Alien 3 script
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Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 Next page The Lab Tech unfastens his lapbelt and grapples with the suited beast, pulling it off Spence. Hicks is wrestling with his pulse-rifle, pinned to the bench by the struggle. The suit radios are filled with the beast's thick gurgling ROAR. As it turns on the Lab Tech, flings him out through the open hatch, and bounds after him. EXT. HULL -- AIRLOCK Vacuum. Zero gravity. The thing in Rosetti's suit catches the Lab Tech in mid-tumble, its gloved hands spread like talons, grips the Lab Tech's helmet and collar-joint in either hand, and rips his helmet off. Air explodes from the neck of his suit, lifting his air in a three-second gale that freezes instantly, becoming a small cloud of ice crystal. The Lab Tech's eyes are frozen marbles. He goes cartwheeling slowly across the hull as the beast grabs a protruding strut and spins to dace the airlock with a terrible balletic grace. Hicks is in the hatchway. He raises. the pulse-rifle, pulls the trigger. The ammo-counter flashes 00, empty. Jackson reaches past him with a fresh magazine. Hicks slaps it into the gun as the beast launches itself toward him from the strut. He FIRES. The space suit EXPLODES in a cloud of blood and acid. Hicks bounces awkwardly out over the rim of the hatch, followed by Jackson and Spence. Beat. Anchorpoint's hull stretches away to its own horizon, al flat gray expanse of broken by various structures. The body of the Lab Tech is tumbling slowly out into space. SPENCE (filter; suit radio; looking after the vanishing Lab Tech) I never even knew his name... Hicks... Hicks, are we gonna make it? Hick's gloved hands is closed around something small. He open it, looks down. His watch. 2159 HOURS. Hicks looks into her eyes as if he sees her for the first time. HICKS (filter; suit radio) Make it? Yeah... Sure we make it. He gives her a desperate grin. His gloved hand, still holding the watch, takes her. SOUND of the watch's alarm: 2200 HOURS. Hicks' eyes are shut tight. Nothing happens. SPENCE (filter; suit radio) Hicks? Hicks, are you okay? What is it? He opens his eyes. Looks at her. Releases her hand. EXTREME CLOSEUP ON WATCH 2201 HOURS ANGLE SPENCE (filter; suit radio) You okay? Hicks flings with watch away. It tumbles out slowly, level with the deck, keeps tumbling... HICKS (filter; suit radio) Okay, Ops, which way to the boats? JACKSON (filter; suit radio) Got me, man. The map was just for the inside... HICKS (filter; suit radio) See that radio mast? Let's try that way. They set out in single-file across the hull, Hicks leading, Jackson bringing up the rear. The radio mast, visible a bove the horizon, is the tallest structure in sight, a steel thorn slanted toward the stars. Behind them, the airlock remain open, spilling light... EXT. HULL -- LONG SHOT Three tiny figures, their helmets bright dots of color against the monotone hull-plain: red, blue, green. VOICE OVER: Steady rasp of human breath. EXT. HULL -- ANOTHER ANGLE -- LONG Shadows tangle in the light from the lock. Moving. Black talons slip over the hatch rim, followed by an eyeless Alien mask. Then another. The creatures are entirely unaffected by cold, by vacuum... EXT. HULL -- APPROACH TO LIFEBOAT BAYS Hicks, Spence, Jackson. Hicks gestures with his rifle: the prows of the boats. HICKS (filter; suit radio) There you go, Ops. JACKSON (filter; suit radio) Good navigating... HICKS (filter; suit radio) Good guessing. Still have to get into one of the damn things... Spence loses her footing as she climbs down a ledge, goes into a slow-motion, zero-g roll; Jackson grabs her. EXT. HULL -- SHOT FROM UNLIT LIFEBOAT INTERIOR THROUGH A PORTHOLE Hicks is approaching. Closer. His gloves on the porthole. His helmet-bubble CLICKS against it. The beam of his light stabs in, swings from side to side, blinks out. EXT. HULL -- LIFEBOAT BAYS Hicks straightens up from the porthole. HICKS (filter; suit radio) Looks good. Good as it gets. How the hell we get in? JACKSON (filter; suit radio) I can run a bypass on the hatch latches, but I need a hotwire... SPENCE (filter; suit radio; starting to climb up the side of the boat) I can strip some cable off the solar cells... HICKS (filter; suit radio) Open it that way and we lose the air. JACKSON (filter; suit radio) We'll have to draw the backup off the tanks. Won't matter once we're in hypersleep. No other way... EXT. TOP OF LIFEBOAT Spence's POV for helmet as the crouches over a flat, rectangular solar cells and tugs with her gloves tips at a small access port. She keeps losing her grip; the space suit's gloves aren't designed for fine work. SPENCE (filter; suit radio; talking to keep her head together) Like the science fair. I had to scrounge everything... Spent a month desoldering a TV I got out of my uncle's basement... She manages to get the cover off -- it tumbles backw ard -- upward -- with the momentum on its removal. Spence peers at a densely packed mass of color-coded wiring. SPENCE (continuing; filter; suit radio) Hey, Jackson, you want anything in particular? JACKSON (filter; suit radio) How about twenty centimeters of the red and green stuff? Spence begins to fumble with the wiring. |
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