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.

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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?

How many did he take down? It's impossible to tell--counting would require him to slow down. The only honest answer is 'not enough.'

"Where are they all coming from?!" Arnold cries in desperation.

"No clue! Just-" He spares an instant to scan their environment for something, anything he can pull down and drop in the things' path- he'll figure out an alternate escape route when the time comes. "We have to get them off our tail!"

That scaffolding over there looks like it might come loose, given the right persuasion...

"Arnold! Cover me- switching weapons!" Gordon calls. The gravity gun is ALWAYS the right persuasion.

(Well. Sometimes explosives are. But usually the gravity gun does the trick.)

"Got it!" Arnold fires short, controlled bursts with the pulse rifle. He's not the best shot in the world, but he's not terrible, either. You don't last long in the field if you can't hit a headcrab-sized target.

"Right!" shouts Gordon as he gets the gravity gun out. "Clear!"

And with that he latches on to the scaffolding with everything he's got and yanks.

With a resonant GROOOOOOAN, the scaffolding pulls free from its moorings and topples over, blocking the corridor completely. There are still a few of the walking gun Synths on the near side of the new barrier, but they're quickly dispatched.

"Someone probably heard that," remarks Prohaska once they have a moment to breathe.

"Couldn't be helped," Gordon answers, panting. "We'd've been swarmed otherwise. At least we're not being chased by Advisors."

Assuming these two even know what those are, without any Vortigaunts around to tell them.

"Where next?"

"We'll have to cut north. This way." The man in the yellow suit gestures toward an opening in the wall, and the crew follows his lead.

"What is an 'Advisor'?" asks Prohaska in an undertone once the man in the yellow suit is out of earshot.

"The actual Combine race," says Gordon, equally quietly. "Or one of them, anyway. I don't know if there's more than one species to Combine leadership, but that's what we've faced in City 17 and the North American gene worm dead zone. Telekinetic maggot-shaped things the size of a motor vehicle."

That's a fair place to start, right?

Prohaska blanches. "I had heard rumors," he said slowly. "But I had no idea they were real..."

"They aren't," says the man in the yellow suit flatly. Apparently he has better hearing than you'd figure. "He's full of shit, Prohaska. I thought you'd have figured that out by now."

Gordon turns just enough to glare at the man in the yellow suit silently. Eventually he says, "This is neither the time nor the place for this. We have a mission."

"Damn right." The man in the yellow suit gives Gordon a sharp look before turning back toward his destination.

The noise of battle is beginning to return. A rise in the ground reveals why; the rest of the Resistance forces are pressing against the holding area where the civilians are being kept. It's difficult to tell how well they're doing from here, but the good news is that it's keeping the Combine nicely distracted.

Gordon scans the skies briefly for any sign of those blasted gunships, then looks expectantly to the man in the yellow suit. He knows where he'd release their subverted drone and its vermifuge payload, but someone's been throwing his weight around.

Edited 2011-10-13 23:30 (UTC)

The man in the yellow suit surveys the scene, then nods firmly. "We should get up against the innermost wall," he says. "Get as close as possible without engaging them directly."

And, coincidentally, give the troops a clear view of him being all heroical.

Possibly not where Gordon would have chosen- somewhere less obvious, for the scannerdrone's sake, would've been preferable- but as long as they can draw enemy fire away from the thing, it should serve.

"All right," he says. "Arnold, you heard the man. Let's move."

They encounter almost no opposition on their way to the inner wall. There's a pair of patrolling Overwatch that they opt to avoid rather than kill, but other than that, nothing. Almost before they know it, they're up against the far wall, and the man in the yellow suit is clambering up its irregular surface toward a small jutting platform a little more than halfway up.

This level of ease and quiet, especially when there's gunfire elsewhere, is never, ever a good thing. Gordon signals Arnold to take extra care and watch at ground level around them; he himself will be keeping one eye on the sky. There are still gunships out there, after all.

He needs the other eye to follow his impostor without getting hurt, or he'd be scanning even harder. There may be some distraction there.