Ripley stared up at the monstrous creature as a dab of saliva, or acid, or whatever it was, dropped from its slavering jaws.

Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that a coincidence of naming had led him to believe this would be easy. The plan had been simple—use this other Ripley's documents to get onboard the Nostromo (change the E to an A and he was Allen Ripley, and that was close enough to pass comparison with his own); ingratiate himself with the crew; failing that, kill them; and he was home free. The accommodations were a little Spartan, but he'd survived worse—as long as there was promise of better things to come.

Well he'd done all that (he left the cat alive, as it didn't seem to be in his way) and now there was this slimy thing trying to kill him. And he didn't even have an oar. He'd tried replicating its behavior to convince it he was itself, but that had resulted in nothing but considerable dehydration on his part and what he suspected was laughter from the alien.

The cat—Jones, was it?—chose this moment to skitter to his side as if seeking protection, but the creature moved faster and Ripley watched as Jones was reduced to a few motes of orange fur.

He'd had enough.

Before the alien had swallowed, Ripley was on it. With nothing but his bare fists he pummeled the creature repeatedly, avoiding its reach by virtue of hitting it continuously. It was how he won all his fights.

"You! Won't! Ruin! This! For! Me!" he cried between punches as the slimy thing crumpled to the floor, whining in protest until it made no further sound. Ripley got up, wiped his hands on Lambert's coveralls, and went to the mess room.

Now, if only he could get the food stores to cough up a reconstituted olive for his martini.