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May. 9th, 2008 01:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
acts_of_gordEverything hurt. That wasn't anything new. Everything had been hurting for hours now, individual injuries blurring together into one great blazing ache from head to toes. What was new, as light started to make its way through Gordon's closed eyelids, was the smell. Chemical stinks mingled with other, more organic odors in the still air.
( "Body? What body?" )
The memory of the last several minutes came back to him in a cloud of the Marines' laughter. Gordon opened his eyes and sat up. Everything around him spun, and a mighty urge to be sick rose in his throat, but he forced it back down. Infinitely more important was this: he was, in fact, surrounded by garbage. Shipping containers, mostly, some whole and some broken, but garbage nonetheless. Overhead, a grating separated the trash from the morning sky. And on either side...
On either side were ten-foot-high grey metallic walls, featureless save for the inevitable pitting of age. He reached up to touch one hesitantly, realizing as he did so that there was something wrong. Even with his head throbbing, he was moving too easily. The suit wasn't that light, was it?
Oh, no. Oh, no no no HELL no.
In the moment that Gordon realized the Marines had taken all his equipment and left him with nothing but his suit and his glasses- not even his crowbar!- the walls began to move. He stared stupidly at the nearer wall for a moment before some spark of instinct spurred him to scramble for the nearest part of the trash pile. The suit was a lot of things, but it couldn't turn him into a high jumper. As the boxes and other, slicker garbage shifted and slid beneath him, a thought flickered through his head: "Threepio! Shut down all the garbage mashers on the detention level!" Alas, he had neither droids nor a commlink with which to reach one; all he could do was force burning, worn-out muscles to make one more supreme effort- ah! There! A niche at the top of the heap, just barely deep enough to crouch in-
Gordon's feet swung up and out of the mashers' way mere moments before the metal plates clanged together and ground to a stop. For several seconds he did nothing at all, only huddled, staring.
He was... somewhere. He didn't know where. Probably not too far from the surface access area, but still he didn't know where. He was alone, and incommunicado. He was in pain and feeling very, very unwell indeed. And he was unarmed: completely, totally, and utterly without any kind of weapon whatsoever. Even the belt he'd taken from the security guard back when all the hell began was gone. It was him, his suit, and... nothing else.
The only thing that stirred him to move was the thought that he'd like to be somewhere he could at least see the sky properly when he died. There was another niche on the far side of the room, running along the far wall, and the slanting rays of the early morning sun were puddling in it. It seemed like a better place to be than where he was now. The masher plates themselves were wide enough to walk on, if he'd had room to stand up. Gordon leaned forward instead and made his way over, slowly but surely, on his hands and knees. It hurt like anything, but the patch of sun was calling to him like a promise. It would be worth it. It had to be. It couldn't be any worse.
As he made it off the masher plates and into the little niche, the sun crept just a hair further along its way. Something gleamed redly in its beam. Gordon froze, one hand half-raised... and then, with the greatest of care and the most terrible of fear (hadn't he been hallucinating ninjas just a few minutes ago, after all?), he reached out that hand to touch it.
Metal. Real metal. Somehow, some way, someone had left a crowbar down here.
It is very, very difficult to cuddle a three-foot-long piece of metal, but Gordon Freeman surely tried.
( "Body? What body?" )
The memory of the last several minutes came back to him in a cloud of the Marines' laughter. Gordon opened his eyes and sat up. Everything around him spun, and a mighty urge to be sick rose in his throat, but he forced it back down. Infinitely more important was this: he was, in fact, surrounded by garbage. Shipping containers, mostly, some whole and some broken, but garbage nonetheless. Overhead, a grating separated the trash from the morning sky. And on either side...
On either side were ten-foot-high grey metallic walls, featureless save for the inevitable pitting of age. He reached up to touch one hesitantly, realizing as he did so that there was something wrong. Even with his head throbbing, he was moving too easily. The suit wasn't that light, was it?
Oh, no. Oh, no no no HELL no.
In the moment that Gordon realized the Marines had taken all his equipment and left him with nothing but his suit and his glasses- not even his crowbar!- the walls began to move. He stared stupidly at the nearer wall for a moment before some spark of instinct spurred him to scramble for the nearest part of the trash pile. The suit was a lot of things, but it couldn't turn him into a high jumper. As the boxes and other, slicker garbage shifted and slid beneath him, a thought flickered through his head: "Threepio! Shut down all the garbage mashers on the detention level!" Alas, he had neither droids nor a commlink with which to reach one; all he could do was force burning, worn-out muscles to make one more supreme effort- ah! There! A niche at the top of the heap, just barely deep enough to crouch in-
Gordon's feet swung up and out of the mashers' way mere moments before the metal plates clanged together and ground to a stop. For several seconds he did nothing at all, only huddled, staring.
He was... somewhere. He didn't know where. Probably not too far from the surface access area, but still he didn't know where. He was alone, and incommunicado. He was in pain and feeling very, very unwell indeed. And he was unarmed: completely, totally, and utterly without any kind of weapon whatsoever. Even the belt he'd taken from the security guard back when all the hell began was gone. It was him, his suit, and... nothing else.
The only thing that stirred him to move was the thought that he'd like to be somewhere he could at least see the sky properly when he died. There was another niche on the far side of the room, running along the far wall, and the slanting rays of the early morning sun were puddling in it. It seemed like a better place to be than where he was now. The masher plates themselves were wide enough to walk on, if he'd had room to stand up. Gordon leaned forward instead and made his way over, slowly but surely, on his hands and knees. It hurt like anything, but the patch of sun was calling to him like a promise. It would be worth it. It had to be. It couldn't be any worse.
As he made it off the masher plates and into the little niche, the sun crept just a hair further along its way. Something gleamed redly in its beam. Gordon froze, one hand half-raised... and then, with the greatest of care and the most terrible of fear (hadn't he been hallucinating ninjas just a few minutes ago, after all?), he reached out that hand to touch it.
Metal. Real metal. Somehow, some way, someone had left a crowbar down here.
It is very, very difficult to cuddle a three-foot-long piece of metal, but Gordon Freeman surely tried.
