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

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..."

Gordon nods. He's picking through the remains of the Combine nearest to him, but all he's finding at the moment is ammunition. Not that this is a bad thing, per se, but his leg is still largely dependent on Arnold's bandaging skills to stay functional. And they've still got a ways to go.

He glances over at the man in the yellow suit, one eyebrow raised; where does His Nibs think they need to go from here, hm?

The man in the yellow suit squints at the far horizon, through the semi-translucent plastic walls of the complex. "I see it," he says, pointing. "That way. We'd better skirt around sideways, make it harder for them to know where we're headed."

"The Overwatch was going that way," says Janusz, pointing east. "I suggest we go the opposite direction."

"Thank you, Prohaska," says the man in the yellow suit through gritted teeth. "I was just about to say that."

Poor bastard, thinks Gordon, but nods. It's as good a route as any. The important thing is to engage the Combine where they can actually do some real harm, not waste their strength on battles this far out before the boobytrapped scanner can reach the spire.

Which isn't to say he isn't keeping all senses on alert for unpleasant surprises as they start moving, of course.

He won't have to wait long for that. Less than two minutes later, a scuttling noise from somewhere above makes the four of them simultaneously freeze on the spot.

"Headcrabs?" Arnold murmurs. "This far inside? They must be desperate..."

This does not merit using the shotgun, Gordon thinks. Not unless he hears the horrible hissing rattle of the black headcrabs- he remembers that sound from Ravenholm all too well. No, for this he's getting out the crowbar...

There's no screeching war cry, no bloated four-legged figure leaping at their heads. Instead? There's the sharp report of a gunshot.

"Fuck--!" The man in the yellow suit dives sideways.

Gordon whirls to face whatever it is, and does his best to ignore the sudden feeling of ice down his spine.

The creature perched on the ledge above them is the size of a headcrab, with four arthropod legs like a headcrab. But this fucker? Comes with armaments.

And judging by the other scuttling noises coming from all around them, it's not alone.

"Fuck--run!" shouts the man in the yellow suit, taking off in a sprint down the nearest passageway.

Leaving the others to cover his escape, or at least cover their tail in general- well, that's nothing new, Gordon can do that.

Assuming he can get his crowbar back into its belt loop and whip out the shotgun fast enough, anyway. Because no way is he letting these things come at their rear unopposed.

The creatures move almost as fast as the skinny-legged headcrabs, and while they apparently can't move and shoot at the same time, their aim is alarmingly good when they're standing still. Scuttle - CRACK - scuttle - CRACK - scuttle - CRACK.

Running backwards while pumping and firing the shotgun for all he's worth! Gordon can do that! ... he hopes!

Where the hell are the Combine getting these things from?