Gordon Freeman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
acts_of_gord) wrote2008-07-24 02:44 am
acts_of_gord) wrote2008-07-24 02:44 am
(no subject)
Flood Control Facility No. 5
City 17 Canal System
Warehouse
Where the CPs were coming from Gordon didn't know. Where they kept the manhacks, he didn't know either. They just kept coming, in twos and fours and threes. He'd taken shelter for a while in one of the shipping containers they'd pulled into the warehouse, and then they'd called off the manhacks and started using explosives. He'd bolted, strafing the lot of them as he ran for the stairs.
They kept coming. His back to the low wooden barrier that marked the walkway's edge, Gordon fumbled at his belt (not like the prior owner would need it, after all) for one of his precious grenades. If he was careful, if he was lucky, if they bunched up-
He peeked over the barrier, caught a flash of white and black. Four SMGs opened fire as he hit the floor; the bark of a shotgun joined them a moment later. Keep doing that, Gordon prayed as he pulled the pin. Stay where you are.
There was an instant's silence, in which he dared pull himself up just far enough for the pitch of his life; there was another instant's silence; then from across the warehouse:
"Shit. GRENADE."
The squeal of five bio-alarms sounding the final flatline had never been so marvellous. Gordon pulled himself up to have a look, just in case. Sure enough, his aim had been true; there were no more CPs, nor any manhacks to accompany them. He started to pump a fist in relief.
Some reflex of survival niggled at him to say: something is moving, and you are not looking at it. Gordon glanced down at the warehouse's open floor.
In the patch of fractured sun leaking through the grimy warehouse windows, the shadow of a Combine helicopter slunk back and forth, in time to the muffled thup-thup-thup of a distant engine.
( Here comes the helicopter -- second time today )
Flood Control Facility No. 5
City 17 Canal System
Access Control
It didn't slink, it prowled, the easy, confident motion of a predatory cat. There was no escape, not from here. Every window lay open to its gaze, every door opened onto a space with no cover. Even the handful of cargo containers were next to useless as shelters. There was no escape. Nevertheless, Gordon looked up at the ladder and prayed with all his might for it to lead to somewhere better.
( Everybody scatters and hopes it goes away )
One grenade- and two dead CPs- later, it did.
( How many kids they've murdered only God can say )
Gordon pressed a hand against the slowly-sealing holes in his suit and watched the chopper limp away. For once, it seemed, a gun emplacement had done him some real good. Now if he could just find a medkit before the blood loss got to him.
( If I had a rocket launcher I'd make somebody pay )
It wouldn't die. The goddamned thing wouldn't die. It was waiting, right after the gates-
( I don't believe in guarded borders and I don't believe in hate )
it started dropping the mines as he somehow banked off the wall and skittered into the tunnel-
( I don't believe in generals or their stinking torture states )
it sped along on his tail as he dug his fingers into the handlebars and tried not to think of what would happen if he fell in the iridescent toxic filth to either side of him-
( And when I talk with the survivors )
it was there as he sped out of the tunnel, it was there when the smokestack collapse almost crushed him, it danced under the rocket fire from the APCs- it was everywhere! Was there no way to shake it? Would he have to flip over and let it blow the airboat to pieces and make it the rest of the way to Eli's on foot? He sure as hell wasn't going to bring that thing with him, not if the lab was as important as everyone had said-
( of things too sickening to relate )
It wasn't until he emerged from yet another tunnel and paused the engine that he realized the relentless rotor sounds had finally dropped off. Wherever the chopper was... it wasn't here.
( If I had a rocket launcher )
Somehow, Gordon didn't find that reassuring.
( I would retaliate )
There was a building up ahead that squatted across the river. As Gordon drew nearer, he caught a glimpse of orange paint on one wall: the lambda surrounded by a circle. There'd been one at the barn, too, and at the big red building where the helicopter had almost caught him. He had to wonder, just a little, whether the people who'd seized on it as their symbol knew anything at all about its origin. He'd worked alongside the first people to use it, after all-
"Hey!" called a woman's voice. "You're Freeman, aren't you?"
He cut the throttle in time to see a woman in a patched jacket, marked on the sleeve with the lambda symbol, waving to him from the underbelly of the building. As he pulled the airboat over, a dark-skinned man in similar clothes emerged from the shadows. "Well!" the man said. "I wouldn't believe it if I couldn't see it with my own eyes. Dr. Gordon Freeman himself!"
Gordon wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Not that it mattered, because the woman was talking- the Combine was coming, and it was time to take this place apart- and there was someone else as well. The Vortiganunt beside her bowed, two-fingered hands interlocking a moment, and solemnly rumbled, "Greetings to the Freeman."
( On the Rio Lacantun, one hundred thousand wait )
He held up a finger, intending to say yeah, about that, but the man touched his arm. "C'mon in, Doc," he said. "I'll show you what you're up against."
( To fall down from starvation -- or some less humane fate )
With a suppressed sigh Gordon let himself be led over to a more detailed map of the region. There was a dam ahead of him, and a long stretch of canals. This area, it seemed, had been City 17's industrial infrastructure before the war, and still operated at a limited capacity in some areas. Not all, but enough of them to merit CPs and armored car defenses. "The hideout's here," the man added, "nestled in the old hydro plant down by the dam. Getting there with that hunter-chopper on your ass, though?" He shook his head. "Next to impossible. Good news, though- the Vortigaunt's working his magic on your airboat. You're gonna have some decent firepower going forward- if I know him at all, he should be just about done now..."
( Cry for Guatemala, with a corpse in every gate )
And he was right. Down at the water's edge, the Vortigaunt was just backing away from the airboat. The gun bolted to its right side was considerably larger than anything Gordon could've carried for long on his own, and of no design he'd ever seen before. As he bent down to peer at it more closely, the Vortigaunt rumbled, "The Freeman will accept this weapon, or suffer greatly on the road ahead."
( If I had a rocket launcher )
"What?" Gordon blinked. "Why wouldn't I accept it?"
( I would not hesitate )
"That gun came off one of the same hunter-choppers that you're up against," the man called from behind him. "I like to bring a little irony to a firefight. You don't have a problem with that, do you?"
( I want to raise every voice )
"If I did I wouldn't be alive today."
( at least I've got to try )
"Good. Give 'em hell, Doc," said the woman, and "You'd better get going- farewell, Dr. Freeman," said the man. As for the Vortigaunt, it said nothing until Gordon fired the boat's engine; then it raised one hand and called out, "For freedom!"
( Every time I think about it water rises to my eyes )
If he failed them now....
Gordon had learned long ago never to so much as think anything as blatantly stupid as 'it's too quiet', but the vast, open space that he pulled into as the sun crept towards the horizon was precisely that. The water that lapped at boats' sides scarcely made a noise. No discernible current shifted the boxes and barrels in the deeper areas, either. Nothing moved among the tall grass but a bird or two, and even they seemed huddled, anticipatory. In any other time it might almost have been a scene of peace.
( Situation desperate, echoes of the victims cry )
But there was a difference between peace and stillness, and the stillness that ruled the place was that of the grave: waters choked, boats wrecked, houses abandoned to whatever master might take them. Gordon had been on enough trails before Black Mesa to know that nature was never really quiet unless something was wrong; and here it was very, very quiet. This had been a place of the living once, and now it was only a place of desperation, and of endings.
( If I had a rocket launcher )
In the distance, beyond the deep waters that surrounded the lone remaining habitable building, the faint thup-thup-thup of a helicopter's rotor sounded. Gordon grimly slid one hand to the controls of the airboat's gun.
( some son of a bitch would die )
City 17 Canal System
Warehouse
Where the CPs were coming from Gordon didn't know. Where they kept the manhacks, he didn't know either. They just kept coming, in twos and fours and threes. He'd taken shelter for a while in one of the shipping containers they'd pulled into the warehouse, and then they'd called off the manhacks and started using explosives. He'd bolted, strafing the lot of them as he ran for the stairs.
They kept coming. His back to the low wooden barrier that marked the walkway's edge, Gordon fumbled at his belt (not like the prior owner would need it, after all) for one of his precious grenades. If he was careful, if he was lucky, if they bunched up-
He peeked over the barrier, caught a flash of white and black. Four SMGs opened fire as he hit the floor; the bark of a shotgun joined them a moment later. Keep doing that, Gordon prayed as he pulled the pin. Stay where you are.
There was an instant's silence, in which he dared pull himself up just far enough for the pitch of his life; there was another instant's silence; then from across the warehouse:
"Shit. GRENADE."
The squeal of five bio-alarms sounding the final flatline had never been so marvellous. Gordon pulled himself up to have a look, just in case. Sure enough, his aim had been true; there were no more CPs, nor any manhacks to accompany them. He started to pump a fist in relief.
Some reflex of survival niggled at him to say: something is moving, and you are not looking at it. Gordon glanced down at the warehouse's open floor.
In the patch of fractured sun leaking through the grimy warehouse windows, the shadow of a Combine helicopter slunk back and forth, in time to the muffled thup-thup-thup of a distant engine.
( Here comes the helicopter -- second time today )
Flood Control Facility No. 5
City 17 Canal System
Access Control
It didn't slink, it prowled, the easy, confident motion of a predatory cat. There was no escape, not from here. Every window lay open to its gaze, every door opened onto a space with no cover. Even the handful of cargo containers were next to useless as shelters. There was no escape. Nevertheless, Gordon looked up at the ladder and prayed with all his might for it to lead to somewhere better.
( Everybody scatters and hopes it goes away )
One grenade- and two dead CPs- later, it did.
( How many kids they've murdered only God can say )
Gordon pressed a hand against the slowly-sealing holes in his suit and watched the chopper limp away. For once, it seemed, a gun emplacement had done him some real good. Now if he could just find a medkit before the blood loss got to him.
( If I had a rocket launcher I'd make somebody pay )
It wouldn't die. The goddamned thing wouldn't die. It was waiting, right after the gates-
( I don't believe in guarded borders and I don't believe in hate )
it started dropping the mines as he somehow banked off the wall and skittered into the tunnel-
( I don't believe in generals or their stinking torture states )
it sped along on his tail as he dug his fingers into the handlebars and tried not to think of what would happen if he fell in the iridescent toxic filth to either side of him-
( And when I talk with the survivors )
it was there as he sped out of the tunnel, it was there when the smokestack collapse almost crushed him, it danced under the rocket fire from the APCs- it was everywhere! Was there no way to shake it? Would he have to flip over and let it blow the airboat to pieces and make it the rest of the way to Eli's on foot? He sure as hell wasn't going to bring that thing with him, not if the lab was as important as everyone had said-
( of things too sickening to relate )
It wasn't until he emerged from yet another tunnel and paused the engine that he realized the relentless rotor sounds had finally dropped off. Wherever the chopper was... it wasn't here.
( If I had a rocket launcher )
Somehow, Gordon didn't find that reassuring.
( I would retaliate )
There was a building up ahead that squatted across the river. As Gordon drew nearer, he caught a glimpse of orange paint on one wall: the lambda surrounded by a circle. There'd been one at the barn, too, and at the big red building where the helicopter had almost caught him. He had to wonder, just a little, whether the people who'd seized on it as their symbol knew anything at all about its origin. He'd worked alongside the first people to use it, after all-
"Hey!" called a woman's voice. "You're Freeman, aren't you?"
He cut the throttle in time to see a woman in a patched jacket, marked on the sleeve with the lambda symbol, waving to him from the underbelly of the building. As he pulled the airboat over, a dark-skinned man in similar clothes emerged from the shadows. "Well!" the man said. "I wouldn't believe it if I couldn't see it with my own eyes. Dr. Gordon Freeman himself!"
Gordon wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Not that it mattered, because the woman was talking- the Combine was coming, and it was time to take this place apart- and there was someone else as well. The Vortiganunt beside her bowed, two-fingered hands interlocking a moment, and solemnly rumbled, "Greetings to the Freeman."
( On the Rio Lacantun, one hundred thousand wait )
He held up a finger, intending to say yeah, about that, but the man touched his arm. "C'mon in, Doc," he said. "I'll show you what you're up against."
( To fall down from starvation -- or some less humane fate )
With a suppressed sigh Gordon let himself be led over to a more detailed map of the region. There was a dam ahead of him, and a long stretch of canals. This area, it seemed, had been City 17's industrial infrastructure before the war, and still operated at a limited capacity in some areas. Not all, but enough of them to merit CPs and armored car defenses. "The hideout's here," the man added, "nestled in the old hydro plant down by the dam. Getting there with that hunter-chopper on your ass, though?" He shook his head. "Next to impossible. Good news, though- the Vortigaunt's working his magic on your airboat. You're gonna have some decent firepower going forward- if I know him at all, he should be just about done now..."
( Cry for Guatemala, with a corpse in every gate )
And he was right. Down at the water's edge, the Vortigaunt was just backing away from the airboat. The gun bolted to its right side was considerably larger than anything Gordon could've carried for long on his own, and of no design he'd ever seen before. As he bent down to peer at it more closely, the Vortigaunt rumbled, "The Freeman will accept this weapon, or suffer greatly on the road ahead."
( If I had a rocket launcher )
"What?" Gordon blinked. "Why wouldn't I accept it?"
( I would not hesitate )
"That gun came off one of the same hunter-choppers that you're up against," the man called from behind him. "I like to bring a little irony to a firefight. You don't have a problem with that, do you?"
( I want to raise every voice )
"If I did I wouldn't be alive today."
( at least I've got to try )
"Good. Give 'em hell, Doc," said the woman, and "You'd better get going- farewell, Dr. Freeman," said the man. As for the Vortigaunt, it said nothing until Gordon fired the boat's engine; then it raised one hand and called out, "For freedom!"
( Every time I think about it water rises to my eyes )
If he failed them now....
Gordon had learned long ago never to so much as think anything as blatantly stupid as 'it's too quiet', but the vast, open space that he pulled into as the sun crept towards the horizon was precisely that. The water that lapped at boats' sides scarcely made a noise. No discernible current shifted the boxes and barrels in the deeper areas, either. Nothing moved among the tall grass but a bird or two, and even they seemed huddled, anticipatory. In any other time it might almost have been a scene of peace.
( Situation desperate, echoes of the victims cry )
But there was a difference between peace and stillness, and the stillness that ruled the place was that of the grave: waters choked, boats wrecked, houses abandoned to whatever master might take them. Gordon had been on enough trails before Black Mesa to know that nature was never really quiet unless something was wrong; and here it was very, very quiet. This had been a place of the living once, and now it was only a place of desperation, and of endings.
( If I had a rocket launcher )
In the distance, beyond the deep waters that surrounded the lone remaining habitable building, the faint thup-thup-thup of a helicopter's rotor sounded. Gordon grimly slid one hand to the controls of the airboat's gun.
( some son of a bitch would die )