a single word was spoken. The fear didn't need to be explained.
Alex watched from the monitor as her chest rose and fell, lips slightly parted, expression somewhere between breaking and rage. A beat later, she looked straight into the camera, barely perceptible, just enough to shatter the wall between Ripley and the audience.
She slammed her palm down on the airlock control.
The red lights intensified. A hiss filled the set. The fog machines belched a heavy burst of vapor. The countdown began, muffled, mechanical. Four. Three. Two...
The door slid shut.
"Cut."
Scarlett slumped to the floor inside the set, her chest still rising fast. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. She wasn't acting anymore.
One of the crew members approached with a towel, but she waved them off.
Alex stepped into the corridor.
The moment she saw him, Scarlett sat up straighter, dragging herself back into the real world.
"That one good enough for you?" she asked between breaths.
Alex crouched in front of her, elbows resting on his knees. "It was terrifying. Exactly what it needed to be."
"I was about two seconds from hyperventilating."
"You used it."
She gave him a tired, crooked grin. "Your sick love for psychological realism is going to kill me one day."
---
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