acts_of_gord | (no subject)

(no subject)

This place is not the first patch of Polish earth that has seen this many deaths. But the others were done by humans, and were driven by human hatred. The Combine have no such drive spurring them onward; quite simply, they do not care who learns about this place, or about what they've done here, only that the job of making this world their own gets done with as little interference from the local population as possible.

So there is nothing deliberately intimidating or sinister about the complex of plastic and steel and energy fields surrounding the European geneworm's spire. It's just one more blotch of alien architecture designed for funneling fuel into the alien monster's mouth, for inhaling everything Earth has to give and expelling the winds of an alien dimension in its stead. It could be anywhere. It has been anywhere, as ruins in North Dakota and Chapada dos Guimarães and Uluṟu-Kata Tjuṯa National Park and the forests of central Africa will attest.

But it still seems oddly appropriate, to Gordon, anyway, for the tiny scrambling band of humans to be flinging everything they have with all their might at a foe this far advanced here, of all countries. Maybe it's not mustering the cavalry for one screaming ride of explosive defiance straight into the teeth of the invading tanks, but... well, the battle here feels like something he thinks those men would approve of, even if it is only a distraction to allow their vermifuge-laden Combine scanner to slip through and poison the monster at the heart of it all.

He's pretty sure he'll be deaf for a good several hours by the time it's all over. But he'll accept that. Some prices, you pay.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In this instance, at least, the man in the yellow suit doesn't need to be told twice. The four of them take off toward the innards of the complex even as the gunships start to open fire.

The Combine Dispatch voice can be heard from somewhere further in, announcing... something in Polish. Great.

"Prohaska! What's it saying?" Gordon calls out, although he's aware that it's probably going to come down to 'we have visitors, kill them all'. That's pretty much all the Combine thinks about anyway.

Please, please, please, he's thinking, there HAS to be an Overwatch armory here, somewhere, or a tunnel or something we can take to get these monstrosities off our tail-

"They're engaging Gordon Freeman," Prohaska pants out as he sprints. "More than one of him. And that they want us dead. Nothing helpful."

"Thank you."

Seriously, for being able to translate on the fly, the man deserves gratitude if nothing else. Especially since the foremost of the gunships just opened fire-

There. Up ahead. There's a pipe in serious need of repair. No idea what was in it but it's got to be better than being dead.

"That pipe! Cover, go for it!"

The man in the yellow suit dives in first, followed by Prohaska and Arnold. Gordon is bringing up the rear, which is unfortunate because the gunship's fire is hot on his heels.

Literally. Fast as Gordon is, he's not quite fast enough, and by the time he pulls all the way into the dank and unlit drainage pipe, he's clenching his teeth hard enough to make a dentist wince.

"Arnold," he says hoarsely. "There's a problem."

Arnold grimaces. Even in the semidarkness of their cover he can see the hole in Gordon's armor on the back of his right calf. "Hang on, I'll get you patched up--"

Gordon nods, and glances as far ahead as he can. "I've got grenades," he murmurs. "Once he's done, I should take point."

He pauses, and eyes the man in the yellow suit.

"Unless you'd rather use them yourself."

"I will, thank you." The man in the yellow suit holds a hand out expectantly.

Silently, Gordon nods and starts detaching them from his harness to hand them over.

... he's really carrying a lot of them. As many as he could physically manage, in fact.

In fact, he's still handing them over when Arnold straightens up. "It's a bad hit," he admits. "I patched it up as best I could, but..."

Gordon flexes his leg a little and lets out an involuntary hiss of breath. All he says, though, is, "I'll manage."

Arnold gives him a skeptical look.

"I've had worse. With less treatment." He suppresses another wince. "Come on. We'd better get moving."

"Not until you give me the rest of--" The man in the yellow suit yelps and makes a grab for one of the grenades as it slips off the pile in his hands. "On second thought, I have enough. Let's go."

Gordon just allows himself the faintest of frowns- seriously, a man should know his carrying capacity- and moves forward as quickly as his condition will allow.

It's a damn good thing he's had experience ignoring pain, or this would be impossible. There are branches and twists in the pipes ahead that he really doesn't like the look of, too- much too small for a full-sized human, probably meant for liquid dumping or electrical cable maintenance, but just big enough for the smaller bots and synths to pass through.

The man in the yellow suit slows to a stop after a dozen yards. "...which way do we go?"

"Offhand," says Prohaska, "I'd say we go away from whatever's making that noise..."

"Doesn't sound like the Worm itself," Gordon says after a moment's thought. "Take a left. We should be all right that way."

If they're lucky they'll come to somewhere they can surface and get their bearings.

There is a light somewhere in the distance, but it's flickering. As they approach, it becomes clear why; the light is coming from a grate in the ceiling, which is being obstructed by many booted feet crossing it. There's a great deal of noise, too, but at least it's the familiar noise of combat rather than some unknown Synth threat.

Oh, now, this is at least familiar. Gordon can live with this. He really can.

... he's far too used to this nonsense now, isn't he.

He glances over at the others and does his best to get a better look through the grating; he'd quite like to see what's overhead and what their chances are before anybody starts talking about popping the grating and doing battle with the Overwatch above.

Has Gordon ever heard Overwatch vocoders speaking Polish? He has now. Their distorted squawks mingle with the sounds of human shouting and guns of various caliber firing on both sides. The closest noises are Combine in nature--Overwatch forces moving out toward some other part of the complex.

Damn. They're still using the grating as a pathway- all right. Gordon falls back to the shadows and gestures to the others to come closer. "As soon as they let up," he murmurs, "we should get that thing pried up and roll out a few grenades. Clear ourselves a space to evacuate this pipe."

"Alright, that is it," the man in the yellow suit snaps. "Who's in charge of this unit? Me. Who gives the orders? Me. So shut your goddamn pie-hole for once."

Janusz and Arnold don't say a word, although Arnold looks like he might be suppressing a laugh.

Blink. Blink.

Gordon steps back, doing his best not to put weight on the still-injured leg, and makes a 'by all means' gesture. If it means so much to the man....

One day he's going to look back at this and laugh. Maybe.

"Thank you. Now, as soon as things quiet down, we're gonna punt a grenade through the hole, and while they're still reeling from that, we come out with guns blazing."

Gordon doesn't roll his eyes. He does, however, make exasperated eye contact with Arnold.

The sooner this damned Gene Worm is dead, the happier a man he will be, and not for any reasons whatsoever to do with the Combine.

The less said about the ensuing melee, the better. Suffice it to say that by the time they're finished, the Combine in the immediate area are dead, but at no small cost to their own supplies.

"That's the last of the bug juice I brought with me," says Arnold with a helpless shrug as he hands a vial to Prohaska. "With any luck we'll be able to scavenge some more..."