It's Warlord again. You're wondering what I'm doing with this new "Special Edition" aren't you? Well, to say the least, this is a rewrite of my first Fanfiction.
I've decided to rewrite it seeing as I had a feeling from rereading it that it ultimately could use a lot of work, seeing as how my writing is how has greatly changed. Plus, I made a couple of errors in the first one.
That being said, I'm still trying to keep the recipe the same. I'm just making the dish again.
So review, and enjoy…
Aliens: The Other Survivor
Chapter 1: The Day Rescue Came
On LV-426, the landscape was bleak and hellish. The Planet was a rock, with no indigenous life. Always has, and always will be. However, it never meant that there wasn't movement.
The winds howled like banshees. It was one of the first things one heard upon arriving on the surface. Before you may even take your first step, you'd hear the wind. It had always been there, and it was never going away.
And it blew over some of the worst landscapes known to man. The surface was twisted and gnarled, the remains of lava flows seen in the rocks that twisted the surface. Truly, in any mind known, the land was a true hell.
One saw shapes organic in the stone. Not fossils, but smooth, twisted, and lumpy rock. It looked like it had almost been grown, yet, wasn't.
The planet had gotten this appearance from erosion; from the wind and the rain. Not from life.
Not to say that the rain stood for nothing. As the short nights went on, the rain fell in driving sheets. One could have only stood outside for a single minute, and the driving rain will have soaked you to the bone. There was truly no escaping what was ultimately fitting weather.
Not to say that it discouraged settlement. Quite the contrary; there were plenty of colonists. They arrived, roughly 30 years after the Nostromo landed and the first footsteps were made on it's surface.
These colonists had a rather different goal. They came in, towing massive atmosphere processors. These numbered up to 32, and had been scattered all across the surface.
These atmosphere processors were massive, taller than the Great Pyramids of Egypt. They contained scientific processes to make the atmosphere breathable, and on a scale to be a hazard if the wrong circumstances went on.
The colonists had built their city; Hadley's Hope. It was made up of modules that were built to be connected. The atmosphere processor they built around was the one that controlled the others via remote.
In the early days, people had to walk out in the hellish weather, or perhaps take one of their surveying vehicles to the processor.
To solve the problem and make things easier, they built a service shaft, connecting underneath the ground, both the main colony complex and the main processor.
That wasn't enough though. In the second year, they flew in old shipping containers, massive to carry the gargantuan loads of cargo. These were reconfigured into bars, a casino, and other places to kill time in after hours.
And the colonists of Hadley's hope lived undisturbed until that fateful day when the Jordan family brought Mr. Jordan home with an alien parasite, counting down the numbers of colonists as the creatures birthed in blood from the chest of their victims had outnumbered the colonists.
Eventually, it was emptied out, of all, but one.
His life had been an extremely perilous three-way edge of paranoia, instinct, and routine. Each of the three attributes held sway as pillars of his new life.
Instinct kept him moving. This was essential to survival. If one did not keep moving, one had a greater chance of being captured by the hunters when they came, and would immediately be either killed or brought back to the hive.
Paranoia kept him in the know. If you were constantly watching your back, you had less of a chance of being snuck up upon. In small amounts, like what he had, the feeling was truly helpful. However, Paranoia isn't what you always want to have. It was cancerous, and like the very tumor it is named after, will constantly grow, and always be there. It was something he dealt with in his mind all of the time.
Routine kept him sane. If one had a routine, and kept at it, one would always have something to keep the mind and the body busy. You never wanted to grow lazy, and you never wanted to grow bored. It has been said one of the best ways of recovering from tragedy was always work. This served as that.
He had survived two years after the infestation had happened. The days of the outbreak were still fresh in his head. However, he knew that he had to keep at today, and not worry about what happened two years ago. And so each day, he survived in this routine, until a slight break had happened that changed everything. It was the day that Rescue had come.
He slept curled up on a mat in a hub of the air ducts. The place that he used to play in as a child were now his new home and hideout. At seventeen years old however, some things are not the same though.
The place was only the size of the space under a normal dining table. It was not like there was as much room as when he was younger.
The alarm on his phone went off at the usual 7:30 AM. The guitar chords played in loop, a light, poppy tune that had doubled as a ringtone played. It normally wasn't very loud, but in the silence of the empty colony complex, it rang out with a fervor.
This woke him up, as he stirred underneath the green throw-blanket he slept under.
He always had it go off at 7:30, every day of the year.
He woke up, yet didn't shut it off. He lit it shut off on its own. Had he shut it off right then, the aliens might realize there was something about, and that would send them right onto him.
Besides; it's not like it was a problem. He had only modified it to go off once, rather than loop until stopped. It made sense since he kept it on his person, knowing the true pain if it went off while he was outside. The Xenos would be on him, and it would be the end of everything he had lived for.
As he removed the green throw blanket from on top of him, the light cloth having lost its softness from being used as a regular bed sheet. It also stank, since he'd never washed either himself or the sheet. A shower would be really nice.
However, being naked and exposed in a shower stall while the creatures were running around wasn't on his list of things to do.
Moreover, he slept in his clothes, a habit that was uncomfortable at first, yet he ultimately grew used to. He had a loose T-shirt, originally white, yet turned a slight shade of gray. He wore jeans, slightly baggy, held up by a belt. Years ago, one would find this trend all over the place among people his age. Now, not so much.
He even slept in his shoes, a pair of sneakers which were white and had some of the most fitting appearance for the time. They were made by Reebok, and sold to this day.
He did however, still get dressed, though not as heavily as one might think. He simply put on his survival jacket, a large, leather trenchcoat that went down to his knees. It was chosen because if one of the Xenos grabbed him, he could easily slip out and get away.
Then, he reached for the small panel next to his pillow, and found his glasses. The frames were designer, a leopard/jungle color scheme on the plastic, with metal inside the translucent plastic shining.
These frames had been considered fashionable some time ago, and the lenses may not have worked as well as they did when he first got them, on account of a change in prescription needs.
However, there wasn't an optometrist nearby available, so he simply had to make do.
He felt his hand around the pockets of his jacket, making sure everything was there. His jacket contained everything he'd need to venture out beyond the ducts. It held his security controls, the keys to the "security system" he'd set up, out beyond where he ventured and at the entrance to the ducts. It held a couple of throwing knives, all of which were identical, yet only numbered five. He initially had twenty, yet lost most of them through use. The creatures acid blood made recovery of a used knife impossible. It also held his all-access keycard. It was never really his; he'd only scavenged it off the body of one of the managers of the place.
With that, he had to begin his routine. Shifting his long black hair out of his brown eyes, he had to get a start on the day.
At the meeting points to the hub, he'd set up cameras for both ways. He checked his security controls, keying for each camera. He knew that one of these days, the creatures would get close.
However, they were empty. He knew the coast was clear for now.
He needed to grab breakfast, since his stomach was starting to growl. If he didn't do something soon, he'd attract the Xenos with his stomach's rolling glurches.
He'd always stashed food into nearby panels in the walls. The places were set up so that if he was driven out of his hovel in the vents, he'd be able to still eat.
The nearest stash was a directly below, on ground level, ten meters to the left. It had been hidden behind a loose panel.
He knew they came around this hour during the local Tuesday. He was completely certain, he'd kept a calendar. If that wasn't proof enough, than what was?
Making his way to the stairs, light on his feet, careful not to make too much noise with his hiking boots, he walked. His boots had never been removed, the once, tan-brown now a dark shade of black.
He arrived at the stairs. They were small, and on two flights for the same case. There was a banister on each side. The stairs had a gap right in the center, allowing for visibility below.
He checked the spot on the bottom of the stairs. From what he could tell, there was nothing. Appearances lied often though.
He'd found that the best way to move was fast and with a purpose. Capitalizing on that thought, he slid down the banister. The seat of his jeans was silent against the smooth metal. He personally never wanted to waste time in getting from Point A to Point B.
Time wasters suffered horrible fates. They got killed, brought back to the hive, or whatever the creatures decided to do with you when they caught you.
He moved with a sure purpose to the panel, constantly watching his back. He constantly heard the dripping of the rain through the holes in the roof, sounding like padding of feet.
Constant Vigilance was reinforce with slight Paranoia. He'd seen his friends get taken back because they didn't look back. It formed the basis for one of his survival mottoes. Number 7
7. Look Back or Get Taken Back
He felt like that motto held more truth now than ever. For some reason, he had a feeling that he was being watched. It was strange, and unsettling.
He moved towards the loose panel he'd hidden the cans behind. It was painted with Level 1 Weyland-Yutani in the company colors.
He knew the only way to open the panel, one of the best-kept secret's he'd had. It was genius.
To open the panel, one had to knock the panel in just the right place. Knocking on the upper-right spot really hard, the panel came loose. What was inside was a bit of a surprise.
It seemed that most of the food he'd stashed went missing. He'd had 50 cans yesterday; today, only 23. Someone had been stealing from his stash.
"CRAP!" he yelled.
"Crap!" the air echoed.
This startled him, making him jump 3 feet. Checking his back, he found that nothing had been sneaking up on him.
He then checked above and below through the panels. Thankfully, there was nothing.
He sorted through the cans and took two. He had selected Chicken-Noodle Soup and Chef Boyardee Ravioli.
He had a small, very quiet hot-plate in his Safehouse. He figured he could cook the food then.
He had replaced the panel and took a few steps to the stairs when he'd heard something new, loud, and unexpected.