“If you shoot glass, what happens? It shatters! Why should ice be any different? Or her? She cracked like ceramic. What— did you expect her to disappear in a cloud of smoke?”

Ripley’s voice is a shrill corvid’s call, feet floundering where they crunch through ice. She hasn’t let go of Chris just yet— despite her ire, steady footing is still a challenge. In the verbal department, however, she’s perfectly recovered.

“Christ—“ She palms her forehead, exasperated. Tired. Ready to collapse into bed and forget tonight ever happened. “I thought for a second you were going to shoot me.”