Alien vs. Predator Page #5

She expertly avoid the blows, parrying relentlessly. A persistent TONE

begins to intrude O.S., like a telephone RINGING. She tries to ignore it,

but her concentration is clearly broken. A THIRD SWORDSMAN appears from out

of nowhere, his sword SWISHING towards her chest. The blade plunges deep

into her stomach, emerging from her back. She glances down in annoyed

disbelief.

HIROKO:

F***! Holo off.

The SWORDSMEN immediately flicker and disappear. She sheathes the sword with

one precise movement and crosses the wooden paneled floor to her desk.

Mopping her face with a towel, she thumbs a stud. The RINGING TONE stops,

the corporate logo on her flat-screen desk panel replaced with a black girl's

face.

HIROKO (CONT'D)

Noguchi.

CASSIE:

(O.S., onscreen)

Something just came up on Deep Space

Tracking.

HIROKO:

What kind of 'something'?

CASSIE:

(O.S., onscreen)

Easier if you come down and look.

HIROKO:

I'm on my way.

EXT. RYUSHI STATION - MIDDAY

An eight-wheeled articulated crawler rolls noisily through the rain, climbing

an access ramp leading from the swamp to the outpost's empty main-street. A

group of rhinos - brown two-horned quadrupeds indigenous to Ryushi -

restlessly stir in their corral at it's approach. The crawler's pneumatics

HISS gently as it comes to a halt, while somewhere off in the distance a dog

BARKS. DON KAMEN, a lean man in his forties. climbs down from the cab

mounted five feet above the ground and squints up at the main relay antenna.

He adjusts the cowboy hat on his head against the drizzle and crosses the

street towards one of the buildings, ignoring a Pepsi sign CREAKING in the

gentle breeze. A glass-paneled door SWISHES automatically open before him.

INT. RYUSHI STATION - COMMAND CENTER

KAMEN steps into the command center, nodding familiarly to the DUTY

PERSONNEL. A long-haired labrador rushes up to KAMEN, wagging it's tail.

Her name is BREWSTER. She's the base mascot. KAMEN reaches down and ruffles

it's fur. He climbs the few stairs to the monitoring tier, pulling the

French-plaited hair of ANNIE URIOSTE, an Italian systems-mechanic with her

hands buried in a disassembled console.

URIOSTE:

You didn't wipe your feet coming in.

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