Another young girl, a punch to Ellen's gut. One day she might stop seeing all the young girls around her daughter's age when she last saw her and not feel that pang of loss, but not yet. She swallowed even as she smiled, seeing how Mabel holds herself, a stalwart presence in the face of the unknown.

"I'm her mother," she says, and it's as true as it'd been when they were escaping the hell of the world Newt had been born on. "Ellen Ripley. Are you one of Newt's friends here?"

She's inclined to believe so, her tone of voice inquisitive without being condescending. She waits for Mabel's response, the solgaleo at her back peering over her shoulder to examine the heracross and onix.