Ellen Ripley is rescued by a deep salvage team after being in hypersleep for 57 years. The moon that the Nostromo visited has been colonized, but contact is lost. This time, colonial marines have impressive firepower, but will that be enough?
— Hey Vasquez, have you ever been mistaken for a man?
— No. Have you?
Private Vasquez is a woman
You know, Burke, I don't know which species is worse. You don't see them fucking each other over for a goddamn percentage.
— It is impossible for me to harm, or by omission of action, allow to be harmed, a human being. You sure you don't want some?
— You just stay away from me, Bishop. You got that straight?
— Guess she don't like the corn bread, either.
Ellen Ripley: — How many drops is this for you, Lieutenant?
Gorman: — Thirty-eight... Simulated.
Vasquez: — How many combat drops?
Gorman: — Uh, two... including this one.
Hudson: — Shit.
— They grab the colonists, they move them over there... and they immobilize them to be hosts for more of these. Which would mean that there would have to be a lot of these parasites, right? One for each colonist. That's over 100, at least.
— Yes. That follows.
— But each one of these things comes from an egg, right? So who's laying these eggs?
— I'm not sure. It must be something we haven't seen yet.
— All right, sweethearts. What are you waiting for? Breakfast in bed? Another glorious day in the corps. A day in the Marine Corps is like a day on the farm... every meal's a banquet, every paycheck a fortune, every formation a parade. I love the corps!
— Man, this floor is freezing!
— What do you want me to do? Fetch your slippers for ya?
— Gee, would you, sir? I'd like that.
— Look into my eye.
