acts_of_gord | (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

The man in the yellow suit grunts in acknowledgment and strides purposefully in the direction indicated. If all goes well, he can still spin this in the right direction to salvage his reputation...

It would be nice if Gordon could match him stride for stride, but he's really not kidding about the leg. He'll be scrambling along after him at best, and stopping every so often to shut out the feeling of throbbing.

Thankfully, he does eventually catch the sound of human voices speaking what sounds like Polish, and maybe German...

Which would be coming from a group of twenty or so Resistance fighters gathered in what used to be an auxiliary control center of some description. Prohaska is leading the discussion, even as he's still holding on to Shephard.

The man in the yellow suit stops in the doorway and clears his throat pointedly. "Prohaska?" he says when the chatter ceases. "Mind filling me in on the conversation?"

"I was just telling them about what Herr Freeman did," Prohaska replies.

The man in the yellow suit grins. "Yeah, that's right. I still got it."

Prohaska's returning smile is a bit smug. "Not you." He nods toward the figure limping down the hall behind the man in the yellow suit. "Herr Freeman."

They're all looking at him. For a moment Gordon feels the old urge to yank his head back into the HEV suit, turtle-style, but he fights it off and raises a hand in acknowledgment instead. "[Is everybody all right?]" he asks in German; he speaks no Polish but he has a feeling this will be understood regardless. "[How are the wounded?]"

(The way he sees it, Prohaska is on a roll. It would be best to let the man continue with that momentum, in front of all these people.)

"[We are well,]" says Prohaska in slightly awkward German. "[Nothing serious, except for your pilot.]"

Gordon nods. "[We should get back, then, as soon as we can,]" he says. Nodding towards the man in the yellow suit, he adds, "[Also I would like to know this man's actual name, since he already knows mine. I think we'll have to talk to him back at the base about that, though.]"

Edited 2011-10-17 04:54 (UTC)

The man in the yellow suit scowls. "You guys know I don't like it when you speak European in front of me..."

"It can wait," says Prohaska flatly. "We have better things to do."

European? Gordon almost says aloud, but- well, his leg hurts more than he's letting on. So he nods. "We should go," he says. "We need to get back. I'll speak English the rest of the trip."

Shephard, who is looking a ghastly sort of pale (he got his gas mask off earlier- he wasn't kidding about having to throw up) offers a groggy sort of thumbs-up gesture in Gordon's direction. It is a measure of his condition that the Marine does not bother to make any gestures or ghastly smiles at the yellow-suited man.

"Are we clear to move?"

Arnold peers out the far door, then nods at Gordon.

"All right," Gordon says, and readies his shotgun. You never know what surprises might lie in store. "Let's go."