acts_of_gord | Beyond the Sea

Beyond the Sea

There's going to be a lot of swimming very soon. Gordon's good with that. Maybe not all that enthusiastic about it, though. He's read about Irukandji syndrome. It's almost enough to make him wish for Xen leeches instead.

Almost.

It's a night swim, is the thing. The only way they could reach the Combine desalination plant undetected during the day would involve Pi portaling the Borealis directly alongside the rig and dropping them off faster than the Combine could shoot them all down. Alyx has the machine up and running again, but nobody wants to take a chance on Pi's current stability. And for all that people in the Resistance occasionally seem to think he's the Messiah, walking on water is not in his portfolio. So... they have to get to the rig under cover of darkness, through jellyfish-infested waters, and creep aboard undetected. And then pretty much put an end to the existence of anything on board with a pulse. Alyx won't be there, and the stalkers won't have any other way out.

He'll handle that part himself, if he can.

For now they've driven here from the Borealis They've got a dark equipment shed near the shoreline ready so that the handful of them who'll be going can get their eyes used to what lies ahead. They're all in their dive gear, as far as he knows. He's got his HEV suit and his helmet on. Hopefully it'll stand up to the jellyfish like it's done to the Combine. This is going to be a very short trip otherwise.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"It won't take long. Stalkers can barely defend themselves," Gordon says as he readies his rifle. "Hard to think of a worse Combine crime against humanity."

And then it really doesn't matter any more, because the Combine troopers are rushing in after them and Gordon is in the unenviable position of having to run backwards and fire like a maniac at the same time. Good thing he's good at it.

Voodoo's no slouch, either - a few rapid-fire bursts take care of two particularly persistent troopers, and a well-placed flashbang manages to stun most of the rest. Voodoo pulls out his pistol and takes out another two before the rest are cut down in a hail of gunfire.

"Stairs right behind us," he says, his tone clear and clipped, his eyes never leaving the weapon's sights. "Got your six."

"Thanks," Gordon says tersely. "Jan? Where the hell are you?"

There's a burst of weapons fire that takes Gordon a moment to sort out- he's hearing it both over the radio and down the corridor. A moment later the muzzle of an SMG rounds the corner, followed by the majority of an Australian, and then by Jan and his own weapon. "Do we have to answer that?" asks Ten Boom.

Gordon just eyes him briefly. "Status, then."

"Weren't that many Stalkers in the quarters," says Jimbo. "Don't imagine they keep a day/night schedule anyway. We put 'em down. Looked like a quarter, maybe a third the number you'd need to run this place."

"And we think we found where the soldiers are kept after all," says Jan. "It isn't far."

Voodoo nods. "Show us."

Jimbo nods grimly and darts back the way he came. For someone who had been a snorkeling instructor before the Combine came, he's not bad at this. Ten Boom moves to cover the group's rear, but it's not really necessary; the thundering footfalls they're hearing are headed in other directions.

And shortly after, Jimbo stops, and indicates a sliding panel on one wall for Voodoo to look through.

The room on the other side must have been some kind of central facility for the original crew of this station to meet and do massive maintenance, judging by its size. Most of it is taken up with... equipment. Jointed, black metal rigs hang from the ceiling at regular intervals, looking like some kind of nightmarish control chair; there are tubes and wires and massive cables running from the ceiling down to each of the chairs, and the unoccupied ones give off a sickly pale glow....

Oh, yes. Yes, there is that. Many of them are currently occupied by what must have surely once been humans; what they are now is debatable at best. Every last one of them is pale as a week-dead corpse, where they have flesh at all. The abdominal region is almost entirely mechanized, by the look of things. Fat, pulsating cables are connected to ports on the immobile figures' necks and the sides of their torsos. Their faces, mercifully, are blocked entirely by the uppermost parts of the rigs.

Every so often one of them twitches.

Voodoo's silent for a long while.

Then:

"Jeeezus H. Christ."

Part of him says that nobody, nobody, deserves this, but another part says that if someone was stupid enough to volunteer for all this, then yes, they deserve exactly what they get.

The fact some of them might not be volunteers - or might have just been that desperate - never enters into the equation.

"Are they a threat? Any chance of them...waking up anytime soon?"

"He's a long way from here, mate," mutters Jimbo.

Ten Boom shakes his head. "We still have some time. Many of them were activated when we looked in before. This bunch are in reserve."

Voodoo nods. He's quiet for a bit, then looks to Jan.

"We can't take any chances. Any way we could kill 'em all at once?"

Jan glances to Jimbo; Jimbo looks to Gordon. Gordon's got his face pressed up against the viewing slot. "The feeding tubes all pass into a single spot in the wall," he reports. "Looks like it runs parallel to the HVAC system. Get me into a vent and hold the area against reinforcements." He looks to Voodoo. "I've been doing vent runs against the clock for years."

Voodoo nods and holds his hands out palm-up for a boost. "Hope you have, 'cause we need to make this quick."

The corners of Gordon's mouth twitch in something not unlike a smile. He says nothing further, only steps up.

Side note: while Gordon is 6'2" and weighs around 180 pounds, the HEV suit is... significantly heavier. Fortunately, Gordon's been wearing it a long time now, and carrying far too many weapons at once, and swinging a crowbar for all he's worth on a regular basis- which is to say that he's got the upper body strength to pull himself (suit and all) up quickly once Voodoo lifts him up high enough to pop the vent open with his crowbar.

"All right, now," says Ten Boom, "who wants the left and who the right? I hear our hosts coming."

"I got the left," Voodoo replies, moving to cover one of the approaches. He reloads, tucking the half-empty magazine in one of his back pouches and flicking the safety to automatic.

Who knows - he might get to use that grenade after all.

"Right," says Jimbo, settling in for his go. "Let's get busy, shall we?"

There are no Elites in the squad that rounds the corner and immediately opens fire. That may or may not be a mercy. This bunch knows what they're doing regardless.

That they do - one round misses Voodoo's head by the barest of margins, fortunately for him. Unfortunately for the one who shot at him.

Voodoo doesn't rush his shots - all he does is put three rounds dead-center into each guard. He gets four before the rest are cut down. Still, there's no time to relax.

"Ammo check - everyone good?"

"I'm good," says Jan, who's been unloading his shotgun into the Combine troopers.

Jimbo grunts. "Running a little-"

There's a sudden FOOMP! from the other side of the wall- the side with the Combine soldiers in their machines.

"Sounds like Freeman's done his work."

And indeed, checking on the viewing port will reveal... well. There's a lot of smoke in there. That's probably for the best.

That is probably is.

Voodoo opens the door, waving away the smoke with his free hand. "Clear out here, Freeman. Four and Five are in the breeze upstairs - we need to haul ass."

No argument from Gordon. He's just going to sprint out of there as fast as his legs and the suit will carry him. There's people depending on him to not die of smoke inhalation, thank you very much.

It's a short route up to the second floor, about 30 seconds if you're running (and they are running). Judging from the gunfire and explosions, the other teams are in one hell of a tussle.

"Four, this is Voodoo, One and Two are on the second floor and moving fast. Give me a sitrep, over."

"We're doing all right, holding our own," comes Brandon's voice, "but Five-"

"SYNTHS! EVERYWHERE!" interrupts Logan's bellow. "On the bloody ceilings!"

Right, that sounds like they've got their destination all set, doesn't it...

Voodoo doesn't skip a beat. "Four, assist Five in any way you can! We're close!" He doesn't sprint (lowering his weapon isn't exactly the best of ideas right now), but he's going a lot faster now.

"Three, Five's in some serious shit. One and Two are Oscar Mike to assist, where are you?"

"Up to our necks in soldiers," answers Aanjay. "Holding a narrow staircase against them- they won't reach you while we can still fire."

"Appreciated. Keep us posted," says Gordon as he lengthens his stride. "Logan. Describe them."

"What do you mean, describe? Big fucking crab things the size of antlions! Covered in guns!"

Gordon doesn't recognize the description, but nods anyway. "Hold position. We're coming."

Logan might have other things to say. Gordon doesn't know. He's busy fitting a particularly unpleasant-looking canister to his pulse rifle. They don't have many of the orbs available but it sure as hell sounds like he's going to need them.

It doesn't take long to see where Five's holed up - the auditory mix of suppressed gunfire and primal screeches behind sliding double doors is something to behold.

"This is it," Voodoo says, placing a breaching charge on the door. "Prepare to breach."

FA-THOOOM!

There goes the door, along with a synth or three. The group storms into the room and opens fire on the synths, Voodoo concentrating on the ones closest to Nathan and Logan. After a mag dump or two, though, one thing becomes clear:

"Shit! These things are goddamn bulletproof!"

"Keep them distracted."

Gordon's not smiling. But there's an air of grim satisfaction as he steps forward and pulls the secondary trigger on his pulse rifle.

WHOMMMM goes the air as the dark energy orb hurtles into the nearest cluster of synths. Two of them are unfortunate enough to come in contact with the field at the same time, lifting briefly upwards as visible light coruscates over their bodies- and then they disintegrate into vile-smelling piles of ash.

Gordon's not watching, of course. There is only so much time for follow-through when you've got to make the next orb count- and when you have to start laying down pulse rifle fire in earnest. The synths might be bulletproof, but the pulse rifle fires dark energy slugs, not bullets.

It's clear - bullets are a no-go. But even between Freeman and Team Five, there's still way too many synths.

Before a conscious thought even forms, Voodoo grabs the grenade out of his pocket, pulls the pin, lets the lever fly, and counts to two.

"Frag out!"

He chucks the grenade at the biggest cluster of synths in the room, and it explodes on impact. Those of them it doesn't kill, it either cripples or scatters like bowling pins.

"Fuckin' A, we're gettin' somewhere!"

"You heard the man! Follow his lead!" calls Ten Boom, and reaches for what explosives of his own he has. It's not long before the thunder of explosions is bouncing madly off every wall, smoke and shrapnel and Synth parts splattering everywhere.

But the synths aren't helpless, not by any stretch of the imagination. The closest ones to the humans are lunging in with Combine-enhanced swiftness, slashing out with forward claws before Freeman or grenades can take them down. The ones further back are quite sensibly hanging back, some of them skittering sideways in an attempt to avoid Freeman targeting them.

No, wait, that's not right. In an attempt to accurately target him. They do, after all, have weapons slung under their bellies like some vile ovipositor. And four or five of them are opening fire in a blaze of sound and smoke.

Good luck seeing what happens. That's one hell of a mess to try to see through.

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