If there's anything Ellen Ripley is more than capable of, it's pressing on through fear. Taking those step-step-steps forward even if every alarm in her head, every muscle fiber in her body, begs her to stop, collapse, give in.

Adrenaline's a powerful thing.

So are strangers with even stranger clairvoyances.

After what feels like an entire night's worth of walking and a new, splitting headache, the woods begin to part, the threat of danger not so immediate now. Gun-induced deafness dissipates to allow room for the forest's natural symphony; a caw here, the trill of crickets there. Water gurgles somewhere in the distance, a marker of their nearing safety.

Anger shoves fear to the side once it knows it's safe to do so.

Ripley staggers, slows, tugs at the arm which holds her's. There's a knot in her throat she can't seem to push out.

"Are you insane—! Shooting at close range like that— did no one teach you how to handle that thing!?"