The house has sealed itself. Ethan stands on the porch he built, but the doorframe belongs to someone else now, corporate foam in every seam, hazard lights pulsing yellow against the siding. A Weyland-Yutani sticker on the frame: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The vial, red through the frost, is cold in his hand.
MR. CARVER. WELCOME. PLEASE ENTER THE OUTER CHAMBER.
He looks for the speaker. Finds nothing. Just the airlock glass where the front door used to be, intake fans humming above.
IDENTIFY YOURSELF.
“Ethan Carver.”
WEYLAND-YUTANI RESIDENT SERVICES. LIAISON UNIT ON DUTY. FOR YOUR SAFETY, PLEASE STEP INTO THE OUTER CHAMBER AND REMAIN STILL.
“What the fuck did you do to my house?”
CORRECT. RESIDENCE 12-C. AIRLOCK RETROFIT IS ACTIVE.
The outer door hisses open. Ethan steps inside. The chamber smells like disinfectant and new plastic.
He sees her through the inner glass. Mara. The medical mask covers half her face, straps cutting into her hair. She slumps against the far wall, one hand pressed to the glass. The bruising on her temple is three days old.
“Mara.”
Her palm finds his through the barrier. Cold glass between them.
“Ethan.”
“You’re alive.”
“Don’t sign it.”
He shakes his head. “What?”
“The contract. Don’t sign.”
Behind her, the house interior has changed. White panels on the walls. Medical equipment stacked in corners. Their kitchen table is gone.
“I don’t understand. What happened here? The house…”
The liaison’s voice cuts through, tinny through the speaker. FOR EQUITABLE DISTRIBUTION, RECOVERED MATERIALS AND PERSONNEL TRANSFER REQUIRE EXECUTED AUTHORIZATION. SIGNATURE REQUIRED TO PROCEED.
Ethan turns toward the speaker mounted above the door. “Shut up.”
AUDIO CLARITY WILL IMPROVE ONCE INNER SEAL STABILIZES. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.
“Tell me what happened. When did they–”
CONFIRM: YOU ARE IN POSSESSION OF A TEMPERATURE-CONTROLLED SAMPLE CONTAINER. PLEASE KEEP IT IN VIEW AND DO NOT OPEN IT.
The vial. Still in his hand, condensation forming on the glass.
Static crackles through the intercom. Mara’s voice fragments.
“They came three days ago.”
“Three days? Where was I–”
STRIKE TEAM ARRIVING TO ENSURE COMPLIANCE AND CONTINUITY OF CARE. THIS IS STANDARD.
Two figures in company whites. Boots on his porch. One speaks into a radio, breath fogging in the January cold.
Ethan’s hand tightens on the vial. “…are you hurt? Your face.”
“I’m okay. Listen to me. You have to–”
PLEASE SPEAK ONE AT A TIME. FOR YOUR SPOUSE’S HEALTH, MINIMIZE ELEVATED VOLUME.
Mara’s face blurs through the static, through the two layers of glass.
“Why won’t they let us talk?”
She pulls her hand back from the glass. “It’s procedure. Everything’s procedure now.”
“Procedure? This is our house.”
RESIDENCE 12-C IS UNDER EMERGENCY STEWARDSHIP. STEWARDSHIP INCLUDES AIRBORNE MITIGATION AND ASSET STABILIZATION.
“Asset.”
He turns away from the speaker. Faces Mara again through both panes of glass, the airlock chamber between them like a cage. “I came to get you out.”
“I know.”
“Then we need to–”
REFUSAL TO EXECUTE TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION WILL BE RECORDED AS NONCOMPLIANCE.
Through the outer glass, behind him, boots shift on the porch. Radio crackle.
“Ethan.”
He stops. Meets her stare. The hazard lights pulse yellow across her mask.
“What?”
“I need to tell you something.”
STATE YOUR INTENT, MR. CARVER. SIGNATORY TABLET IS LIVE.
Mara’s eyes through the glass. Exhausted. Apologetic.
“Go ahead.”
“I already signed.”
The vial is suddenly heavy in his hand.
“You what?”
“Yesterday. They said… they said you’d understand.”
“Understand what? That you–”
“They said it was the only way to keep the house. To keep me alive. They said you’d want that.” Mara was up, pacing. Animated.
“They didn’t offer choices, Ethan. They offered paperwork.”
AFFIRMATIVE. PRIOR CONSENT WAS OBTAINED. THIS SIGNATURE IS THE CORRESPONDING HOUSEHOLD ACKNOWLEDGMENT.
HOUSEHOLD ACKNOWLEDGMENT WILL COMPLETE DUAL-RESIDENT STEWARDSHIP AND AUTHORIZE INNER TRANSFER.
“Inner transfer means you live here as a resident asset. Like me.”
Mara’s hand finds the glass again. Her voice cracks. “They said you’d come. That you’d have the vial. The stabilizer. That you’d sign too and then–”
“And then what?”
“And then we could be together. In the house. In what’s left of it.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
“But you already signed.”
“Yes.”
His grip loosens. The vial nearly slips. “So this, me signing, it doesn’t save you. You’re already..?”
“Yes.”
THANK YOU FOR CONFIRMING. PLEASE EXECUTE ACKNOWLEDGMENT TO INITIATE DOOR CYCLE.
“Mara.”
PLEASE PLACE YOUR THUMB ON THE SENSOR. THIS WILL COMPLETE THE…
His hand flinches and opens. Glass hits floor. Shatters.
“No.”
The airlock alarm screams. Red lights pulse where the yellow had been. Behind him, the outer door locks with a mechanical thunk. Ahead, through the glass, Mara stumbles back from the spray of liquid and glass spreading at his feet, pooling in the seams of the corporate flooring.
Silence except for the alarm. The liaison’s voice cuts through:
CONTAMINATION EVENT. SEALING OUTER CHAMBER. STRIKE TEAM STANDBY.
Ethan doesn’t move. The liquid spreads, soaking into the floor drains. Mara presses both palms to the inner glass, mask fogging with each breath.
“Ethan?”
He looks at his empty hand. At the shattered glass. At her. Makes a fist, then relaxes.
“Yeah?”
Her voice is impossibly quiet through the din and static. “Come inside.”
The liaison again: STEWARDSHIP PROTOCOLS COMPLETE. ASSET SECURED. INNER DOOR WILL REMAIN SEALED.
Mara doesn’t look away. Neither does Ethan. The alarm keeps screaming. Mara’s breathing is steady. Waiting.
He understands then: she wasn’t asking to be saved. She was asking him not to join her.
The vial is gone. The door stays closed. She looks relieved.
