A/N: Cheers, people. 2010 was a busy year; I didn't write nearly as much as I would've wanted, so I hope to correct that in this new year. I'll be writing only short stories for a while, at least until I'm done re-writing some parts of Black Wings, or until another good idea comes around. Suggestions are much welcome! Thanks, and a great year to all!

Enjoy the story!

Oh holy shit!

Having been raised by a very religious and rather strict mother, Isaac Clarke had been taught never to curse, no matter how stressful the situation.

However, he was pretty sure that being chased by a gigantic, nightmarish pile of rotting flesh (that, despite the large number of rounds he'd pounded into the thing, was certainly not dead) crossed the line and went from stressful to life-threatening, and thus he could allow himself some choice expletives.

There was just one more hallway between him and the tram station, and, though the creature chasing him was fast, Isaac was reasonably sure that it'd have trouble outrunning the tram.

Of course, that was assuming he made it to the station, and the odds were currently stacked against him.

Isaac rounded the corner and went through the thankfully open door, running full tilt. He could see the shelter at the end of the corridor. Nearly there, he thought, feeling immensely relieved, already seeing himself jumping onto the tram and riding it back to the (relative) safety of the Bridge.

And then he was brutally brought back to reality when the beast swung a massive arm and struck him in the back, sending Isaac flying right through the glass and straight against the considerably more solid wall behind it. He felt the air leave his lungs and collapsed into a heap, painfully aware that his attacker was quickly closing the distance between them.

Well, so much for Flight, said the microscopic part of Isaac's brain that was currently not engaged in that time-consuming activity known as panicking. Perhaps now it's the moment for Fight?

Following this sage advice, Isaac drew his cutter, feeling very grateful that it had not fallen from its holster, and, as he twisted on the ground to point it at the charging creature, discovered that his position, haphazard as it may be, also granted him a unique advantage: he had a direct line of fire with one of the yellow pustules under the monster's arms.

With "If this doesn't work, I'm fucked" as his current mantra, he squeezed the trigger one, two, three times. The first shot was off target and merely grazed the creature's armor, but the second and third impacted cleanly against the pustule, making the beast stumble.

Isaac took a breath, then pressed the trigger a fourth time. His aim was true, and the pustule exploded, severing the monster's arm. It howled in pain and struggled to maintain its balance, but it was in vain. The creature keeled over with an almighty crash, mere inches from Isaac's face.

The engineer sprang up from the floor, the adrenaline dulling the pain in his back. He ducked into the tram and hit the "Go" button a few dozen times for good measure, and only when the doors closed and the tram started moving did he sit down, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down, his heart still racing.

I'm alive, he thought, his grip on the cutter still tight. Thank God it worked.

Isaac raised the tool-turned-weapon-turned-lucky-charm to eye level. The whole thing was slippery with blood, and the business end was dented from many a high-speed encounter with skulls, arms, and other assorted body parts. He gave it a loving pat, and made his decision.

Screw the retirement savings. If he made it out of the Ishimura (When, he corrected himself, when I make it out of here), he'd find the nearest bank, take out all his money, drop by the first jewelry store available, take out his cutter…

And have them gold-plate the blasted thing.