Ellen forms an image with relative ease; her opposite, knife in hand, scoring the air, flesh, a hard metal chassis— whatever catches her acuminate edge first. One foe falls and another rounds the corner, unaware of the shrike who fights with beak and thorn. Elegant, she says (or rather, the closest approximation), and Ripley believes her wholeheartedly.

She's seen the notches in her board; all accumulated toward the center.

"Doesn't that get tricky, if your enemy has a gun and you're left with a knife?" She asks the question deliberately, goading. Just to see how CT might gloat.

"Funnily enough, the only 'combat' training we pilots were given in school was hostage negotiation. Figured the majority would be in the commercial business, hauling hundreds of millions worth of materials. Not to mention the base value of the ship itself."

Ripley pops the strawberry into her mouth with a pleased hum; a sort of punctuation. Spears another and dunks it.

"Eugh. Not a very ideal thing to wake up to. No, we didn't do anything like that. Although sometimes the cryopods— they have this gel in them that feeds nutrients to your system. Makes you all... sticky. That was a real pain waking up to. Most of the time it was a communal experience, the pods being in the same room and all. But you're right, I'd take the boring stuff here as opposed to anything on those damn ships."