Alien limbs rained around Dakota, her methodical yet desperate push forward went slowly. Her swollen limbs were pulsating dark ringlets of pain, and she glanced at Brian pathetically. What the hell could he do?

Dead or alive – Test or no test, she thought, catch this show, Blue-Suits. She stabbed the closest alien with gleeful recklessness.

Her laser was wearing out, the spectroscopy of the energy source too low to begin its autotrophic ritual. Foolish invention, she thought. Bloody useless when you’re dying! She added injury to insult as she creamed a warty arm from one of the invaders and tried to slick its splattered cucumber pus from off her mouth.

Brian had disappeared. 10 seconds later he returned – as a nail-biting hologram – now gestured upwards with electrostatic spasms.

Dakota gurgled acknowledgement. She had to reach that vent while she still fit, get out, save Earth.

Hoisting herself atop a body, her laser cutting the bolts, she slipped in. Below, the grill smashed an alien mug.