CHARIOT OF THE GODS - MAIN CINEMATIC STORY (Evolved Maps)
Posted: Sat 15 Nov 2025, 23:48
CHARIOT OF THE GODS - MAIN CINEMATIC STORY
Play Report By Arthur Dallas
___
Main Characters
• Ms. Vanessa Miller — Captain of the USCSS Montero (Thrifty)
• Ms. Leah Davis — Pilot of the USCSS Montero (Adrenaline junkie)
• Ms. Kayla Rye — Technician on the USCSS Montero (Bitter)
• Mr. Lyron Cham — Cargo Handler on the USCSS Montero (Loyal)
• Mr. John J. Wilson — Corporate Liaison on the USCSS Montero (Ambitious)
Secondary Characters
• Mr. Albert Johns — Second Officer on the USCSS Cronus (Submissive)
• Ms. Valerie Reid — Security Officer on the USCSS Cronus (On Edge)
• Mr. Liam Flynn — Ship Medic on the USCSS Cronus (Fearful)
• Mr. Daniel Cooper — Chief Scientist on the USCSS Cronus (Rational)
• Ms. Lori Clayton — Corporate Liaison on the USCSS Cronus (Ruthless)
• Ms. Ava 6 — Android on the USCSS Cronus (Helpful)
• Mr. Adisa Bolaji — Captain of the Sotillo (Resolute)
• Ms. Pinion — Hired muscle on the Sotillo (Steadfast)
• Ms. Helen Bein — Pilot on the Sotillo (Cynical)
• Mr. Micky Horton — Mechanic on the Sotillo (Friendly)
• Lucas — Bionational synthetic undercover agent (Secret character)
_____
ACT.1
WAKING COLD
The USCSS Montero drifts against the endless black, its engines humming low like something sleeping and uneasy. Inside, the cryo-pods hiss open one by one, spilling out clouds of freezing mist.
Miller inhales sharply as the pod lid rises. Her muscles ache. Her mouth tastes like copper and dryness. She forces herself to sit upright, blinks through the haze, and steadies her breathing.
Davis, Rye, Cham, and Wilson follow, each emerging groggy and pale—the aftereffect of hypersleep dehydration setting into their bones. No one speaks at first. They move like ghosts through the corridor.
The lights flicker on in dull amber. The hum of life support feels too loud. They sit at the steel table of the Galley. Rehydration packs, nutrient bars, bitter coffee concentrate.
Miller, Davis, and Wilson eat quietly, heads down—still letting their minds return to their bodies.
Cham leans closer to Rye. His voice is gentle.
CHAM: “I collected 2,500 credits for your little brother’s operation.”
Rye freezes. Her eyes widen.
RYE: “…Cham, you—you shouldn’t have done that. How did you even get that kind of money?”
Cham swallows, expression soft but pained.
CHAM: “I sold my brother’s gold necklace. The one he—left behind. That’s the past. We’re looking ahead now.”
Rye’s breath catches. She reaches out, pulls him close—presses a kiss to his cheek and hugs him tight, holding on like she’s afraid to let go.
RYE (quiet, emotional): “Thank you, Cham. You’re like a brother to me.”
A brief warmth lingers between them.
Miller stands, clears her throat—command returning to her posture.
MILLER: “Alright. Everyone to stations. Cham, Rye—Deck B. Check the tritium cache, make sure nothing shifted during transit.” Cham nods, Rye wipes her face, composes herself, and the two leave.
The bridge is dim, industrial—screens booting up, faint static on comms. Miller, Davis, and Wilson settle into their seats.
Davis flicks through navigation interfaces, brows furrowing.
DAVIS: “…Star charts are off. Way off. We’re not in the right system.”
Miller leans forward, jaw tight.
MILLER: “Wilson—hail Sutter’s World traffic control.”
Wilson straightens his uniform jacket, clicks on the comm.
WILSON (professional tone): “This is the commercial star freighter Montero, out of Anchorpoint Station, calling Sutter’s World traffic control. Do you read me? Over.”
Static.
Davis keeps working—fingers flying.
DAVIS: “Found it. We’re about halfway there. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Miller exhales slowly.
MILLER: “Then why the hell were we woken up out here?”
A sharp tone beeps—sensor diagnostics pinging.
Davis stiffens.
DAVIS: “Picking something up. A ship. Drifting. Inertial velocity. No current flight plan. Trajectory’s…erratic as hell.”
Miller places her hands on the console, voice steady but edged with concern.
MILLER: “Get into intercept mode. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
Suddenly—
BEEP.
A yellow indicator light pulses slowly.
Wilson looks over.
WILSON: “Mu-Th-Ur wants your attention, Captain.”
Miller closes her eyes briefly, steadying herself.
MILLER: “…Yeah. Yellow light means it’s for me.”
She stands.
The low hum of the ship seems to grow louder as she moves toward the MOTHER interface chamber—the cold, cathedral-like computer core.
The door slides open with a hiss.
Miller steps inside.
_____
THE USCSS CRONUS
The MOTHER 6000 Interface Chamber is a cold, sterile pod at the heart of the Montero—white light panels glowing like a hospital morgue, consoles humming with low electronic murmurs. Captain Vanessa Miller sits in the singular chair, its restraints resting around her arms like unused shackles. Frost still clings to her eyelashes from cryosleep, and her throat is dry.
She clears her voice.
MILLER: “MUTHUR, request interface 2037. Ready for inquiry.”
The monitors flicker—strings of green text scrolling upward like coded whispers.
MUTHUR / MU-TH-UR 6000
Acknowledged. Interface 2037 engaged. State your request, Captain Miller.
Miller exhales, steadying herself.
MILLER: “Why were we awakened outside scheduled arrival coordinates?”
A pause. The machine thinks in silent lightning.
MUTHUR:
The Company has identified a distress signal broadcast from a nearby vessel.
Designation: USCSS Cronus. Weyland Heliades-class science exploration spacecraft. Launched 2110. Declared missing. Approximate elapsed time since loss: 73 years.
Miller’s fingers tighten around the edge of the console.
Seventy. Years.
MILLER: “…Jesus.”
The screen shifts, printing orders line by line—stark and clinical.
> PRIORITY SALVAGE OPERATION AUTHORIZED.
> 1. Recover scientific data and biological samples from the USCSS Cronus.
> 2. Escort the Cronus to Anchorpoint Station or nearest Weyland-Yutani corporate facility.
> 3. Rescue surviving crew, if applicable.
> 4. All Montero personnel are required to participate.
> Failure to comply = Total forfeiture of shares and compensation.
Miller closes her eyes. Her jaw clenches.
She stands slowly and steps out into the corridor, the door sealing behind her with a hydraulic gasp. The hum of the Montero follows her like an exhale.
The crew is already gathered on the bridge. They know something is wrong—bodies tense, eyes on her.
Davis sits at the pilot’s console, tapping nervously. Wilson stands upright, too calm. Cham and Rye linger near the overhead display, still smelling of coolant and cargo bay grease.
Miller steps forward, posture firm.
MILLER: “We’ve been awakened because of a distress signal. The ship is the USCSS Cronus—Weyland science vessel, missing for seventy years. The Company wants it recovered.”
Cham whistles under his breath.
Rye stares hard, like something in her is already bracing for bad news.
RYE: “Why us? Weyland-Yutani doesn’t hire us to play rescue team. I run diagnostics. I fix cooling lines. That’s my contract.”
Miller meets her eyes—firm but not unkind.
MILLER: “There’s a clause in all of our contracts requiring us to respond to priority distress signals of Company vessels. If we refuse, we lose everything. End-of-run bonuses included.”
The room goes quiet.
Rye looks away, jaw set.
RYE: “…Yeah. I understand.”
A subtle nod passes between Cham and Miller—two people used to swallowing orders they don’t like.
MILLER: “Davis. What’ve you got on the Cronus?”
Davis pulls up the holo-scan. The wireframe model of the Cronus flickers—tilted, drifting, rotating slowly in dark space like a dead whale in black water.
DAVIS: “It’s a Weyland SEV M3 Heliades-class science exploration vessel. The Class-D science module is missing—jettisoned or torn off. The ship’s running on emergency power only.”
Wilson frowns.
WILSON: “…70 years adrift, but still intact? That’s improbable. Something kept systems partially active.”
Davis shakes her head.
DAVIS: “Engines are offline. Life support is offline. Comms array is dead. MUTHUR is unresponsive.”
Miller steps closer to the holo-display.
The Cronus rotates slowly, its hull scarred, lights dim—like a tomb.
DAVIS: “The main airlock—C-1—is sealed. But I’ve got a green manual override on Deck A, airlock A-1. That’s our entry point.”
Rye crosses her arms.
RYE: “So we’re walking into a seventy-year-old crypt.”
Cham tries for humor—soft, nervous.
CHAM: “Could’ve picked a nicer morning to play ghost hunters.”
Davis gives a thin smile—one that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Miller looks at each of them in turn.
MILLER: “We do this by the book. We board, assess conditions, locate survivors if any. Recover data and samples. Secure the ship. Then we tow her to Anchorpoint. No improvising. No heroics.”
Wilson, savoring this, steps forward with corporate smoothness.
WILSON: “And remember—this is a Company vessel. Everything aboard belongs to Weyland-Yutani. We maintain chain of custody. Clear?”
Rye’s look could cut steel.
Cham puts a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Miller nods once.
MILLER: “Prep suits. Lock magnetic boots. Helm, bring us alongside for docking approach.”
The Montero turns, maneuvering thrusters firing in short bursts.
Out the viewport—
The USCSS Cronus hangs in the void, silent and ancient, its hull half-frozen, windows dark.
Like something waiting.
Watching.
_____
CROSSING THE VOID
The Montero shudders as its thrusters fire in short, controlled bursts—holding a steady position alongside the drifting hulk of the USCSS Cronus. The dark vessel looms close, its hull scarred and rimmed with frost, like the carcass of some long-dead leviathan.
Davis keys the controls, voice steady but tight.
DAVIS: “Autopilot engaged. We’re holding position relative to Cronus’s drift vector.”
Cham eye-checks the umbilical controls at the airlock interface—then shakes his head.
CHAM: “Negative on deploying the umbilical. I’m not risking hull stress on the Montero—Cronus is tumbling too unevenly.” He turns to Miller.
CHAM: “I’ve set transport cables instead. Mag-locked. We haul ourselves across.” Miller nods once—approving the caution.
MILLER: “Smart call. We maintain separation distance. If Cronus destabilizes, we cut loose without dragging Montero into her debris wake.”
Wilson adjusts his compression suit gloves, watching with that unreadable corporate stillness.
Rye zips her helmet seal with a curt, agitated snap.
The five crew stand in the airlock—breathing fast inside their Mk50 compression suits. The helmets seal with a final hiss. Heartbeat monitors blink softly across their chests.
No one says it out loud, but every one of them knows:
This is no simple salvage run.
The inner lock cycles.
The hatch opens to the stars.
The void is total silence.
Cham leads the way—his boots lock onto the first tether cable with a metallic clack. The others follow, one by one, pulling themselves across the distance, their bodies suspended in blackness lit only by suit lamps and faint ship lights.
The Cronus grows large—a dark cathedral of metal and shadow.
They land lightly on the Cronus’s hull, mag-boots locking into place. Cham moves to the manual override at Airlock A-1, hands steady but jaw set.
CHAM: “Mechanism’s locked and corroded. Gonna need to muscle it.”
He braces himself—grunting as he forces the jammed controls.
Metal shrieks.
A shower of ancient frost shakes loose.
The hatch gives.
The crew pushes inside.
The inner door seals behind them.
Gravity hums on—weak, but present.
Emergency lights flicker dim amber along the corridor.
The air smells stale—cold plastic, old metal, and something faintly organic.
They step further in—
And stop.
A headless body lies slumped against the corridor wall, suit torn open, dried blood and pale gray matter splattered behind him. A 37A2 pump shotgun lies beside his hip.
But it’s not just the gore.
His arms are wrong.
Too long. Joints misplaced. Bones stretched beneath the suit fabric.
Rye takes a step back.
Her breath fogs inside her helmet.
RYE (shaken): “What… the hell…”
Miller crouches, examining without touching.
Her voice tries to stay clinical—but there’s an edge.
MILLER: “His physiology… changed. Mutated. Does any of this ring a bell to you, Wilson?”
Wilson keeps his face perfectly still.
WILSON: “No. I have no prior knowledge of this.”
His tone is smooth—too smooth.
Cham quietly picks up the shotgun—checks the chamber.
CHAM: “Might come in handy. Just saying.”
No one argues.
Their stress shows in the silence.
Miller pulls up the Cronus blueprint on her electronic datapad.
MILLER: “Cryo pods are further inside. We need to check for survivors.”
She points.
MILLER: “Cham, Rye, Davis—you three go to Cryo Deck A. Stabilize any crew, assess injuries. No heroics.”
Rye nods. Davis takes point. Cham tightens his grip on the shotgun.
MILLER: “Wilson, you’re with me. We’re checking the Cronus’s MUTHUR core.”
She glances at the collapsed stairwell on the map:
DO NOT USE ACCESS STAIRWELL — STRUCTURAL FAILURE
They move in two directions.
The MUTHUR 2000 chamber is silent—dark screens, dead power feeds. A single emergency node blinks slowly like a dying heartbeat.
Wilson produces a keycard. Company issue.
He slides it into the primary console.
Nothing—
Then—
The room blinks to life, lights flickering awake in spasms. Fans groan. Terminals begin to hum.
MUTHUR’s voice stutters, then stabilizes.
MUTHUR 2000:
System status: Partial restoration.
Life support: Reactivating.
Comms array: Offline — repairs required.
Engine controls: Offline — repairs required.
Primary ship systems: Active.
A softer chime follows.
CRYOSTASIS SYSTEMS — REAWAKENING.
Five life sign indicators glow green. Wilson swallows. Miller looks at him sharply.
MILLER: “The crew is waking up.”
He nods.
No excitement.
Just calculation.
Miller turns.
MILLER: “Fine. Let’s move. We join the others. The Cronus crew is going to need help.”
She doesn’t say what they’re all thinking:
Something on this ship took a man’s head clean off and stretched his bones like taffy.
And whatever did it?
It might still be here.
_____
THE CRYPODS CHAMBER 3 AND AVA-6
The corridor feels narrower now, shadows pooling in the corners. Miller, Wilson, Cham, Rye, and Davis stop before the massive steel door of Cryopod Chamber 3. Emergency lights cast jagged lines across the walls, flickering in unsettling rhythm.
Miller crouches slightly, running gloved hands along the cold metal. Claw marks scar the wall and the door frame, gouges deep enough to catch the light in uneven shadows.
MILLER (grim): “These aren’t human marks.”
A silence follows—tense, suffocating. Everyone’s stress level spikes, hearts hammering beneath their compression suits.
Cham exhales sharply.
CHAM: “Manual override. I can force the door, but I’ll need help. Rye?”
Rye nods, determination etched on her face. Together, they twist, lever, and pull at the jammed locking mechanism. The metallic screech echoes through the corridor like a scream. Sparks flicker. The group freezes with every loud creak, imagining what else might be listening in the shadows.
Finally—the door gives way with a hiss and a shudder. They step inside.
Cryopod Chamber 3 is chaos incarnate. Smoke hisses from venting defrosting pods, curling around scattered tools and overturned crates. Five cryopods slowly slide open, revealing frost-rimmed, pale faces awakening from decades-long stasis.
The other pods lie empty or hold the remains of decomposing bodies, frost-crusted and grotesque.
A lone figure stands still near the far wall. Dark hair clings to her shoulders. Her uniform bears the tag AVA-6.
Wilson’s voice cuts the silence.
WILSON: “That’s the Cronus crew’s android. Model AVA-6.”
The android’s eyes flicker, then focus. White synthetic blood trickles from her head joint, staining her uniform. She sways, almost collapsing. Cham steps forward, steadying her carefully.
Rye kneels to inspect her head.
RYE: “Looks like a serious injury… maybe internal sensor damage too. We’ll stabilize it.”
Miller’s gaze shifts across the room. Life support hums louder, heating slowly stabilizing. The air is warmer, tinged with antiseptic and the faint metallic scent of old blood.
The group slowly begins removing their compression suits, breaths fogging in the rising heat. AVA-6’s gaze returns to clarity.
AVA-6 (mechanical, cautious): “I do not recognize your faces. You are not part of the Cronus crew. Memory fragments are missing… multiple access points offline due to damage. My priority: administer vaccine against deadly virus to all personnel.”
She begins searching a medical compartment—sliding open drawers with precise, mechanical movements. Syringes glint under emergency lighting.
Miller gently places a hand over AVA-6’s arm, careful not to startle her.
MILLER: “Tell us more. Deadly virus?”
AVA-6’s eyes lock on Miller. Her voice is flat, but urgency pulses beneath the monotone.
AVA-6: “Biological samples recovered from LV-1113 contain a pathogen highly transmissible via airborne particles. Fire eliminated most active material during containment. The Cronus science team developed a treatment: the 26-Draconis strain derivative. Untreated, infection causes severe mutations in human physiology.”
Miller nods grimly, recalling the grotesque, elongated arms of the earlier body.
MILLER: “Go ahead. We’ve already seen the effects firsthand.”
AVA-6 methodically selects five syringes, each labeled with the 26-Draconis strain derivative. She moves to each Montero crew member in turn, injecting the treatment with precise efficiency.
The group exchanges tense glances as the cure enters their systems. Fear, uncertainty, and relief mingle in the chamber’s warm, stale air.
Cham adjusts the strap on his suit’s harness, watching AVA-6 carefully.
CHAM (low): “If this stuff works, we just might survive whatever else is on this ship.”
Rye tightens her fists, eyes scanning the room.
RYE: “I hope it works. Because I don’t want to find out the hard way what the alternative looks like.”
Miller steps back, her gaze sweeping the chamber. She knows this is only the beginning—the Cronus is old, damaged, and something is still hunting aboard.
_____
THE AWAKENING OF THE CRONUS CREW
The hum of the Cronus grows steady now, faint vibrations reverberating through the deck plates. Life support fully restored. Emergency lights cast pale, flickering shadows on frost-tinged walls.
The remaining Cronus crew—Johns, Reid, Flynn, Cooper, and Clayton—stir from decades of stasis. Their movements are slow, awkward, like infants relearning the mechanics of muscle. Limbs ache, joints creak. Every breath is a labor.
They move toward the Examination Room, a small medlab off the cryodeck. The air is heavy, warmed by life support; the smell of old metal and sterilized compounds lingers.
Rye and Flynn set up rehydration stations. Tubes drip slowly, fluids glimmering in the dim light. Cooper groans, clutching his temples.
COOPER (strained): “My head… it feels like it’s splitting open. God… my skull…”
Rye kneels beside him, scanning vitals with a portable monitor.
RYE: “Pressure’s high, irregular pulse. You’re dehydrated, probably from stasis—but there’s more here. Gimme your arm.”
Flynn assists, wrapping the cuff around Cooper’s arm. Cooper wobbles, grimacing.
Johns, the second officer, approaches Miller cautiously, voice tight.
JOHNS: “You… you’re saying we’ve been in cryosleep for seventy years. And there’s a virus aboard? We absolutely must administer antivirals immediately.”
AVA-6 steps closer, her mechanical movements precise.
AVA-6: “It has been done. Administered as quickly as possible. All active crew members have received the 26-Draconis strain derivative.”
Miller folds her arms, assessing Johns carefully.
MILLER: “Weyland-Yutani sent us. We need to get you safely back to the nearest station. Is there anything else we should know about your expedition?”
Johns exhales slowly, voice trembling as if he’s summoning memories he hasn’t touched in decades.
JOHNS: “We went to LV-1113, 26-Draconis system. Ancient ruins… unknown civilization. We recovered artifacts, ampoules with black liquid, other objects. Contamination—airborne. Our scientists… developed the 26-Draconis derivative to counteract it. We left in a hurry. Field laboratory module stayed behind. Of the thirty crew, only five remain.”
The weight of his words hangs in the air.
Suddenly, Cooper screams—high-pitched, agonized.
COOPER: “Ahhh! No! No, stop!”
He rips off his shirt in panic. Blood blooms across his back in dark, glistening streaks. His muscles spasm violently.
Rye stumbles back, horror in her eyes.
RYE: “Oh… my God!”
AVA-6 snaps into action, her hands drawing a scalpel with uncanny precision.
Flynn steps back, frozen, eyes wide—helpless.
Gulps of blood burst from Cooper’s back with shocking violence. His body arches, veins rupturing.
COOPER (screaming): “AHHHHHH!”
Spines thrust outward from his back—sharp, pale protrusions pushing through muscle and skin. His screams echo in the chamber.
A blood-filled sac tears free, landing with a wet thump on the floor.
From it, a small, white creature wriggles—slippery, sinewy, and alien. Its skin glistens, wet and slick, like newborn ivory. The creature glances at AVA-6, who extends a hand to contain it.
But before she can grasp it, the creature darts—slipping effortlessly into a ventilation shaft.
Cooper collapses, utterly still, his back a grisly ruin. Blood pools beneath him.
Silence erupts. Even the hum of life support seems muted, as if recoiling.
The crew exchanges tense, silent nods. Fear is thick, but determination is thicker. The Cronus isn’t done with them yet—and whatever birthed from Cooper’s back is only the beginning.
_____
ACT.2
T-MINUS 10 MINUTES
The shock of Cooper’s death still hangs thick in the air—metallic blood-mist lingering like smoke, the medlab’s emergency lights flickering against the torn remains of his body. The vent grille where the pale creature vanished rattles once, then falls still. The silence that follows is suffocating.
Cham stands beneath the vent, shotgun raised, eyes tracking every shadow. His chest rises and falls in tight, shallow breaths.
Miller keeps her voice steady. “Johns… Cooper should’ve taken the antiviral. You said everyone did.”
Johns trembles as he crouches beside the mangled corpse. His hands shake as he pats down Cooper’s torn jacket. “I—I don’t know. Cooper was rational. He wouldn’t have… unless—” He pulls out a cracked syringe, the needle bent. “He didn’t take his dose. He chose not to.”
Rye mutters, “He knew he was infected… and said nothing.” Her voice carries a betrayal she doesn’t bother hiding.
Wilson steps back from the body, tightening his suit collar as if the room has shrunk. "We need to contain whatever came out of him right now."
Miller turns to Johns. “Weapons? Detection gear? Anything that helps us track it?”
Johns swallows hard. “Deck A. Lockers and showers room. We stored an M41A pulse rifle there. But… no scanners. None that still work.”
Miller nods sharply. “Alright. Cham, Davis—you two go back to the Montero. Bring repair equipment for the Cronus, weapons, the Incinerator Unit, and the Motion Tracker. Take shuttle Daisy and come back through airlock D-5. Understood?”
Cham shoulders the shotgun. “Yeah. We’ll bring back what we can.”
Davis forces a half-smile, the adrenaline buzz barely hiding her nerves. “Like the old days, huh? Running supplies under fire.”
“Just go,” Miller says.
The trek back through the dimly lit corridors feels longer than before. Every distant clang echoes like footsteps. Air recyclers wheeze. Shadows twitch.
Cham and Davis reach Junction A-1, cycle the airlock, and launch themselves back across the transport cables, drifting through open space until they reach the Montero. They land awkwardly but intact.
Inside the Montero, everything feels familiar—but wrong. Almost like the ship is holding its breath.
Davis moves fast, powering up the Daisy shuttle. Console lights stutter, boot-up systems hum. “Come on, girl… don’t act up on me now.”
Cham loads gear into the shuttle—tools, sealed cases, a service pistol, the harpoon grappler. He pats down lockers. “Where the hell…? Miller, do you copy? I’m not finding the Motion Tracker. Or the incinerator.”
Miller’s voice crackles through the intercom. “But we packed them.”
“Not here,” Cham insists. “It’s like they vanished.”
Miller exhales a curse. “Forget it. Bring what you have. Get back to the Cronus.”
Cham nods, climbing aboard Daisy. “On our way.”
Then the Montero deck trembles. A violent jolt knocks Cham sideways as the Montero shudders like something tore free from its bones.
Static breaks through the ship-wide intercom—then (Montero) Mu-Th-Ur’s calm, emotionless voice:
“Displacement drive malfunction. Reactor overload in T-minus ten minutes. The crew must abandon the Montero immediately.”
Davis goes pale. “What? No—no, no, no—there was nothing wrong with the reactor!”
But the autopilot engages itself, thrusters firing as the Montero pivots sharply away from the Cronus. The transport cables snap and drift.
Cham is thrown against the wall. “Shit—!”
Mu-Th-Ur repeats,
“The crew must abandon the Montero immediately.”
“Emergency course initiation underway.”
The ship’s engines roar. The Montero accelerates into a retreat trajectory.
Cham grabs the Daisy doorframe. “Davis—we need to go! Now!”
“I’m trying!” Davis slams the launch control, punching in overrides as the shuttle bay prepares to eject.
Back aboard the Cronus, Miller’s voice shakes as she shouts into the comm:
“Mu-Th-Ur, cancel the countdown! Engage coolant systems! Reduce reactor stress!”
Mu-Th-Ur answers instantly, cold and unyielding:
“Unable to comply. Destruction of the Montero cannot be stopped.
Special Order 966 is in effect.” Miller freezes.
Wilson slowly turns toward her. “Special Order… what?”
“I don’t know,” Miller breathes. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Miller and Wilson sprint to Cronus airlock A-1.
Miller presses her face against the small round window. Wilson stands beside her, watching the horror unfold.
In the distance—
a growing bloom of blinding white-blue light.
The Montero reaches critical mass.
A silent flash.
A shockwave rolling through the stars.
The Montero is gone.
Miller’s hands go to her head, fingers gripping her hair as if trying to pull herself back into reality. She gasps, stunned.
Wilson watches her carefully, his expression unreadable. Maybe sympathy. Maybe calculation.
Davis’s strained voice finally cuts through comm static:
“Miller! We’re… we’re okay—Daisy’s away. Heading to the Cronus. Repeat—Cham and I are clear.”
Cham mutters in the background, “We’re coming in hot…”
Miller swallows, still staring at where her ship used to be.
“Just… just get back here,” she murmurs.
The Cronus feels suddenly much smaller.
Much darker.
Much more isolated.
And now it’s the only thing standing between them and the void.
_____
CHANGE OF PLANS
Deck A still shudders faintly from the shockwave of the Montero’s distant death. Dust drifts from vents. The emergency lights cast long red shadows across the walls, like veins pulsing through a dying machine.
Cham and Davis stand near the Daisy, still breathing hard under their compression suits, adrenaline slowly withdrawing from their systems. Miller gathers everyone in the Examination Room. The tension is suffocating.
Miller exhales sharply, rubbing both temples.
“Well,” she says bitterly, “we can kiss our lovely bounty goodbye. Seventy-two tanks of Tritium—gone. And my damn ship with it.”
Cham folds his arms, jaw clenched.
“Maybe we can file a claim with WY,” he says. “Ask them to give us the Cronus. After all this? Seems fair.”
Clayton’s head snaps up.
“Absolutely not,” she says. Her voice is cold steel. “The Cronus is company property. Everything aboard—including the specimens—is property of Weyland-Yutani. The defense division will want all of it intact.”
Miller steps toward her, close enough to smell Clayton’s stale cryosleep breath.
“I was sent here by Weyland-Yutani,” Miller replies. “And as ranking officer from the responding vessel, I have authority over this situation. Final say included.”
Clayton smiles—slow, practiced, poisonous.
“We’ll see about that, Captain.”
The room grows colder.
Rye clears her throat, trying to redirect the tension. She activates the medlab’s interface: a cracked, flickering monitor tied to the Cronus’s Mu-Th-Ur 2000. The screen buzzes alive in a pale green glow.
MU-TH-UR 2000:
PRIMARY SYSTEMS: PARTIAL FUNCTIONALITY.
REPAIR PRIORITIES:
1. REGAIN CONTROL OF BRIDGE — DECK B
2. REPAIR ENGINE SYSTEMS — DECK C
3. REACTIVATE COMMS ARRAY — EXTERNAL/HULL ACCESS REQUIRED
Johns steps forward, rubbing his aching neck.
“We also need new carbon filters for the air scrubbers,” he adds. “The old ones won’t last long.”
Cham checks the list, already mentally sorting tools and access routes.
“I’ll head to reactor relay control on Deck C,” he says, tightening his pack straps. “That’s where engine diagnostics feed in. If something’s fried, that’s where we’ll see it.”
Miller nods.
“Good. Rye, Johns, and Reid—you’re with Cham. Keep each other alive down there.”
Reid locks her sidearm into place, nerves visible in her twitching fingers.
“You really think that… thing… is still on board?”
Miller answers bluntly:
“Count on it.”
Then she turns to the others.
“Second group: we’re going to the bridge—Deck B. We verify damage, check system status, and reestablish helm control.”
Davis steps up, shaking off leftover panic from the Montero’s destruction.
“Copy that. Bridge first. Then we hunt this thing.”
Wilson straightens his tie—an absurd gesture given the carnage around them.
“I’ll assist with system reinitialization,” he says calmly. Too calmly.
Flynn clutches a medical kit, hands trembling.
“I… I’ll go with you. Someone might need help.”
Clayton joins them, arms folded.
“Lead the way, Captain.”
Ava-6 touches her temple, face blank but troubled.
“I will accompany this team as well,” she says. “I’m initiating another self-diagnostic. Several memory clusters remain inaccessible. A physical repair may be required.”
Miller crosses to the locker. Dust falls as she forces it open. The M41A pulse rifle hangs inside like an old friend. She grabs it, checks the magazine, and slings it over her shoulder.
“Alright,” she says, voice hardening. “Let’s get to work.”
Cham pumps his 12-gauge once, the sound echoing down the corridor.
“And after repairs?”
Miller glances toward the ventilation shaft where the neomorph escaped.
Eyes narrow. Jaw tightens.
“Then,” she says, “we deal with the creature.”
The teams split—boots striking metal, radios crackling, the Cronus groaning as if protesting every step they take deeper into her ancient wounds.
The hunt begins.
_____
CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH
(Miller's group) The bridge of the Cronus lies in eerie stillness, lit only by the emergency strips pulsing a sickly amber glow across cracked consoles and hanging wires. Dust drifts lazily in the cold air.
Davis moves first, stepping past the captain’s chair and sliding into the forward cockpit. “Power’s flickering… half the flight boards aren’t even booting,” she mutters, tapping sluggish screens.
Miller kneels beside a darkened console with Wilson. “All right—auxiliary control first. If we can push enough juice through the grid, maybe we can get at least partial helm control.”
Wilson nods nervously. “Right. Or we fry the whole system. But hey, that’s what corporate pays me for.”
Miller shoots him a sharp glare. “They barely pay you to breathe. Keep working.”
Near the rear of the bridge, Ava-6 sits perfectly still on a metal stool, fingers plugged into a diagnostic interface. Her eyes flicker as data scrolls across the screen beside her.
Flynn and Clayton wait by the hatch, whispering to each other. Clayton looks uneasy. Flynn looks terrified.
Minutes pass.
A faint click echoes through the bridge.
Ava-6 emits a short, sharp mechanical squeal—a glitching sound no synthetic ever should make. Miller immediately rises and approaches her.
“Ava?” she says, voice low. “What’s wrong?”
The synthetic lifts her head slowly, her expression flat—until her eyes snap into unsettling focus. She locks onto Miller’s gaze with unnatural precision.
Softly, almost human:
“I remember everything… Captain—watch out.”
Miller barely has time to turn.
A shrill, wet hiss erupts through the bridge as a slender white blur explodes out of a ventilation shaft above the cockpit.
“DAVIS!” Miller shouts.
Davis twists in her seat—too late. The neomorph drops from the air like a blade. Its elongated, bone-white skull slices down as its talons rake across her throat.
A spray of arterial blood mists the cockpit windows.
Davis collapses without a sound.
Miller raises the M41 pulse rifle and fires—short, panicked bursts—but the creature is already gone, skittering backward up the shaft with impossible speed.
Silence crashes down.
Wilson staggers back against a console. “Jesus Christ—Jesus Christ—”
Ava-6 calmly withdraws her fingers from the interface. “The creature is adapting. It used the ventilation system. We are not safe here.”
Miller’s breath shakes with fury and grief. Her gaze darts to the rear of the bridge.
“Flynn? Clayton?”
The hatch stands open—empty.
“They’re gone,” Miller growls. “They ran the second it hit.”
(Cham's group) A deep blue emergency light throbs inside the reactor relay control room, giving everything a drowned, underwater look. The air tastes metallic, tinged with ozone. The hum of failing machinery vibrates through the floor.
The room is wrecked. Consoles are cracked. Chairs lie overturned. A hulking pressure suit—old, torn, scorched—lies motionless on the ground like a discarded skin.
Cham steps forward, scanning the monitors. “Engines are still connected to external feeds,” he announces. “Good news. No EVA required.”
Rye rubs her temples. “Thank God for that.”
Johns leans in beside Cham. “How long to bring the engines back online?”
Cham checks another display. “Three or four hours. Radiation’s elevated, but not lethal. Just… uncomfortable.”
Rye exhales shakily. “Comfort stopped existing the moment we boarded this ship.”
A sudden harsh noise—leather scraping metal.
Reid shoves Johns violently aside. “Don’t stand so close!” she snarls, voice cracking.
Cham steps toward her. “Reid? Hey—slow down—”
Reid whips around, eyes jaundiced and glowing faintly from within. Her breathing is ragged, wet.
“Oh no…” Rye whispers.
Reid doubles over, clutching her head. “Something’s… wrong—get back—get BACK!”
At the same moment, the “spacesuit” on the floor begins to rise.
Slowly. Wrongly. Bonelessly.
The suit’s arms dangle like broken limbs as something moves inside, pushing against the material. A gurgling hiss escapes its helmet.
Rye screams. “It’s not a suit—IT’S NOT A SUIT!”
The abomination charges. Rye swings her maintenance jack with a desperate yell, the metal cracking against the creature’s helmet.
Johns grabs a restraining strap from the wall. “Cham—HELP ME!”
Cham moves instantly, tackling the beast’s legs. Johns loops the strap around it, tightening it as the creature thrashes and screeches with a layered, distorted voice.
“Hold it—HOLD IT!” Cham roars.
Johns flicks his lighter—ignites the suit.
The creature shrieks, a deafening, agonized howl as flames consume the old fabric and the grotesque form inside. The stench of burning flesh fills the room.
But behind them, Reid screams louder.
Cham and Johns spin around.
Reid’s bones crack beneath her skin as her spine elongates. Her fingers fuse into talon-like shapes. Yellow sludge drips from her mouth.
“Kill me—KILL ME—” she chokes.
Cham raises his sidearm, voice trembling. “Reid, I’m sorry.”
He fires.
Reid collapses, her half-formed abomination body twitching once before falling still.
Smoke curls around them. The room is silent except for the hum of dying machinery.
Rye leans against a console, face pale and hollow. “The vaccine doesn’t work,” she whispers.
Her voice breaks.
“If Reid turned… we can all become like her.”
Cham looks at the scorched remains of their fallen crewmates.
He doesn’t argue.
He can’t.
_____
ACT.3
THE ACTING OUT
Junction B-1 is bathed in a cold, flickering emergency light as Miller, Wilson, and Ava-6 rush in from the bridge. The moment they enter, they freeze.
Flynn stands in the center of the junction, breathing heavily, a blood-slicked knife in his grip. Clayton lies sprawled on the deck plating, her blouse soaked scarlet, eyes half-open, lifeless.
Miller steadies her rifle, voice low and controlled.
“Flynn… what happened?”
Flynn doesn’t advance, but he doesn’t back up either. His voice trembles.
“Captain… I—I’m sorry. Clayton was losing it. She came at me. She tried to stab me. I had to defend myself.”
Miller’s eyes flick to Clayton’s corpse. Then to Flynn’s face. He has scratches, but no bleeding. Her jaw tenses.
At that moment Cham’s group arrives—Rye, Johns, Cham himself, shaken, exhausted. The smell of burnt flesh and melted plastic still clings to their clothes.
Rye speaks first, voice hoarse.
“Flynn’s not lying… Reid turned. Full mutation. We had to put her down.”
Rye swallows hard. “We’re all vulnerable. The vaccine… it didn’t stop it.”
Ava-6 steps forward, expression tightening in a mixture of guilt and urgency.
“I’ve regained full memory access. I was going to warn all of you.”
Everyone turns to her.
Ava-6 continues, tone clinical but burdened:
“Inoculation prevents Neomorph transformation. But… it does not, under certain circumstances stop conversion into another form—an unstable abomination. I witnessed early-stage mutations while the Cronus crew slept. Not everyone transforms. Clayton tried to preserve contaminated vials and spores for retrieval by Weyland-Yutani’s defense division.”
Miller lifts her head sharply.
“Clayton? Why?”
Ava-6 answers without hesitation:
“She wanted the organism as a weapon system. The Neomorphic spores—when airborne—infect at extreme speed. They’re responsible for what happened to Reid… and Cooper… and the others. I destroyed most of them, but not all. Contamination persisted.”
Miller takes a breath, pushing grief and anger down.
“I’m not waiting around to mutate. We finish repairs, eliminate the creature, and get this ship to Anchorpoint. Cham—can you get the engines online?”
Cham wipes sweat from his brow.
“Yeah… yeah, Captain. We’ll finish what we started.”
“Good. Go. The rest of us return to the bridge.”
Cham leads Johns and Rye away at a brisk pace, disappearing back toward engineering.
(Back on the Bridge) Hours pass—slow, heavy, mechanical hours.
Sparks snap from a console. Ava-6 works with quick, practiced movements. Miller, hands still trembling faintly from the ambush on Deck B, reroutes power manually.
The lights overhead stabilize—and then brighten.
A soft hum fills the bridge.
Ava-6 straightens.
“The bridge systems are fully restored.”
Miller exhales.
“Finally. Now where the hell are Wilson and Flynn?”
A beat.
Miller activates the intercom:
“Wilson. Flynn. Report.”
Static.
Cham’s voice answers instead, strained through interference:
“Captain… something’s happening. Do you need us? We’re almost done with the engines.”
Miller shakes her head.
“No. Stay on task. Ava-6 and I will find them.”
(Deck B) The hallway leading to Clayton’s room feels wrong—quiet in a way that suggests something waiting.
Ava-6 holds the Watatsumi bolt gun at the ready. Miller grips her pulse rifle one-handed—the other pressed against the ache of bruised ribs.
Voices drift from behind Clayton’s door—Wilson’s voice, tense, demanding answers; Flynn’s voice, calm, controlled, unnatural.
“…you weren’t bleeding after she cut you, Flynn,” Wilson says. “That’s impossible.”
Miller and Ava-6 exchange a look, then push the door open.
What they see hits them like a punch:
Wilson dangles in Flynn’s grip, his boots barely touching the floor. Flynn’s expression is cold, almost bored.
“Flynn!” Miller shouts.
Flynn snaps his head toward her—and crushes Wilson’s throat with one hand. A wet crack echoes through the room. Wilson collapses like a discarded puppet, eyes empty.
Miller’s breath catches.
Ava-6 fires instantly.
THUNK— the bolt slams into Flynn’s abdomen, tearing a fist-sized hole.
White pearlescent fluid sprays the wall.
Flynn staggers—but does not fall.
He looks down at the wound, annoyed more than injured.
“Impressive,” he mutters.
Ava-6 moves to fire again, but Flynn lunges and swats her with brutal android strength. Ava-6 slams into a wall, sparks spitting from her skull. She collapses, unmoving.
Miller fires a burst from the M41.
Rounds punch through Flynn’s shoulder and neck, splashing white blood everywhere.
Flynn barely reacts.
He closes the distance in a second—grabs her—and drives her backward into the metal partition wall. A sharp shard of plating spears into Miller’s lower side. She can no longer move.
She gasps, choking back a scream.
Flynn holds her pinned, studying her like a lab result.
Miller’s voice is thin but defiant.
“Who… do you work for?”
Flynn leans close, smiling with quiet satisfaction.
“Lasalle Bionational.
I was assigned to the Cronus in 2110 as a sleeper agent—long before the company publicly existed. Brendan Lasalle wanted revenge after Weyland-Yutani cast him out. I was programmed to sabotage the mission from the inside.”
He taps the side of his head.
“I even modified the vaccine Cooper thought he invented… without his knowledge. Just to render it useless.”
Miller tries to push him back, but she’s impaled in place. Her strength is fading fast.
Flynn plucks her personal communicator from her belt.
“I’ll be taking this.”
He steps toward the exit.
“Now,” he says casually, “I’m going to activate the Cronus self-destruct. You can count down the minutes yourself.”
He leaves the room, white blood dripping behind him.
Miller slumps against the wall, breath rattling… consciousness flickering.
Ava-6 lies motionless.
Wilson is dead.
The ship hums ominously around her.
And somewhere on the ship ...
a white Neomorph is still alive.
_____
PREPARE TO BE BOARDED
Miller regains consciousness with a violent gasp. Her vision swims—red emergency lights pulse across the room, strobing over walls smeared with white android blood and dark human blood. She tries to move and instantly screams: the jagged metal shard jutting from the wall is still driven through her abdomen, pinning her like an insect specimen.
A faint mechanical whirr echoes nearby.
Ava-6 opens her eyes. Her face is dented, pale polymer skin torn, white fluid leaking down her cheek. She pushes herself upright, staggering, then sees Miller impaled.
Ava-6 moves instantly—no hesitation, no fear. “Captain Miller, do not move.”
Miller grits her teeth. “Just pull me off it—quick.”
Ava-6 braces her hands on Miller’s torso and the metal sheet. With a single brutal mechanical jerk, she yanks Miller forward. Miller screams and collapses into Ava-6’s arms.
Ava-6 lowers her gently. “It is a superficial impalement. No organs have been compromised. You will survive.”
She grabs discarded clothing, tape, synthetic gauze—anything at hand—and wraps Miller’s midsection while the ship pulses with danger lights.
Then they hear it.
CLANG.
A heavy, metallic shudder reverberates through the Cronus’s hull. Something has docked.
Mu-Th-Ur 2000’s voice crackles through the speakers, distorted but unmistakably urgent:
“DANGER. EMERGENCY DESTRUCT SYSTEM ACTIVATED. THE SHIP WILL DETONATE IN T MINUS FIFTEEN MINUTES.”
Sirens erupt. Red beacons flash in frantic rhythm.
Miller pushes herself upright, breath ragged. “Flynn… he’s going for the reactor control. We have to stop him.”
Ava-6 nods. “Agreed. You cannot run, Captain. But I will assist you.”
They move—Miller limping, Ava-6 supporting her, the red lights bathing every corridor in the color of blood.
Halfway toward Deck C, they encounter silhouettes emerging from the smoke.
A squad of heavily armed people blocks the passageway—armor, rifles, flashlights cutting through haze.
A tall Black man steps forward. Impossibly tall. Steady. Commanding.
“I am Captain Adisa Bolaji of the USCSS Sotillo.” His voice is heavy, resonant. “Captain Miller, the Cronus is now property of Seegson Corporation.”
Miller doesn’t even flinch; she’s beyond corporate posturing. “Good for Seegson. But unless you want your new prize in pieces, we need to kill a rogue synthetic who just activated the self-destruct.”
A beat. Bolaji studies her—her pallor, her bleeding bandage, Ava-6’s cracked skull.
“Understood.” He looks back at his crew. “We’re helping them.”
Weapons raised, they move with urgency toward Deck C.
(Deck C) The hatch to the relay control room is already open. The sound of screaming metal, fists, and struggling bodies echoes from within.
They rush inside.
The blue emergency lights flash over carnage.
Johns lies on the floor—throat crushed, eyes open and glassy.
Flynn is towering in the center of the room, synthetic musculature bulging beneath torn flesh-like covering. He holds Cham by the throat—an effortless one-handed lift.
Cham’s legs kick weakly.
Rye stands nearby, sobbing, shotgun trained on Flynn but trembling so hard she can barely aim.
“LET HIM GO!” Rye cries, voice cracking.
Flynn tilts his head, almost playful. “Why not?”
He hurls Cham like a ragdoll.
Cham hits the wall with a sickening crack and drops to the floor, unmoving. Lifeless.
Rye screams and collapses, grief overtaking her.
Miller tries to stagger forward, but pain forces her to her knees. “Cham—damn it—Cham…”
Ava-6 lunges at Flynn with precision and fury, her movements a blur. She grapples him, driving him back—
But Flynn grabs a heavy metal conduit pipe and swings it down.
CRACK.
Ava-6’s skull splits open. White fluid sprays the wall. Her eyes flicker, spark, then darken as she collapses.
“AVAAAAA!” Miller cries out.
Flynn turns toward the newcomers.
Captain Bolaji steps forward without hesitation. “You should have stayed dead, machine.”
Flynn charges, android strength shaking the floor—
Bolaji fires an M41 Pulse Rifle burst.
The explosive rounds rip through Flynn—tearing synthetic flesh, splitting his torso, shredding internal components. Flynn stumbles forward, reaching out—
Then collapses, shattering apart, twitching once before going still.
Silence falls.
A long, terrible silence.
Then Mu-Th-Ur 2000 breaks it:
“THE OPTION TO OVERRIDE THE AUTODESTRUCT SEQUENCE HAS EXPIRED. THE SHIP WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN T MINUS TEN MINUTES.”
Bolaji turns to Miller, voice firm but grave. “We have to leave. Now.”
Miller nods, barely standing, tears streaking dirt and blood across her face. She gently lifts Rye to her feet. Rye is sobbing uncontrollably, clutching Miller as if the world is falling apart—which it is.
Miller whispers, voice broken but determined, “We’re leaving. All of us. Right now.”
Bolaji motions his team. “Move! Back to airlock A-1. The Sotillo is waiting.”
Together, Captain Bolaji’s group, Miller, and a devastated Rye hurry through the corridors—toward their only chance of survival as the Cronus counts down to its final moments.
_____
IT ISN'T OVER UNTIL IT'S OVER
Sirens howl through the dying ship, a constant rising and falling wail that vibrates in the metal under their boots. Red strobes pulse across the walls, painting the corridor in violent flashes like arterial bursts of light.
Mu-Th-Ur 2000:
“Warning: The ship will self-destruct in T minus five minutes.”
Bolaji takes point, M41 raised. Pinion follows close, jaw tight, scanning the shadows. Bein supports Miller by the arm, helping her keep pace. Rye stays tucked against Miller’s other side, silent except for her trembling breaths. Horton sweeps the rear, the incinerator trembling in his grip as the seconds fall away.
Bolaji murmurs:
“Almost there. Airlock A-1 should be just—”
The hatch slides open.
Two white shapes explode from the darkness.
Neomorphs.
Long-limbed. Bone-white. Fast as whips.
The first one hits Pinion before she can scream. Its talons hook her throat, and a spurt of arterial blood streaks across the bulkhead. She collapses instantly, her rifle clattering to the deck beside her.
Bolaji shouts:
“PINION!”
Horton reacts out of pure terror, blasting the corridor with a roaring jet of fire. The Neomorph recoils, its skin blistering and peeling in the flame, shrieking an inhuman, high-pitched squeal.
The second Neomorph leaps for Bolaji—but he tackles it sideways, slamming it into the wall. It lashes out, slicing a deep gash across his shoulder before Horton swings the flame its way, forcing it back.
Bein doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Miller and Rye.
Bein:
“Inside! NOW!”
She drags them through the Sotillo’s hatch. Miller stumbles but keeps Rye shielded with her body.
Bolaji shoves the injured Neomorph backward with a brutal kick.
Bolaji:
“Horton! Move!”
Horton unleashes one final blast of fire to keep the creatures at bay, then dives through the hatch. Bolaji follows, slamming his palm on the control pad.
The airlock door seals with a deep hydraulic thunk.
Inside the Sotillo, everyone gasps for breath. Rye sobs into Miller’s chest. Horton collapses to one knee, adrenaline shaking his arms.
Mu-Th-Ur 2000 (muffled through the walls):
“The ship will self-destruct in T minus one minute.”
Bein leaps into her pilot’s seat.
Bein:
“Hang on! I’m taking us off NOW!”
Bolaji, bleeding heavily but conscious, braces himself against the bulkhead.
Bolaji:
“Punch it, Bein!”
The Sotillo disengages with a violent jolt, thrusters firing. Through the viewport, the Cronus drifts away—broken, burning, doomed.
A bloom of white light swallows it.
The Cronus explodes in a deafening flash, tearing itself apart in the void. Shrapnel spins outward like a dying starburst. The shockwave rattles the Sotillo, alarms chirping, stabilizers whining.
Bein steadies the ship. The stars return.
Miller, shaking, exhales.
Rye clings to her, whispering through tears:
“They’re all gone… Cham… Davis… Wilson…”
Miller wraps her good arm around the girl.
Miller:
“We made it. That’s what matters now. We’re still here.”
Bolaji turns toward her, grim and resolute.
Bolaji:
“Then let’s make that count.”
The Sotillo burns through the darkness, leaving the fiery grave of the Cronus behind.
_____
END OF CINEMATIC
Play Report By Arthur Dallas
___
Main Characters
• Ms. Vanessa Miller — Captain of the USCSS Montero (Thrifty)
• Ms. Leah Davis — Pilot of the USCSS Montero (Adrenaline junkie)
• Ms. Kayla Rye — Technician on the USCSS Montero (Bitter)
• Mr. Lyron Cham — Cargo Handler on the USCSS Montero (Loyal)
• Mr. John J. Wilson — Corporate Liaison on the USCSS Montero (Ambitious)
Secondary Characters
• Mr. Albert Johns — Second Officer on the USCSS Cronus (Submissive)
• Ms. Valerie Reid — Security Officer on the USCSS Cronus (On Edge)
• Mr. Liam Flynn — Ship Medic on the USCSS Cronus (Fearful)
• Mr. Daniel Cooper — Chief Scientist on the USCSS Cronus (Rational)
• Ms. Lori Clayton — Corporate Liaison on the USCSS Cronus (Ruthless)
• Ms. Ava 6 — Android on the USCSS Cronus (Helpful)
• Mr. Adisa Bolaji — Captain of the Sotillo (Resolute)
• Ms. Pinion — Hired muscle on the Sotillo (Steadfast)
• Ms. Helen Bein — Pilot on the Sotillo (Cynical)
• Mr. Micky Horton — Mechanic on the Sotillo (Friendly)
• Lucas — Bionational synthetic undercover agent (Secret character)
_____
ACT.1
WAKING COLD
The USCSS Montero drifts against the endless black, its engines humming low like something sleeping and uneasy. Inside, the cryo-pods hiss open one by one, spilling out clouds of freezing mist.
Miller inhales sharply as the pod lid rises. Her muscles ache. Her mouth tastes like copper and dryness. She forces herself to sit upright, blinks through the haze, and steadies her breathing.
Davis, Rye, Cham, and Wilson follow, each emerging groggy and pale—the aftereffect of hypersleep dehydration setting into their bones. No one speaks at first. They move like ghosts through the corridor.
The lights flicker on in dull amber. The hum of life support feels too loud. They sit at the steel table of the Galley. Rehydration packs, nutrient bars, bitter coffee concentrate.
Miller, Davis, and Wilson eat quietly, heads down—still letting their minds return to their bodies.
Cham leans closer to Rye. His voice is gentle.
CHAM: “I collected 2,500 credits for your little brother’s operation.”
Rye freezes. Her eyes widen.
RYE: “…Cham, you—you shouldn’t have done that. How did you even get that kind of money?”
Cham swallows, expression soft but pained.
CHAM: “I sold my brother’s gold necklace. The one he—left behind. That’s the past. We’re looking ahead now.”
Rye’s breath catches. She reaches out, pulls him close—presses a kiss to his cheek and hugs him tight, holding on like she’s afraid to let go.
RYE (quiet, emotional): “Thank you, Cham. You’re like a brother to me.”
A brief warmth lingers between them.
Miller stands, clears her throat—command returning to her posture.
MILLER: “Alright. Everyone to stations. Cham, Rye—Deck B. Check the tritium cache, make sure nothing shifted during transit.” Cham nods, Rye wipes her face, composes herself, and the two leave.
The bridge is dim, industrial—screens booting up, faint static on comms. Miller, Davis, and Wilson settle into their seats.
Davis flicks through navigation interfaces, brows furrowing.
DAVIS: “…Star charts are off. Way off. We’re not in the right system.”
Miller leans forward, jaw tight.
MILLER: “Wilson—hail Sutter’s World traffic control.”
Wilson straightens his uniform jacket, clicks on the comm.
WILSON (professional tone): “This is the commercial star freighter Montero, out of Anchorpoint Station, calling Sutter’s World traffic control. Do you read me? Over.”
Static.
Davis keeps working—fingers flying.
DAVIS: “Found it. We’re about halfway there. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Miller exhales slowly.
MILLER: “Then why the hell were we woken up out here?”
A sharp tone beeps—sensor diagnostics pinging.
Davis stiffens.
DAVIS: “Picking something up. A ship. Drifting. Inertial velocity. No current flight plan. Trajectory’s…erratic as hell.”
Miller places her hands on the console, voice steady but edged with concern.
MILLER: “Get into intercept mode. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
Suddenly—
BEEP.
A yellow indicator light pulses slowly.
Wilson looks over.
WILSON: “Mu-Th-Ur wants your attention, Captain.”
Miller closes her eyes briefly, steadying herself.
MILLER: “…Yeah. Yellow light means it’s for me.”
She stands.
The low hum of the ship seems to grow louder as she moves toward the MOTHER interface chamber—the cold, cathedral-like computer core.
The door slides open with a hiss.
Miller steps inside.
_____
THE USCSS CRONUS
The MOTHER 6000 Interface Chamber is a cold, sterile pod at the heart of the Montero—white light panels glowing like a hospital morgue, consoles humming with low electronic murmurs. Captain Vanessa Miller sits in the singular chair, its restraints resting around her arms like unused shackles. Frost still clings to her eyelashes from cryosleep, and her throat is dry.
She clears her voice.
MILLER: “MUTHUR, request interface 2037. Ready for inquiry.”
The monitors flicker—strings of green text scrolling upward like coded whispers.
MUTHUR / MU-TH-UR 6000
Acknowledged. Interface 2037 engaged. State your request, Captain Miller.
Miller exhales, steadying herself.
MILLER: “Why were we awakened outside scheduled arrival coordinates?”
A pause. The machine thinks in silent lightning.
MUTHUR:
The Company has identified a distress signal broadcast from a nearby vessel.
Designation: USCSS Cronus. Weyland Heliades-class science exploration spacecraft. Launched 2110. Declared missing. Approximate elapsed time since loss: 73 years.
Miller’s fingers tighten around the edge of the console.
Seventy. Years.
MILLER: “…Jesus.”
The screen shifts, printing orders line by line—stark and clinical.
> PRIORITY SALVAGE OPERATION AUTHORIZED.
> 1. Recover scientific data and biological samples from the USCSS Cronus.
> 2. Escort the Cronus to Anchorpoint Station or nearest Weyland-Yutani corporate facility.
> 3. Rescue surviving crew, if applicable.
> 4. All Montero personnel are required to participate.
> Failure to comply = Total forfeiture of shares and compensation.
Miller closes her eyes. Her jaw clenches.
She stands slowly and steps out into the corridor, the door sealing behind her with a hydraulic gasp. The hum of the Montero follows her like an exhale.
The crew is already gathered on the bridge. They know something is wrong—bodies tense, eyes on her.
Davis sits at the pilot’s console, tapping nervously. Wilson stands upright, too calm. Cham and Rye linger near the overhead display, still smelling of coolant and cargo bay grease.
Miller steps forward, posture firm.
MILLER: “We’ve been awakened because of a distress signal. The ship is the USCSS Cronus—Weyland science vessel, missing for seventy years. The Company wants it recovered.”
Cham whistles under his breath.
Rye stares hard, like something in her is already bracing for bad news.
RYE: “Why us? Weyland-Yutani doesn’t hire us to play rescue team. I run diagnostics. I fix cooling lines. That’s my contract.”
Miller meets her eyes—firm but not unkind.
MILLER: “There’s a clause in all of our contracts requiring us to respond to priority distress signals of Company vessels. If we refuse, we lose everything. End-of-run bonuses included.”
The room goes quiet.
Rye looks away, jaw set.
RYE: “…Yeah. I understand.”
A subtle nod passes between Cham and Miller—two people used to swallowing orders they don’t like.
MILLER: “Davis. What’ve you got on the Cronus?”
Davis pulls up the holo-scan. The wireframe model of the Cronus flickers—tilted, drifting, rotating slowly in dark space like a dead whale in black water.
DAVIS: “It’s a Weyland SEV M3 Heliades-class science exploration vessel. The Class-D science module is missing—jettisoned or torn off. The ship’s running on emergency power only.”
Wilson frowns.
WILSON: “…70 years adrift, but still intact? That’s improbable. Something kept systems partially active.”
Davis shakes her head.
DAVIS: “Engines are offline. Life support is offline. Comms array is dead. MUTHUR is unresponsive.”
Miller steps closer to the holo-display.
The Cronus rotates slowly, its hull scarred, lights dim—like a tomb.
DAVIS: “The main airlock—C-1—is sealed. But I’ve got a green manual override on Deck A, airlock A-1. That’s our entry point.”
Rye crosses her arms.
RYE: “So we’re walking into a seventy-year-old crypt.”
Cham tries for humor—soft, nervous.
CHAM: “Could’ve picked a nicer morning to play ghost hunters.”
Davis gives a thin smile—one that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Miller looks at each of them in turn.
MILLER: “We do this by the book. We board, assess conditions, locate survivors if any. Recover data and samples. Secure the ship. Then we tow her to Anchorpoint. No improvising. No heroics.”
Wilson, savoring this, steps forward with corporate smoothness.
WILSON: “And remember—this is a Company vessel. Everything aboard belongs to Weyland-Yutani. We maintain chain of custody. Clear?”
Rye’s look could cut steel.
Cham puts a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Miller nods once.
MILLER: “Prep suits. Lock magnetic boots. Helm, bring us alongside for docking approach.”
The Montero turns, maneuvering thrusters firing in short bursts.
Out the viewport—
The USCSS Cronus hangs in the void, silent and ancient, its hull half-frozen, windows dark.
Like something waiting.
Watching.
_____
CROSSING THE VOID
The Montero shudders as its thrusters fire in short, controlled bursts—holding a steady position alongside the drifting hulk of the USCSS Cronus. The dark vessel looms close, its hull scarred and rimmed with frost, like the carcass of some long-dead leviathan.
Davis keys the controls, voice steady but tight.
DAVIS: “Autopilot engaged. We’re holding position relative to Cronus’s drift vector.”
Cham eye-checks the umbilical controls at the airlock interface—then shakes his head.
CHAM: “Negative on deploying the umbilical. I’m not risking hull stress on the Montero—Cronus is tumbling too unevenly.” He turns to Miller.
CHAM: “I’ve set transport cables instead. Mag-locked. We haul ourselves across.” Miller nods once—approving the caution.
MILLER: “Smart call. We maintain separation distance. If Cronus destabilizes, we cut loose without dragging Montero into her debris wake.”
Wilson adjusts his compression suit gloves, watching with that unreadable corporate stillness.
Rye zips her helmet seal with a curt, agitated snap.
The five crew stand in the airlock—breathing fast inside their Mk50 compression suits. The helmets seal with a final hiss. Heartbeat monitors blink softly across their chests.
No one says it out loud, but every one of them knows:
This is no simple salvage run.
The inner lock cycles.
The hatch opens to the stars.
The void is total silence.
Cham leads the way—his boots lock onto the first tether cable with a metallic clack. The others follow, one by one, pulling themselves across the distance, their bodies suspended in blackness lit only by suit lamps and faint ship lights.
The Cronus grows large—a dark cathedral of metal and shadow.
They land lightly on the Cronus’s hull, mag-boots locking into place. Cham moves to the manual override at Airlock A-1, hands steady but jaw set.
CHAM: “Mechanism’s locked and corroded. Gonna need to muscle it.”
He braces himself—grunting as he forces the jammed controls.
Metal shrieks.
A shower of ancient frost shakes loose.
The hatch gives.
The crew pushes inside.
The inner door seals behind them.
Gravity hums on—weak, but present.
Emergency lights flicker dim amber along the corridor.
The air smells stale—cold plastic, old metal, and something faintly organic.
They step further in—
And stop.
A headless body lies slumped against the corridor wall, suit torn open, dried blood and pale gray matter splattered behind him. A 37A2 pump shotgun lies beside his hip.
But it’s not just the gore.
His arms are wrong.
Too long. Joints misplaced. Bones stretched beneath the suit fabric.
Rye takes a step back.
Her breath fogs inside her helmet.
RYE (shaken): “What… the hell…”
Miller crouches, examining without touching.
Her voice tries to stay clinical—but there’s an edge.
MILLER: “His physiology… changed. Mutated. Does any of this ring a bell to you, Wilson?”
Wilson keeps his face perfectly still.
WILSON: “No. I have no prior knowledge of this.”
His tone is smooth—too smooth.
Cham quietly picks up the shotgun—checks the chamber.
CHAM: “Might come in handy. Just saying.”
No one argues.
Their stress shows in the silence.
Miller pulls up the Cronus blueprint on her electronic datapad.
MILLER: “Cryo pods are further inside. We need to check for survivors.”
She points.
MILLER: “Cham, Rye, Davis—you three go to Cryo Deck A. Stabilize any crew, assess injuries. No heroics.”
Rye nods. Davis takes point. Cham tightens his grip on the shotgun.
MILLER: “Wilson, you’re with me. We’re checking the Cronus’s MUTHUR core.”
She glances at the collapsed stairwell on the map:
DO NOT USE ACCESS STAIRWELL — STRUCTURAL FAILURE
They move in two directions.
The MUTHUR 2000 chamber is silent—dark screens, dead power feeds. A single emergency node blinks slowly like a dying heartbeat.
Wilson produces a keycard. Company issue.
He slides it into the primary console.
Nothing—
Then—
The room blinks to life, lights flickering awake in spasms. Fans groan. Terminals begin to hum.
MUTHUR’s voice stutters, then stabilizes.
MUTHUR 2000:
System status: Partial restoration.
Life support: Reactivating.
Comms array: Offline — repairs required.
Engine controls: Offline — repairs required.
Primary ship systems: Active.
A softer chime follows.
CRYOSTASIS SYSTEMS — REAWAKENING.
Five life sign indicators glow green. Wilson swallows. Miller looks at him sharply.
MILLER: “The crew is waking up.”
He nods.
No excitement.
Just calculation.
Miller turns.
MILLER: “Fine. Let’s move. We join the others. The Cronus crew is going to need help.”
She doesn’t say what they’re all thinking:
Something on this ship took a man’s head clean off and stretched his bones like taffy.
And whatever did it?
It might still be here.
_____
THE CRYPODS CHAMBER 3 AND AVA-6
The corridor feels narrower now, shadows pooling in the corners. Miller, Wilson, Cham, Rye, and Davis stop before the massive steel door of Cryopod Chamber 3. Emergency lights cast jagged lines across the walls, flickering in unsettling rhythm.
Miller crouches slightly, running gloved hands along the cold metal. Claw marks scar the wall and the door frame, gouges deep enough to catch the light in uneven shadows.
MILLER (grim): “These aren’t human marks.”
A silence follows—tense, suffocating. Everyone’s stress level spikes, hearts hammering beneath their compression suits.
Cham exhales sharply.
CHAM: “Manual override. I can force the door, but I’ll need help. Rye?”
Rye nods, determination etched on her face. Together, they twist, lever, and pull at the jammed locking mechanism. The metallic screech echoes through the corridor like a scream. Sparks flicker. The group freezes with every loud creak, imagining what else might be listening in the shadows.
Finally—the door gives way with a hiss and a shudder. They step inside.
Cryopod Chamber 3 is chaos incarnate. Smoke hisses from venting defrosting pods, curling around scattered tools and overturned crates. Five cryopods slowly slide open, revealing frost-rimmed, pale faces awakening from decades-long stasis.
The other pods lie empty or hold the remains of decomposing bodies, frost-crusted and grotesque.
A lone figure stands still near the far wall. Dark hair clings to her shoulders. Her uniform bears the tag AVA-6.
Wilson’s voice cuts the silence.
WILSON: “That’s the Cronus crew’s android. Model AVA-6.”
The android’s eyes flicker, then focus. White synthetic blood trickles from her head joint, staining her uniform. She sways, almost collapsing. Cham steps forward, steadying her carefully.
Rye kneels to inspect her head.
RYE: “Looks like a serious injury… maybe internal sensor damage too. We’ll stabilize it.”
Miller’s gaze shifts across the room. Life support hums louder, heating slowly stabilizing. The air is warmer, tinged with antiseptic and the faint metallic scent of old blood.
The group slowly begins removing their compression suits, breaths fogging in the rising heat. AVA-6’s gaze returns to clarity.
AVA-6 (mechanical, cautious): “I do not recognize your faces. You are not part of the Cronus crew. Memory fragments are missing… multiple access points offline due to damage. My priority: administer vaccine against deadly virus to all personnel.”
She begins searching a medical compartment—sliding open drawers with precise, mechanical movements. Syringes glint under emergency lighting.
Miller gently places a hand over AVA-6’s arm, careful not to startle her.
MILLER: “Tell us more. Deadly virus?”
AVA-6’s eyes lock on Miller. Her voice is flat, but urgency pulses beneath the monotone.
AVA-6: “Biological samples recovered from LV-1113 contain a pathogen highly transmissible via airborne particles. Fire eliminated most active material during containment. The Cronus science team developed a treatment: the 26-Draconis strain derivative. Untreated, infection causes severe mutations in human physiology.”
Miller nods grimly, recalling the grotesque, elongated arms of the earlier body.
MILLER: “Go ahead. We’ve already seen the effects firsthand.”
AVA-6 methodically selects five syringes, each labeled with the 26-Draconis strain derivative. She moves to each Montero crew member in turn, injecting the treatment with precise efficiency.
The group exchanges tense glances as the cure enters their systems. Fear, uncertainty, and relief mingle in the chamber’s warm, stale air.
Cham adjusts the strap on his suit’s harness, watching AVA-6 carefully.
CHAM (low): “If this stuff works, we just might survive whatever else is on this ship.”
Rye tightens her fists, eyes scanning the room.
RYE: “I hope it works. Because I don’t want to find out the hard way what the alternative looks like.”
Miller steps back, her gaze sweeping the chamber. She knows this is only the beginning—the Cronus is old, damaged, and something is still hunting aboard.
_____
THE AWAKENING OF THE CRONUS CREW
The hum of the Cronus grows steady now, faint vibrations reverberating through the deck plates. Life support fully restored. Emergency lights cast pale, flickering shadows on frost-tinged walls.
The remaining Cronus crew—Johns, Reid, Flynn, Cooper, and Clayton—stir from decades of stasis. Their movements are slow, awkward, like infants relearning the mechanics of muscle. Limbs ache, joints creak. Every breath is a labor.
They move toward the Examination Room, a small medlab off the cryodeck. The air is heavy, warmed by life support; the smell of old metal and sterilized compounds lingers.
Rye and Flynn set up rehydration stations. Tubes drip slowly, fluids glimmering in the dim light. Cooper groans, clutching his temples.
COOPER (strained): “My head… it feels like it’s splitting open. God… my skull…”
Rye kneels beside him, scanning vitals with a portable monitor.
RYE: “Pressure’s high, irregular pulse. You’re dehydrated, probably from stasis—but there’s more here. Gimme your arm.”
Flynn assists, wrapping the cuff around Cooper’s arm. Cooper wobbles, grimacing.
Johns, the second officer, approaches Miller cautiously, voice tight.
JOHNS: “You… you’re saying we’ve been in cryosleep for seventy years. And there’s a virus aboard? We absolutely must administer antivirals immediately.”
AVA-6 steps closer, her mechanical movements precise.
AVA-6: “It has been done. Administered as quickly as possible. All active crew members have received the 26-Draconis strain derivative.”
Miller folds her arms, assessing Johns carefully.
MILLER: “Weyland-Yutani sent us. We need to get you safely back to the nearest station. Is there anything else we should know about your expedition?”
Johns exhales slowly, voice trembling as if he’s summoning memories he hasn’t touched in decades.
JOHNS: “We went to LV-1113, 26-Draconis system. Ancient ruins… unknown civilization. We recovered artifacts, ampoules with black liquid, other objects. Contamination—airborne. Our scientists… developed the 26-Draconis derivative to counteract it. We left in a hurry. Field laboratory module stayed behind. Of the thirty crew, only five remain.”
The weight of his words hangs in the air.
Suddenly, Cooper screams—high-pitched, agonized.
COOPER: “Ahhh! No! No, stop!”
He rips off his shirt in panic. Blood blooms across his back in dark, glistening streaks. His muscles spasm violently.
Rye stumbles back, horror in her eyes.
RYE: “Oh… my God!”
AVA-6 snaps into action, her hands drawing a scalpel with uncanny precision.
Flynn steps back, frozen, eyes wide—helpless.
Gulps of blood burst from Cooper’s back with shocking violence. His body arches, veins rupturing.
COOPER (screaming): “AHHHHHH!”
Spines thrust outward from his back—sharp, pale protrusions pushing through muscle and skin. His screams echo in the chamber.
A blood-filled sac tears free, landing with a wet thump on the floor.
From it, a small, white creature wriggles—slippery, sinewy, and alien. Its skin glistens, wet and slick, like newborn ivory. The creature glances at AVA-6, who extends a hand to contain it.
But before she can grasp it, the creature darts—slipping effortlessly into a ventilation shaft.
Cooper collapses, utterly still, his back a grisly ruin. Blood pools beneath him.
Silence erupts. Even the hum of life support seems muted, as if recoiling.
The crew exchanges tense, silent nods. Fear is thick, but determination is thicker. The Cronus isn’t done with them yet—and whatever birthed from Cooper’s back is only the beginning.
_____
ACT.2
T-MINUS 10 MINUTES
The shock of Cooper’s death still hangs thick in the air—metallic blood-mist lingering like smoke, the medlab’s emergency lights flickering against the torn remains of his body. The vent grille where the pale creature vanished rattles once, then falls still. The silence that follows is suffocating.
Cham stands beneath the vent, shotgun raised, eyes tracking every shadow. His chest rises and falls in tight, shallow breaths.
Miller keeps her voice steady. “Johns… Cooper should’ve taken the antiviral. You said everyone did.”
Johns trembles as he crouches beside the mangled corpse. His hands shake as he pats down Cooper’s torn jacket. “I—I don’t know. Cooper was rational. He wouldn’t have… unless—” He pulls out a cracked syringe, the needle bent. “He didn’t take his dose. He chose not to.”
Rye mutters, “He knew he was infected… and said nothing.” Her voice carries a betrayal she doesn’t bother hiding.
Wilson steps back from the body, tightening his suit collar as if the room has shrunk. "We need to contain whatever came out of him right now."
Miller turns to Johns. “Weapons? Detection gear? Anything that helps us track it?”
Johns swallows hard. “Deck A. Lockers and showers room. We stored an M41A pulse rifle there. But… no scanners. None that still work.”
Miller nods sharply. “Alright. Cham, Davis—you two go back to the Montero. Bring repair equipment for the Cronus, weapons, the Incinerator Unit, and the Motion Tracker. Take shuttle Daisy and come back through airlock D-5. Understood?”
Cham shoulders the shotgun. “Yeah. We’ll bring back what we can.”
Davis forces a half-smile, the adrenaline buzz barely hiding her nerves. “Like the old days, huh? Running supplies under fire.”
“Just go,” Miller says.
The trek back through the dimly lit corridors feels longer than before. Every distant clang echoes like footsteps. Air recyclers wheeze. Shadows twitch.
Cham and Davis reach Junction A-1, cycle the airlock, and launch themselves back across the transport cables, drifting through open space until they reach the Montero. They land awkwardly but intact.
Inside the Montero, everything feels familiar—but wrong. Almost like the ship is holding its breath.
Davis moves fast, powering up the Daisy shuttle. Console lights stutter, boot-up systems hum. “Come on, girl… don’t act up on me now.”
Cham loads gear into the shuttle—tools, sealed cases, a service pistol, the harpoon grappler. He pats down lockers. “Where the hell…? Miller, do you copy? I’m not finding the Motion Tracker. Or the incinerator.”
Miller’s voice crackles through the intercom. “But we packed them.”
“Not here,” Cham insists. “It’s like they vanished.”
Miller exhales a curse. “Forget it. Bring what you have. Get back to the Cronus.”
Cham nods, climbing aboard Daisy. “On our way.”
Then the Montero deck trembles. A violent jolt knocks Cham sideways as the Montero shudders like something tore free from its bones.
Static breaks through the ship-wide intercom—then (Montero) Mu-Th-Ur’s calm, emotionless voice:
“Displacement drive malfunction. Reactor overload in T-minus ten minutes. The crew must abandon the Montero immediately.”
Davis goes pale. “What? No—no, no, no—there was nothing wrong with the reactor!”
But the autopilot engages itself, thrusters firing as the Montero pivots sharply away from the Cronus. The transport cables snap and drift.
Cham is thrown against the wall. “Shit—!”
Mu-Th-Ur repeats,
“The crew must abandon the Montero immediately.”
“Emergency course initiation underway.”
The ship’s engines roar. The Montero accelerates into a retreat trajectory.
Cham grabs the Daisy doorframe. “Davis—we need to go! Now!”
“I’m trying!” Davis slams the launch control, punching in overrides as the shuttle bay prepares to eject.
Back aboard the Cronus, Miller’s voice shakes as she shouts into the comm:
“Mu-Th-Ur, cancel the countdown! Engage coolant systems! Reduce reactor stress!”
Mu-Th-Ur answers instantly, cold and unyielding:
“Unable to comply. Destruction of the Montero cannot be stopped.
Special Order 966 is in effect.” Miller freezes.
Wilson slowly turns toward her. “Special Order… what?”
“I don’t know,” Miller breathes. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Miller and Wilson sprint to Cronus airlock A-1.
Miller presses her face against the small round window. Wilson stands beside her, watching the horror unfold.
In the distance—
a growing bloom of blinding white-blue light.
The Montero reaches critical mass.
A silent flash.
A shockwave rolling through the stars.
The Montero is gone.
Miller’s hands go to her head, fingers gripping her hair as if trying to pull herself back into reality. She gasps, stunned.
Wilson watches her carefully, his expression unreadable. Maybe sympathy. Maybe calculation.
Davis’s strained voice finally cuts through comm static:
“Miller! We’re… we’re okay—Daisy’s away. Heading to the Cronus. Repeat—Cham and I are clear.”
Cham mutters in the background, “We’re coming in hot…”
Miller swallows, still staring at where her ship used to be.
“Just… just get back here,” she murmurs.
The Cronus feels suddenly much smaller.
Much darker.
Much more isolated.
And now it’s the only thing standing between them and the void.
_____
CHANGE OF PLANS
Deck A still shudders faintly from the shockwave of the Montero’s distant death. Dust drifts from vents. The emergency lights cast long red shadows across the walls, like veins pulsing through a dying machine.
Cham and Davis stand near the Daisy, still breathing hard under their compression suits, adrenaline slowly withdrawing from their systems. Miller gathers everyone in the Examination Room. The tension is suffocating.
Miller exhales sharply, rubbing both temples.
“Well,” she says bitterly, “we can kiss our lovely bounty goodbye. Seventy-two tanks of Tritium—gone. And my damn ship with it.”
Cham folds his arms, jaw clenched.
“Maybe we can file a claim with WY,” he says. “Ask them to give us the Cronus. After all this? Seems fair.”
Clayton’s head snaps up.
“Absolutely not,” she says. Her voice is cold steel. “The Cronus is company property. Everything aboard—including the specimens—is property of Weyland-Yutani. The defense division will want all of it intact.”
Miller steps toward her, close enough to smell Clayton’s stale cryosleep breath.
“I was sent here by Weyland-Yutani,” Miller replies. “And as ranking officer from the responding vessel, I have authority over this situation. Final say included.”
Clayton smiles—slow, practiced, poisonous.
“We’ll see about that, Captain.”
The room grows colder.
Rye clears her throat, trying to redirect the tension. She activates the medlab’s interface: a cracked, flickering monitor tied to the Cronus’s Mu-Th-Ur 2000. The screen buzzes alive in a pale green glow.
MU-TH-UR 2000:
PRIMARY SYSTEMS: PARTIAL FUNCTIONALITY.
REPAIR PRIORITIES:
1. REGAIN CONTROL OF BRIDGE — DECK B
2. REPAIR ENGINE SYSTEMS — DECK C
3. REACTIVATE COMMS ARRAY — EXTERNAL/HULL ACCESS REQUIRED
Johns steps forward, rubbing his aching neck.
“We also need new carbon filters for the air scrubbers,” he adds. “The old ones won’t last long.”
Cham checks the list, already mentally sorting tools and access routes.
“I’ll head to reactor relay control on Deck C,” he says, tightening his pack straps. “That’s where engine diagnostics feed in. If something’s fried, that’s where we’ll see it.”
Miller nods.
“Good. Rye, Johns, and Reid—you’re with Cham. Keep each other alive down there.”
Reid locks her sidearm into place, nerves visible in her twitching fingers.
“You really think that… thing… is still on board?”
Miller answers bluntly:
“Count on it.”
Then she turns to the others.
“Second group: we’re going to the bridge—Deck B. We verify damage, check system status, and reestablish helm control.”
Davis steps up, shaking off leftover panic from the Montero’s destruction.
“Copy that. Bridge first. Then we hunt this thing.”
Wilson straightens his tie—an absurd gesture given the carnage around them.
“I’ll assist with system reinitialization,” he says calmly. Too calmly.
Flynn clutches a medical kit, hands trembling.
“I… I’ll go with you. Someone might need help.”
Clayton joins them, arms folded.
“Lead the way, Captain.”
Ava-6 touches her temple, face blank but troubled.
“I will accompany this team as well,” she says. “I’m initiating another self-diagnostic. Several memory clusters remain inaccessible. A physical repair may be required.”
Miller crosses to the locker. Dust falls as she forces it open. The M41A pulse rifle hangs inside like an old friend. She grabs it, checks the magazine, and slings it over her shoulder.
“Alright,” she says, voice hardening. “Let’s get to work.”
Cham pumps his 12-gauge once, the sound echoing down the corridor.
“And after repairs?”
Miller glances toward the ventilation shaft where the neomorph escaped.
Eyes narrow. Jaw tightens.
“Then,” she says, “we deal with the creature.”
The teams split—boots striking metal, radios crackling, the Cronus groaning as if protesting every step they take deeper into her ancient wounds.
The hunt begins.
_____
CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH
(Miller's group) The bridge of the Cronus lies in eerie stillness, lit only by the emergency strips pulsing a sickly amber glow across cracked consoles and hanging wires. Dust drifts lazily in the cold air.
Davis moves first, stepping past the captain’s chair and sliding into the forward cockpit. “Power’s flickering… half the flight boards aren’t even booting,” she mutters, tapping sluggish screens.
Miller kneels beside a darkened console with Wilson. “All right—auxiliary control first. If we can push enough juice through the grid, maybe we can get at least partial helm control.”
Wilson nods nervously. “Right. Or we fry the whole system. But hey, that’s what corporate pays me for.”
Miller shoots him a sharp glare. “They barely pay you to breathe. Keep working.”
Near the rear of the bridge, Ava-6 sits perfectly still on a metal stool, fingers plugged into a diagnostic interface. Her eyes flicker as data scrolls across the screen beside her.
Flynn and Clayton wait by the hatch, whispering to each other. Clayton looks uneasy. Flynn looks terrified.
Minutes pass.
A faint click echoes through the bridge.
Ava-6 emits a short, sharp mechanical squeal—a glitching sound no synthetic ever should make. Miller immediately rises and approaches her.
“Ava?” she says, voice low. “What’s wrong?”
The synthetic lifts her head slowly, her expression flat—until her eyes snap into unsettling focus. She locks onto Miller’s gaze with unnatural precision.
Softly, almost human:
“I remember everything… Captain—watch out.”
Miller barely has time to turn.
A shrill, wet hiss erupts through the bridge as a slender white blur explodes out of a ventilation shaft above the cockpit.
“DAVIS!” Miller shouts.
Davis twists in her seat—too late. The neomorph drops from the air like a blade. Its elongated, bone-white skull slices down as its talons rake across her throat.
A spray of arterial blood mists the cockpit windows.
Davis collapses without a sound.
Miller raises the M41 pulse rifle and fires—short, panicked bursts—but the creature is already gone, skittering backward up the shaft with impossible speed.
Silence crashes down.
Wilson staggers back against a console. “Jesus Christ—Jesus Christ—”
Ava-6 calmly withdraws her fingers from the interface. “The creature is adapting. It used the ventilation system. We are not safe here.”
Miller’s breath shakes with fury and grief. Her gaze darts to the rear of the bridge.
“Flynn? Clayton?”
The hatch stands open—empty.
“They’re gone,” Miller growls. “They ran the second it hit.”
(Cham's group) A deep blue emergency light throbs inside the reactor relay control room, giving everything a drowned, underwater look. The air tastes metallic, tinged with ozone. The hum of failing machinery vibrates through the floor.
The room is wrecked. Consoles are cracked. Chairs lie overturned. A hulking pressure suit—old, torn, scorched—lies motionless on the ground like a discarded skin.
Cham steps forward, scanning the monitors. “Engines are still connected to external feeds,” he announces. “Good news. No EVA required.”
Rye rubs her temples. “Thank God for that.”
Johns leans in beside Cham. “How long to bring the engines back online?”
Cham checks another display. “Three or four hours. Radiation’s elevated, but not lethal. Just… uncomfortable.”
Rye exhales shakily. “Comfort stopped existing the moment we boarded this ship.”
A sudden harsh noise—leather scraping metal.
Reid shoves Johns violently aside. “Don’t stand so close!” she snarls, voice cracking.
Cham steps toward her. “Reid? Hey—slow down—”
Reid whips around, eyes jaundiced and glowing faintly from within. Her breathing is ragged, wet.
“Oh no…” Rye whispers.
Reid doubles over, clutching her head. “Something’s… wrong—get back—get BACK!”
At the same moment, the “spacesuit” on the floor begins to rise.
Slowly. Wrongly. Bonelessly.
The suit’s arms dangle like broken limbs as something moves inside, pushing against the material. A gurgling hiss escapes its helmet.
Rye screams. “It’s not a suit—IT’S NOT A SUIT!”
The abomination charges. Rye swings her maintenance jack with a desperate yell, the metal cracking against the creature’s helmet.
Johns grabs a restraining strap from the wall. “Cham—HELP ME!”
Cham moves instantly, tackling the beast’s legs. Johns loops the strap around it, tightening it as the creature thrashes and screeches with a layered, distorted voice.
“Hold it—HOLD IT!” Cham roars.
Johns flicks his lighter—ignites the suit.
The creature shrieks, a deafening, agonized howl as flames consume the old fabric and the grotesque form inside. The stench of burning flesh fills the room.
But behind them, Reid screams louder.
Cham and Johns spin around.
Reid’s bones crack beneath her skin as her spine elongates. Her fingers fuse into talon-like shapes. Yellow sludge drips from her mouth.
“Kill me—KILL ME—” she chokes.
Cham raises his sidearm, voice trembling. “Reid, I’m sorry.”
He fires.
Reid collapses, her half-formed abomination body twitching once before falling still.
Smoke curls around them. The room is silent except for the hum of dying machinery.
Rye leans against a console, face pale and hollow. “The vaccine doesn’t work,” she whispers.
Her voice breaks.
“If Reid turned… we can all become like her.”
Cham looks at the scorched remains of their fallen crewmates.
He doesn’t argue.
He can’t.
_____
ACT.3
THE ACTING OUT
Junction B-1 is bathed in a cold, flickering emergency light as Miller, Wilson, and Ava-6 rush in from the bridge. The moment they enter, they freeze.
Flynn stands in the center of the junction, breathing heavily, a blood-slicked knife in his grip. Clayton lies sprawled on the deck plating, her blouse soaked scarlet, eyes half-open, lifeless.
Miller steadies her rifle, voice low and controlled.
“Flynn… what happened?”
Flynn doesn’t advance, but he doesn’t back up either. His voice trembles.
“Captain… I—I’m sorry. Clayton was losing it. She came at me. She tried to stab me. I had to defend myself.”
Miller’s eyes flick to Clayton’s corpse. Then to Flynn’s face. He has scratches, but no bleeding. Her jaw tenses.
At that moment Cham’s group arrives—Rye, Johns, Cham himself, shaken, exhausted. The smell of burnt flesh and melted plastic still clings to their clothes.
Rye speaks first, voice hoarse.
“Flynn’s not lying… Reid turned. Full mutation. We had to put her down.”
Rye swallows hard. “We’re all vulnerable. The vaccine… it didn’t stop it.”
Ava-6 steps forward, expression tightening in a mixture of guilt and urgency.
“I’ve regained full memory access. I was going to warn all of you.”
Everyone turns to her.
Ava-6 continues, tone clinical but burdened:
“Inoculation prevents Neomorph transformation. But… it does not, under certain circumstances stop conversion into another form—an unstable abomination. I witnessed early-stage mutations while the Cronus crew slept. Not everyone transforms. Clayton tried to preserve contaminated vials and spores for retrieval by Weyland-Yutani’s defense division.”
Miller lifts her head sharply.
“Clayton? Why?”
Ava-6 answers without hesitation:
“She wanted the organism as a weapon system. The Neomorphic spores—when airborne—infect at extreme speed. They’re responsible for what happened to Reid… and Cooper… and the others. I destroyed most of them, but not all. Contamination persisted.”
Miller takes a breath, pushing grief and anger down.
“I’m not waiting around to mutate. We finish repairs, eliminate the creature, and get this ship to Anchorpoint. Cham—can you get the engines online?”
Cham wipes sweat from his brow.
“Yeah… yeah, Captain. We’ll finish what we started.”
“Good. Go. The rest of us return to the bridge.”
Cham leads Johns and Rye away at a brisk pace, disappearing back toward engineering.
(Back on the Bridge) Hours pass—slow, heavy, mechanical hours.
Sparks snap from a console. Ava-6 works with quick, practiced movements. Miller, hands still trembling faintly from the ambush on Deck B, reroutes power manually.
The lights overhead stabilize—and then brighten.
A soft hum fills the bridge.
Ava-6 straightens.
“The bridge systems are fully restored.”
Miller exhales.
“Finally. Now where the hell are Wilson and Flynn?”
A beat.
Miller activates the intercom:
“Wilson. Flynn. Report.”
Static.
Cham’s voice answers instead, strained through interference:
“Captain… something’s happening. Do you need us? We’re almost done with the engines.”
Miller shakes her head.
“No. Stay on task. Ava-6 and I will find them.”
(Deck B) The hallway leading to Clayton’s room feels wrong—quiet in a way that suggests something waiting.
Ava-6 holds the Watatsumi bolt gun at the ready. Miller grips her pulse rifle one-handed—the other pressed against the ache of bruised ribs.
Voices drift from behind Clayton’s door—Wilson’s voice, tense, demanding answers; Flynn’s voice, calm, controlled, unnatural.
“…you weren’t bleeding after she cut you, Flynn,” Wilson says. “That’s impossible.”
Miller and Ava-6 exchange a look, then push the door open.
What they see hits them like a punch:
Wilson dangles in Flynn’s grip, his boots barely touching the floor. Flynn’s expression is cold, almost bored.
“Flynn!” Miller shouts.
Flynn snaps his head toward her—and crushes Wilson’s throat with one hand. A wet crack echoes through the room. Wilson collapses like a discarded puppet, eyes empty.
Miller’s breath catches.
Ava-6 fires instantly.
THUNK— the bolt slams into Flynn’s abdomen, tearing a fist-sized hole.
White pearlescent fluid sprays the wall.
Flynn staggers—but does not fall.
He looks down at the wound, annoyed more than injured.
“Impressive,” he mutters.
Ava-6 moves to fire again, but Flynn lunges and swats her with brutal android strength. Ava-6 slams into a wall, sparks spitting from her skull. She collapses, unmoving.
Miller fires a burst from the M41.
Rounds punch through Flynn’s shoulder and neck, splashing white blood everywhere.
Flynn barely reacts.
He closes the distance in a second—grabs her—and drives her backward into the metal partition wall. A sharp shard of plating spears into Miller’s lower side. She can no longer move.
She gasps, choking back a scream.
Flynn holds her pinned, studying her like a lab result.
Miller’s voice is thin but defiant.
“Who… do you work for?”
Flynn leans close, smiling with quiet satisfaction.
“Lasalle Bionational.
I was assigned to the Cronus in 2110 as a sleeper agent—long before the company publicly existed. Brendan Lasalle wanted revenge after Weyland-Yutani cast him out. I was programmed to sabotage the mission from the inside.”
He taps the side of his head.
“I even modified the vaccine Cooper thought he invented… without his knowledge. Just to render it useless.”
Miller tries to push him back, but she’s impaled in place. Her strength is fading fast.
Flynn plucks her personal communicator from her belt.
“I’ll be taking this.”
He steps toward the exit.
“Now,” he says casually, “I’m going to activate the Cronus self-destruct. You can count down the minutes yourself.”
He leaves the room, white blood dripping behind him.
Miller slumps against the wall, breath rattling… consciousness flickering.
Ava-6 lies motionless.
Wilson is dead.
The ship hums ominously around her.
And somewhere on the ship ...
a white Neomorph is still alive.
_____
PREPARE TO BE BOARDED
Miller regains consciousness with a violent gasp. Her vision swims—red emergency lights pulse across the room, strobing over walls smeared with white android blood and dark human blood. She tries to move and instantly screams: the jagged metal shard jutting from the wall is still driven through her abdomen, pinning her like an insect specimen.
A faint mechanical whirr echoes nearby.
Ava-6 opens her eyes. Her face is dented, pale polymer skin torn, white fluid leaking down her cheek. She pushes herself upright, staggering, then sees Miller impaled.
Ava-6 moves instantly—no hesitation, no fear. “Captain Miller, do not move.”
Miller grits her teeth. “Just pull me off it—quick.”
Ava-6 braces her hands on Miller’s torso and the metal sheet. With a single brutal mechanical jerk, she yanks Miller forward. Miller screams and collapses into Ava-6’s arms.
Ava-6 lowers her gently. “It is a superficial impalement. No organs have been compromised. You will survive.”
She grabs discarded clothing, tape, synthetic gauze—anything at hand—and wraps Miller’s midsection while the ship pulses with danger lights.
Then they hear it.
CLANG.
A heavy, metallic shudder reverberates through the Cronus’s hull. Something has docked.
Mu-Th-Ur 2000’s voice crackles through the speakers, distorted but unmistakably urgent:
“DANGER. EMERGENCY DESTRUCT SYSTEM ACTIVATED. THE SHIP WILL DETONATE IN T MINUS FIFTEEN MINUTES.”
Sirens erupt. Red beacons flash in frantic rhythm.
Miller pushes herself upright, breath ragged. “Flynn… he’s going for the reactor control. We have to stop him.”
Ava-6 nods. “Agreed. You cannot run, Captain. But I will assist you.”
They move—Miller limping, Ava-6 supporting her, the red lights bathing every corridor in the color of blood.
Halfway toward Deck C, they encounter silhouettes emerging from the smoke.
A squad of heavily armed people blocks the passageway—armor, rifles, flashlights cutting through haze.
A tall Black man steps forward. Impossibly tall. Steady. Commanding.
“I am Captain Adisa Bolaji of the USCSS Sotillo.” His voice is heavy, resonant. “Captain Miller, the Cronus is now property of Seegson Corporation.”
Miller doesn’t even flinch; she’s beyond corporate posturing. “Good for Seegson. But unless you want your new prize in pieces, we need to kill a rogue synthetic who just activated the self-destruct.”
A beat. Bolaji studies her—her pallor, her bleeding bandage, Ava-6’s cracked skull.
“Understood.” He looks back at his crew. “We’re helping them.”
Weapons raised, they move with urgency toward Deck C.
(Deck C) The hatch to the relay control room is already open. The sound of screaming metal, fists, and struggling bodies echoes from within.
They rush inside.
The blue emergency lights flash over carnage.
Johns lies on the floor—throat crushed, eyes open and glassy.
Flynn is towering in the center of the room, synthetic musculature bulging beneath torn flesh-like covering. He holds Cham by the throat—an effortless one-handed lift.
Cham’s legs kick weakly.
Rye stands nearby, sobbing, shotgun trained on Flynn but trembling so hard she can barely aim.
“LET HIM GO!” Rye cries, voice cracking.
Flynn tilts his head, almost playful. “Why not?”
He hurls Cham like a ragdoll.
Cham hits the wall with a sickening crack and drops to the floor, unmoving. Lifeless.
Rye screams and collapses, grief overtaking her.
Miller tries to stagger forward, but pain forces her to her knees. “Cham—damn it—Cham…”
Ava-6 lunges at Flynn with precision and fury, her movements a blur. She grapples him, driving him back—
But Flynn grabs a heavy metal conduit pipe and swings it down.
CRACK.
Ava-6’s skull splits open. White fluid sprays the wall. Her eyes flicker, spark, then darken as she collapses.
“AVAAAAA!” Miller cries out.
Flynn turns toward the newcomers.
Captain Bolaji steps forward without hesitation. “You should have stayed dead, machine.”
Flynn charges, android strength shaking the floor—
Bolaji fires an M41 Pulse Rifle burst.
The explosive rounds rip through Flynn—tearing synthetic flesh, splitting his torso, shredding internal components. Flynn stumbles forward, reaching out—
Then collapses, shattering apart, twitching once before going still.
Silence falls.
A long, terrible silence.
Then Mu-Th-Ur 2000 breaks it:
“THE OPTION TO OVERRIDE THE AUTODESTRUCT SEQUENCE HAS EXPIRED. THE SHIP WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN T MINUS TEN MINUTES.”
Bolaji turns to Miller, voice firm but grave. “We have to leave. Now.”
Miller nods, barely standing, tears streaking dirt and blood across her face. She gently lifts Rye to her feet. Rye is sobbing uncontrollably, clutching Miller as if the world is falling apart—which it is.
Miller whispers, voice broken but determined, “We’re leaving. All of us. Right now.”
Bolaji motions his team. “Move! Back to airlock A-1. The Sotillo is waiting.”
Together, Captain Bolaji’s group, Miller, and a devastated Rye hurry through the corridors—toward their only chance of survival as the Cronus counts down to its final moments.
_____
IT ISN'T OVER UNTIL IT'S OVER
Sirens howl through the dying ship, a constant rising and falling wail that vibrates in the metal under their boots. Red strobes pulse across the walls, painting the corridor in violent flashes like arterial bursts of light.
Mu-Th-Ur 2000:
“Warning: The ship will self-destruct in T minus five minutes.”
Bolaji takes point, M41 raised. Pinion follows close, jaw tight, scanning the shadows. Bein supports Miller by the arm, helping her keep pace. Rye stays tucked against Miller’s other side, silent except for her trembling breaths. Horton sweeps the rear, the incinerator trembling in his grip as the seconds fall away.
Bolaji murmurs:
“Almost there. Airlock A-1 should be just—”
The hatch slides open.
Two white shapes explode from the darkness.
Neomorphs.
Long-limbed. Bone-white. Fast as whips.
The first one hits Pinion before she can scream. Its talons hook her throat, and a spurt of arterial blood streaks across the bulkhead. She collapses instantly, her rifle clattering to the deck beside her.
Bolaji shouts:
“PINION!”
Horton reacts out of pure terror, blasting the corridor with a roaring jet of fire. The Neomorph recoils, its skin blistering and peeling in the flame, shrieking an inhuman, high-pitched squeal.
The second Neomorph leaps for Bolaji—but he tackles it sideways, slamming it into the wall. It lashes out, slicing a deep gash across his shoulder before Horton swings the flame its way, forcing it back.
Bein doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Miller and Rye.
Bein:
“Inside! NOW!”
She drags them through the Sotillo’s hatch. Miller stumbles but keeps Rye shielded with her body.
Bolaji shoves the injured Neomorph backward with a brutal kick.
Bolaji:
“Horton! Move!”
Horton unleashes one final blast of fire to keep the creatures at bay, then dives through the hatch. Bolaji follows, slamming his palm on the control pad.
The airlock door seals with a deep hydraulic thunk.
Inside the Sotillo, everyone gasps for breath. Rye sobs into Miller’s chest. Horton collapses to one knee, adrenaline shaking his arms.
Mu-Th-Ur 2000 (muffled through the walls):
“The ship will self-destruct in T minus one minute.”
Bein leaps into her pilot’s seat.
Bein:
“Hang on! I’m taking us off NOW!”
Bolaji, bleeding heavily but conscious, braces himself against the bulkhead.
Bolaji:
“Punch it, Bein!”
The Sotillo disengages with a violent jolt, thrusters firing. Through the viewport, the Cronus drifts away—broken, burning, doomed.
A bloom of white light swallows it.
The Cronus explodes in a deafening flash, tearing itself apart in the void. Shrapnel spins outward like a dying starburst. The shockwave rattles the Sotillo, alarms chirping, stabilizers whining.
Bein steadies the ship. The stars return.
Miller, shaking, exhales.
Rye clings to her, whispering through tears:
“They’re all gone… Cham… Davis… Wilson…”
Miller wraps her good arm around the girl.
Miller:
“We made it. That’s what matters now. We’re still here.”
Bolaji turns toward her, grim and resolute.
Bolaji:
“Then let’s make that count.”
The Sotillo burns through the darkness, leaving the fiery grave of the Cronus behind.
_____
END OF CINEMATIC