"Fuck Weyland-Yutani."

A round of supporting cheers ran up and down the bar at the shouted declaration. Shot glasses of cheap whiskey were raised, emptied, and slammed down on scarred wood.

The journalist smiled, watching the five marines accept a fresh pour on her tab. Their leader raised his glass for another toast.

"Semper-Fi, motherfuckers." A resounding, unison shout of answering 'Semper-Fi' temporarily drowned out the other noises in the bar. Nodding to the barkeep, the reporter mouthed for one more round.

The final cheer was a memorial toast. "To Ferro." A somber pause, and the marines downed their last shot.

Some of the group wandered off to find trouble at another bar, or maybe to hit the sack. The Gunnery Sergeant stayed and eyed the generous journalist sitting next to him.

"You lookin' for a quote, ma'am? Or maybe some fun?" He leered, a little drunk, but not quite inappropriate, yet.

"Down, boy. Let's talk about work."

"Let's get drunk and fuck, instead."

There's the inappropriate behavior she knew would show. Instead of taking offense, she laughed.

"We can get drunk, but you ain't scoring with me, sailor."

He shrugged, grinned, and ordered another whiskey.

Her expense report would be tough to explain, but she needed the story.

"Well, ma'am, what does the Times want with the Colonial Marines?"

"You read?"

He laughed and took a long pull from his beer back.

"When I have to, sure."

She smiled back at him.

"I want to know about Hadley's Hope."

His smile slackened a bit, and fell away into his beer mug.

"I wasn't at Hadley's Hope."

"No, but you know some people who were."

"Yeah. Ferro."

"So what happened to Ferro?"

"All I know is she pulled our asses out of the fire during an insurgency at Thedus."

"Thedus was the last port of call for the Nostromo."

He looked at the reporter side-eyed. "So?"

"So, your unit fought rebels at the same place that Lieutenant Ellen Ripley was known to be before her ship was lost."

"Lady, I don't follow."

"Ripley then shows up in a life pod decades later, only to then be sent with Ferro's unit to Hadley's Hope. And we don't know anything else, other than all hands were lost. Including your friend."

"You think this...Ripley, is it? Had something to do with our boys not comin home?" He wiped foam from his upper lip, intrigued.

"I don't know. Tell me about Ferro." She shifted gears, hoping to learn something about the pilot.

"Baby, all I can tell you is that she lit those fuckers up, most of us were wounded, and we made it back to the carrier with a low fuel light. Ferro did fancy flying and then we blew off some steam on the trip home, if you catch what I'm sayin."

She couldn't help but laugh.

He continued. "Every Marine who drank with us here at this bar tonight owes a debt to Ferro, and we'd like to settle the score against that fucking corporation."

She cocked her head. "Why the hate for Weyland?"

"All I know is Ferro told me they were headed out to Hadley's and that Weyland-Yutani had a strong interest in the colonists. She felt like it was more than financial. They stuck her with a Hyperdyne science officer, a synthetic, and she never really liked those."

"She never contacted you once she go into orbit?"

"Lady, we didn't exactly date. Friends, sure. Friendly, yeah, *real* friendly, but not exactly married. What's your interest in all this? Marines die all the time and nobody ever writes about it."

"I found a report that people didn't really want me to find. Hadley's Hope, Acheron, was originally LV-426, investigated by Ripley's ship. Ripley's ship never made it home, but she did. She worked a bullshit job on the docks then she got reinstated as an officer and off she went."

"Back to LV-426."

"Yeah. I think your buddy Ferro got caught up in bullshit somehow swirling around Ripley."

"Any idea what kind of bullshit?" He drained his mug, not especially caring, but interested in more free drinks from the Times.

"Yeah. I think it's aliens."

He laughed, ordered another beer, and pretended not to notice when the journalist was approached by a pair of men in suits.

They wore Weyland-Yutani id badges, looked like twins, and spoke in low whispers to the reporter.

Nervously, she closed her tab and was escorted out of the bar.

He shrugged, ordered a beer that he had to pay for, and mumbled "Fuck Weyland-Yutani."

I fell in love with you over a patch in my tires

and endless miles of highway driving

I fell in love with the bounce of your knee in the passenger seat

with the songs that you skipped as you controlled the aux

I fell in love with the tap of your fingers on the dashboard

with the feel of your hand on my knee

I fell in love with the way that you would get out of the car at the gas station

to fill my tank as the low fuel light glowed

while I made faces at you from the window

I fell in love with you at 80 miles per hour

running over the speed limit all the way

I fell in love with you at every stop

every destination

every moment in between

every moment after

The cops don't always get the robbers. Life doesn't work that way. They did catch the crooks this time though. Red Camaro, 4:47 am, headed north. Trunk full of two things- money and drugs. It wasn't a high speed chase or anything. Just two tipsy hotheads on a free road. After 24 miles, it wasn't free. A melody came along, brash, crashing. Snuck through the Camaro's rolled down windows. Sirens. A red-blue twostep light show flared up on the cops' cars. But these criminals were having none of it. On they went. Miles, miles, the two didn't know how far they would have to go. The two didn't know how far they had come. Very far, they had gone very far. Too much. The stretch of road seemed much shorter than it was. On top of the world with cash and drugs, pistol in the glove compartment, and a bottle of confidence in hand. They didn't see the empty tank. They got caught. Reckless.