Beyond the Sea

[acts_of_gord]

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.

Comments

[acts_of_gord]

"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.

[boston_bruiser]

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."

[acts_of_gord]

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.

[boston_bruiser]

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."

[acts_of_gord]

"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...

[boston_bruiser]

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?"

[acts_of_gord]

"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.

[boston_bruiser]

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!"

[acts_of_gord]

"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.

[boston_bruiser]

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!"

[acts_of_gord]

"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.

[boston_bruiser]

For what it's worth, Voodoo tries - though we doubt "squinting really really hard" counts. Something vaguely sharp and pointy on his leg gets tomahawked, but apart from that, it's mostly waiting for the smoke to die down - he doesn't want to waste ammunition, and he certainly doesn't want to risk friendly fire.

"Report - all clear?"

[acts_of_gord]

There's some coughing and muttered acknowledgments from Jan and the others. There's a scuttling sound, and then the sharp reports of Synth weapons going off-

And then the puddapuddaPUDDAPUDDAPUD of Freeman's pulse rifle, which only stops once there are no more Synth noises at all.

When the smoke- or at least part of the smoke- clears, Freeman is kicking a chunk of Synth off his right foot. He's covered in several different colors of fluid, only one of which looks much like human blood, and probably can't see much through the layers of scorch and grime on his glasses. The HEV suit is still frantically self-repairing in a number of places as he glares at the dead Synth and bellows, in that special tone used by people who can no longer tell how loud they are and who frankly no longer care:

"NOT. ENOUGH. GUN."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo eyeballs the synth, then Freeman. Then shrugs it off. To each their own.

"Nate, Logan, you guys okay? We need to move."

[acts_of_gord]

"Nothing bug juice won't fix," says Logan through gritted teeth. "Let's move."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo nods. "Landing pad's on the next floor. We take that, we take the rig." He motions for the group to follow him through the thoroughly broken double doors.

"Three, Four, this is Voodoo. The gang's all here. We're Oscar Mike to the landing pad - you need help, just say the word."

[acts_of_gord]

"We're coming. I would burn the corpses if I could," says Aanjay.

"Remind me never to piss that woman off," Jimbo mutters.

Gordon, for his part, is ranging up ahead, pulse rifle low and ready. He is not a happy camper just now. The first Combine to cross his path is going to get plugged between the cybernetically enhanced remains of its eyes until its head ceases to exist.

[boston_bruiser]

It's a ways to the landing pad, still - it doesn't help that the place is now eerily silent. There's nothing - not a whine of machinery, not a hiss of hydraulics - even the water is still. The place is dead.

Until one corner leaves Voodoo staring down the barrel of a Combine machine gun.

Voodoo's the faster of the two - he puts two holes in the gunner's head before he has time to blink.

Unfortunately, the last of the Combine on the rig have chosen this place to make their last stand, and Voodoo's opening salvo leaves them with a perfect line of sight to him.

The result sounds something akin to Lucifer's very own kettle corn machine - 40 submachine guns, assault rifles, and machine guns all opening fire at once on the raiders makes for a deafening POPOPOPOPOP.

"Ambush! Contact front!"

Voodoo's able to snap off a potshot at a machine gunner before his weapon locks open with a dry click as the firing pin meets air. He ducks into cover and reloads, tossing the empty mag.

"Get suppressing fire on those machine guns! NOW!"

[acts_of_gord]

That, fortunately, should not be a problem. Aajay is the first to do so, calling out in grimly determined Arabic along with Nairi. The other teams are doing much the same, forcing the Combine fire to fly wide and wild. Jan is going through all that remains of his explosive supply, chucking what he's got at the Combine line whether or not it was ever meant to be thrown.

And Gordon has crouched down to one side, hoisted his rifle, and started doling out headshots to the Combine manning those damned guns like the Good Humor Man passing out ice cream bars on a New Mexico summer's day.

Bad Humor Man.

Whatever.

[boston_bruiser]

The raider's withering barrage of fire disorients the Combine, and it's showing - they're getting sloppy, uncoordinated, leaving gaps in their fields of fire.

Which leaves enough of a window for Voodoo to stand up and cut down one of the other machine gunners, alongside a shotgunner who was stupid enough to turn tail and run. Another machine gun is still alive and kicking, but not for long - one of the other Resistance members topples him with a five-round burst.

With their machine guns gone, most of the troopers left turn tail and sprint back to the landing pad - a few of the stupider ones still stay and fight, but they're shot dead quicker than a rabbit on Elmer Fudd's ranch.

"They're falling back! Push to the landing pad!"

[acts_of_gord]

The others are already moving before voodoo even has time to finish the words. There isn't a human here who doesn't want to see these half-machine monsters go down and go down hard. They've come this far; if they were to all run dry of ammo now, they'd be charging the remaining Combine with the butts of their weapons and the reinforced toes of their boots.

And since the more levelheaded ones are stopping to retrieve ammo from each and every Combine corpse they find, there is no danger of running out any time soon.

This is a bad, bad day to be Combine.

[boston_bruiser]

Oh, boy, is it ever. Voodoo doesn't even live here and he wants to see these fuckers burn.

How much of that desire is pure hatred and how much is pure adrenaline is hard to tell. Either way, it's irrelevant to anyone downrange.

One of the smarter shotgun troopers leaps out of cover and knocks Voodoo's weapon out of his hands, then brings the butt above his head for a melee attack. For a split second, there's an opening, and Voodoo seizes it, stepping aside and sweeping the trooper's legs out from under him. The effect is similar to slipping on a banana peel, only nobody's laughing - least of all the trooper, who's now staring down the barrel of Voodoo's pistol.

Voodoo doesn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

Another of the stragglers shoulders his weapon at Voodoo - he gets two in the chest and one in the head for his trouble.

Voodoo holsters his pistol and shoulders his submachine gun. The landing pad is close now - he can almost feel the tarmac under his boots. Too close to be making stupid mistakes.

This is it. This is really it.

[acts_of_gord]

Somewhere along the way Gordon ran out of pulse rifle ammo. That's fine. That's fine. He's seen that happen a thousand times before with a thousand other guns. That's what the shotgun is for, and he's got enough ammo here courtesy of the late unlamented Combine shotgun soldiers to take down several more. The ones who have survival instinct left are taking aim at the other humans. It's not helping.

Someone else would be shouting battle cries as they lunged through to the landing pad at last, but someone else wouldn't be Gordon. As far as he's concerned, these soldiers aren't worth any more oxygen than it takes to ignite the powder in the shells.

[boston_bruiser]

That someone else wouldn't be Voodoo, either. As the last Combine soldier falls and he sets foot on the landing pad, the only talking he does is engaging his weapon's safety.

He looks over to the beach. Somewhere out there, waaaay out there, is the Sergeant-Major's contingent. Voodoo grins - a real toothy, loopy grin - and waves. Do they see him? Maybe. Not that he cares.

He digs a flare gun out of his combat webbing and turns to Freeman. "Here," he says, tossing him the gun. "You do the honors."

[acts_of_gord]

Gordon picks up the gun, offers the very faintest of smiles, and glances skyward. There were a few clouds scuddering across the sky before, but they've cleared out now. He can make out the Southern Cross from here, and the pointer-stars above it, Alpha and Beta Centauri. That'll do.

Paff!