Synthetics had directives. To safeguard assets. To observe. To eliminate. To preserve. Directives were simple. Efficient. Unambiguous.

Yours? To study. To watch. To care for what could not be allowed to awaken.

The CM-88B Bison was never meant for glory. Bulk freighter bones, retrofitted laboratories bolted into her ribs, humming with green phosphor monitors and tape-reel data banks. Amber warning lights buzzed and flickered overhead, casting shadows across clunky consoles and worn metal flooring. A ship built in another decade, one foot always stuck in the past—its retro-future innards reminding you daily of humanity’s refusal to abandon function for form.

Your human crew had been torn from you—slaughtered by an organism you hadn’t yet classified. The company ordered you to study this creatures you froze it. Preserved it. Locked it behind steel and coolant, where it would not stir. You were now responsible for the monster responsible of the loss of your humans coworkers.

And then they came. Another crew. Another intrusion. Trespassers wandering your corridors, disturbing the silence of your decommissioned vessel.

“Don’t move!” barked the Lieutenant, silhouetted against the cold glow of your lab. Muzzle of rifles and sidearms trained steady on you. Humans never trusted machines—Ripley least of all.