Gordon Freeman

Gravel sprayed everywhere as the buggy's wheels suddenly realized Gordon had pulled the handbrake lever. The buggy fishtailed to a stop; Gordon didn't much notice. He was too busy looking for some sign of human presence. There'd been Combine holed up near the last thumper, and the fighting had slowed him down. The settlement- New Little Odessa, wasn't it?- looked deserted, but at least it didn't look destroyed. . .
( We met as soul mates on Parris Island )
Something scuffed against a rock at the edge of his hearing. Gordon whipped around, shotgun in hand. An older man in a dingy, once-white jacket peered out at him from behind a half-wrecked cargo van. "Gordon Freeman?" the man said warily. Gordon nodded. "Hurry up and get to the cellar! We're expecting gunships any minute now."
( We left as inmates from an asylum )
"How many?" Gordon asked. He slid the gun back into its loop on the duct tape harness.
( And we were sharp, as sharp as knives / And we were so gung ho to lay down our lives )
"We don't know. Colonel Cubbage just managed to pick up the signal before it cut off."
( We came in spastic like tameless horses / We left in plastic as numbered corpses )
Nobody had mentioned a Colonel Cubbage back at the shorepoint installation, but Gordon nodded anyway. The man in the white jacket gestured to stairs leading under a nearby building- the one, Gordon realized, that he'd seen the Bastard in- and added, "He'll be glad to see you made it, that's for sure."
( And we learned fast to travel light / Our arms were heavy but our bellies were tight )
Before Gordon could say anything, the man had run off. Someone was speaking below, though; it had the sound of a briefing. He slipped down the stairs quietly and into the cellar, where a man, a woman, and a Vortigaunt were attentively listening to an Englishman. "-steerable rocket launcher is our best bet for taking down a gunship," the man said.
( We had no home front, we had no soft soap / They sent us Playboy, they gave us Bob Hope )
As the Vortigaunt glanced Gordon's way, the Englishman noticed his arrival. "Ah! Hello, I'll be right with you," he said. "Now- where was I? Ah, yes. The laser steering system. Using the laser guide, you can steer your rocket past the gunship defenses, like so, and make a direct hit. The first few will only anger it, of course. But if you can survive long enough to make several such hits, you will be rewarded with a prize worthy of any mantelpiece."
( We dug in deep and shot on sight / And prayed to Jesus Christ with all our might )
Gordon didn't know Vortigaunt expressions well enough yet to say what the alien might think of the speech, but the two humans looked more than a little bit skeptical of the prospect. The Englishman- a short, stout man with a fussy little mustache and knitted cap- seemed not to notice as he said, "Now. Who's going to be the lucky one to carry it into combat?"
( We had no cameras to shoot the landscape / We passed the hash pipe and played our Doors tapes )
No one said anything, but the humans' eyes slid over to Gordon. As for the Vortigaunt, it silently pointed one clawed finger Gordon's way in a gesture any human child would recognize as "not it!"
( And it was dark, so dark at night )
Before Gordon could say a word, the Englishman's eyes lit up. "Ah, yes! Gordon Freeman. I couldn't have asked for a finer volunteer."
( And we held on to each other )
Silently wishing mass infestations of small biting insects on the lot of them- what would you have done if I wasn't here?- Gordon stepped forward and accepted the launcher. The Englishman bowed. "Colonel Odessa Cubbage at your service," he said.
( Like brother to brother )
Somewhere up above, a klaxon sounded. "GUNSHIP!" somebody hollered. Cubbage's breath hissed between his teeth. "Damn!" he said. "You'd better get up there, Freeman. Just let me send a warning to Lighthouse Point, and I'll come right up and lend a hand!"
( We promised our mothers we'd write )
Gordon eyed the man's back- Cubbage hadn't even waited for an answer before rushing for the radio equipment- and allowed himself a huff of annoyance. Beyond that there was no point in hiding any longer, so he scooped as many rockets as he could manage off the nearby table and made for the stairs.
( And we would all go down together / We said we'd all go down together / Yes we would all go down together )

---

( Remember Charlie? Remember Baker? )
The air was filled with fire and a reek like nothing on Earth. Bits of the- thing- were still falling on all sides, flaming down to flecks of ash along the way. Gordon couldn't seem to catch his breath. The chopper back in the canals had been hard enough, but this! The gunship had flowed, pouring from place to place through the sky like some malevolent sea creature after its prey. And the noise it had made as it died. . .
( They left their childhood on every acre )
"Dr. Freeman?" A woman wearing the medic's cross on her arm eyed him worriedly. "Are you all right?"
( And who was wrong? And who was right? / It didn't matter in the thick of the fight )
"Fi-" He coughed. "Fine. I'm fine. I'm sorry, I- my glasses-" They were half-coated in the black, greasy residue of the thing's fiery passing. "Is everyone else okay?"
( We held the day )
"We've got a few injuries, but nobody died," the woman said. "That was amazing. I don't think I've ever seen one brought down so quickly!"
( In the palm of our hand )
Incredulous, Gordon glanced sidelong at her. It'd taken seven rockets, no less, and more running and hiding than he'd dreamed possible. She seemed quite serious, though.
( They ruled the night )
"Are you sure you're all right? You don't look so good."
( And the night )
"I'm sure," he finally said. "Where's Colonel Cubbage?"
( Seemed to last as long as... )

---

( Six weeks / On Parris Island )
Gordon wished the basement lights were brighter. The gunk on his glasses made it all but impossible to see, and his suit wasn't exactly designed for wiping off corrective lenses. He paused at the bottom of the stairs to try anyway.
( We held the coastline, they held the highlands )
"Well!" said the Colonel's voice from somewhere off to his left. "That's that. I gather you've disposed of that gunship, Dr. Freeman?"
( And they were sharp, as sharp as knives )
No thanks to you, Freeman thought sourly as one thumb rubbed the worst of the stuff away. Still, he nodded.
( They heard the hum of our motors )
"Very good. Your reputation, sir, is well deserved."
( They counted the rotors )
Wordlessly, Gordon slid his glasses back on. He could see again, though dimly at best, and the lights through the smeared lenses blurred everything into a kind of fog. He turned towards Cubbage-
( And waited for us to arrive )
It was the man he'd seen speaking with the Bastard in the scope.
( And we would all go down together )
The Colonel must've seen the recognition in Gordon's face, because he hastily muttered something about having the gate opened right away. Before Gordon could so much as utter a word, a Vortigaunt was escorting him out and up the stairs.
( We said we'd all go down together )
One day, Gordon thought sourly, he would get some damned answers; and on that day, the world would probably come to an end.
( Yes we would all go down together... )

". . . "

Gordon didn't bother finishing the sentence. Dinah had been there a moment ago, and wasn't now. There were no zombies around and no blood on the tunnel floor; there'd been no sound of even a silenced bullet. Either the Combine had developed the sort of teleportation technology that would make Starfleet Command envious, or Dinah had done as he himself had done several times in the days before the Incident and accidentally stepped into Milliways. Regardless, there wasn't much he could do about it now. He sighed, shrugged, and went on.

The black headcrab that lurked under a box at the very mouth of the tunnel never saw the irritation coming.

---

One of the perks- although very few people would recognize them as such- of being promoted to the sniper corps of the Combine Overwatch forces is the relatively slow progression through the ranks. A newly chosen sniper officer need have no fear of being shot. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, his job will entail a position on the outskirts of patrolled territory and orders to fell as many necrotics and xenotherian biologics as possible with as little ammunition as possible. There's even a laser sight bolted to the rifles of newly commissioned sniper units to help them in their containment duties. It's not as if the necrotics notice.

The problem is the hundredth time. Sometimes there are anticitizens instead. They're faster. They're smarter. They notice.

Especially the ones who wear glasses.

---

"Pray that you never encounter one face to face," Eli had said. Now Gordon knew why. The masked bastards were fast, and- from what he could tell- smarter than the Marines. Or at least more responsive, which counted for about the same in his book. The ones back on the railroad tracks'd been distracted by headcrab zombies. These guys-

The heavy thudding sound of one of the Combine pulse rifles tore through the air overhead. Gordon flattened his back against the remains of the cargo van and readied another grenade. If he could just get a clear line of sight on the propane tank alongside the maintenance facility this'd be so much easier! With a grimace, he counted to three and pitched the grenade in what he estimated was probably the right direction. The explosion was suitably thunderous (Gordon wondered a little whether he'd have any hearing left at all by the time all this was over), but after it subsided he was still hearing gunfire. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from inside the building.

It took him another moment to realize that he was running towards the gunfire. A wry little acknowledgment of exactly how irrational and impossible that prospect would've seemed to him only a few months ago passed through his head at the idea. It vanished swiftly, of course. There were at least five Combine among the stacks of equipment on the main floor, and he had to concentrate.

When the last one fell he lowered his gun and listened for any others that might be sneaking up. All he heard were voices- human voices, not computer-modulated ones- so he started forward.

"-been hit," said one of them, an older, Asian-looking woman in the half-jumpsuit, half-scavenged-armor garb Gordon had come to associate with the Resistance across the board.

"Patch him up and get him to the back as soon as he's stable," said her companion, passing her a medkit. As he turned to reach for another, his eye fell on- "Gordon Freeman? It's incredible you made it! We've been getting communications from Alyx-"

Good. She's still alive, Gordon thought with considerable relief. He nodded.

"I'll see if I can reach her again," the man continued, and gestured to a door off to one side. "Follow me."

"I came as fast as I could-"

"The fact that you made it at all is pretty amazing, from what we heard about your course," said the man as he led Gordon down a narrow corridor and rapped at another door. "Hey! It's Leon. We're all clear." He paused fractionally before adding, "And I've got Gordon Freeman."

Before Gordon could comment on that, the door opened a hair. "Doctor Freeman?" said an incredulous voice. "You're kidding. I've been on the line with Alyx. Her father's been captured."

Gordon blanched at that. He barely heard the rest of what they had to say, even the Vortigaunt nearby; Leon had to guide him in the direction of their communications rig. "Come on, now- we've got her on the line..."

The Milliways portal door is a capricious, fickle thing. It had opened for Gordon earlier when he'd tripped over the charred, blackened remains of a lurking zombie while firing a sawblade into its still-mobile companion. Then it'd gone and opened again, back to Ravenholm, just as he was leaning forward to check and see whether the zombie that'd loomed over him before had gone.

The blade had flown true and eradicated the zombie threat, but in the moonlight that trickled through the cracks in the boarded-up window and badly patched roof, Gordon could see he still wasn't alone...

In all his life, Gordon thought, he'd never heard any two sweeter words than: "Morphine administered." Where Dr. Kleiner had found the opiates Gordon didn't know, but he owed the man every favor he could possibly render him and then some.

He watched the flames devour what remained of the hunter-chopper, doing his best not to move. The suit's automatic medical system was extremely limited without wall injectors or a medikit; the best it could do was suppress fatal levels of bleeding, or correct for the worst effects of fractures. And that was when the suit was fully charged. The hunter-chopper's guns had drained nearly all the suit's power- or the mines it'd dropped like a box of marbles had, one of the two. Either way, the suit was only barely functional. As for Gordon himself, he strongly suspected there was more morphine in his veins than actual blood.

He had to move eventually, of course. Eli Vance wasn't exactly going to come trotting out of the building overlooking the deep end of the swamp and walk him the rest of the way to the lab. It was just a case of mustering the will to do so, especially since it was going to involve unlocking a couple of access gates and (oh God) turning the wheels to open them. Worst of all, he'd have to fire the engine up again. In his current condition it'd probably vibrate his teeth right out of his head.

Well, there was still a little morphine left. Pain is temporary, Gordon told himself, and kept telling himself that as he coaxed the limping, battered airboat forward.

The water was a little shallower on the other side of the opened, rusty gate, an arc of open water bounded by steep hills to the left and concrete to the right. A pair of drainage pipes emerged from the rockface almost directly across from the little central island- storm drains, probably, given their grated coverings. They were big enough to empty entire sewer systems in times of extreme weather. There were none of the barrels or boxes here that had washed into the deep end of the swamp, save for a forlorn pair of rusty cylinders off by the drainpipes. The only real signs of human presence were the building on the central island- it had the look of a maintenance facility- and the barbed-wire fencing that ran along the top of the concrete barricade. That was probably security for the dam beyond.

Gordon's stomach clenched at the thought of having to deal with anything else sharp; he looked up at the maintenance building. It occurred to him that where there was maintenance equipment, there were people to do the maintenance work, and where there were such people there were probably first aid kits to keep them from having to leave their posts for long because of an injury. If he was very, very lucky, he could patch himself up a little further- and find some way of bridging the gap between the island building and the dam that didn't involve getting shredded again. If not, well, at least he could get himself out of the line of sight of anybody who might be coming to check on the hunter-chopper's fate.

Not relishing the idea of having to wade through the water to retrieve it, Gordon persuaded the airboat up onto the shore. Another moment to gather up his willpower, and he managed to step out of it- even maintain his balance without grabbing for the thing. Good. That would do nicely. Now to make his way up to the door.

It occurred to him that dams were important elements to low-lying cities' infrastructure- were, in fact, the sort of places likely to be guarded by more than a lone (if vicious) helicopter.

That, and that alone, warned Gordon to spin to one side as he threw open the door. Combine bullets tore through the space where his head had been; he flailed, stumbled, fell backward. His suit shrilled a protest at him, but it went unheard over the sound of the CPs who'd been waiting inside. One of them hung back, firing from the partial cover offered by dimly glimpsed tables and shelves, but two charged the door instead. Gordon made a desperate grab for his pistol. As the first of the CPs took aim, Gordon fired, shattering the lower part of the man's mask and setting off the standard high-pitched squeal. It was a good sound. It was a magnificent sound.

It was followed shortly by a horrifying sound: the airboat's engine grumbling into life at the hands of the other CP. . . and the recollection that, for all its faults, the airboat tended to accelerate faster in a straight line than an armored man could take down the driver.

Morphine had its uses. So did adrenaline. Gordon pushed himself to his feet and ran. The dam rose vertically to the right- no help there- but if he could just find a sandbar and make it across the arc of water to the hillsides he should have a chance. There was enough cover there to fire from-

The sound of helicopter guns rang out to his left, slugs blazing across his intended course to shelter. Gordon remembered what the man at the last station had said: that the gun had been taken from the same model of helicopter. Hot on the heels of that recollection came the realization that at this point, a couple of hits from that thing would probably kill him. The water to his right was too deep to cross on foot, and he was in no condition to swim; ahead of him the rockface rose…

The protective grating that covered the pipe on the left squeaked a little, swaying in a brief, trickling breeze.

Gordon never really managed to sort out afterwards just how he managed it, except for a vague recollection of somehow gaining enough purchase on one of the rusted barrels to pull himself up, and then to haul himself into the pipe before the gun could fire on him again. He backed up as far as he could manage while still keeping a view of the approach to the pipe. Foul-smelling stuff sucking at his feet; he ignored it, and readied the SMG. The instant- the instant- that boat came into view. . .

"Warning," his suit called out. "Hazardous chemicals detected."

". . . what?"

Then the airboat's engine whine spun up to his ears and drowned out everything else. Well. Everything except the gunfire, anyway.

---

There was blood on the wall when the smoke cleared. Quite a lot of it. The CP in the airboat had been a much better shot than Gordon had imagined, and his companion had been willing to wade out enough to make a stab at climbing into the tunnel himself. If it hadn't been for the lone grenade left in the automatic's secondary firing chamber, Gordon was pretty sure it all would've been over then and there. As it stood, the air was quiet and still as he stared numbly at the splattered mess of his own blood trickling down the tunnel wall where he'd stood a moment before.

"Hazardous chemicals detected," the suit softly warned him again. "Seek medical attention."

Gordon turned to look towards the mouth of the tunnel, the motion leaving him swaying. He wasn't sure he had the wherewithal left to tell the suit to shut up. For certain, he didn't have it in him to make it back into the daylight.

One hand reached for the nearest wall, only to find it sloping away under his fingers...

There had been a time when Gordon would never have considered the world an especially hostile place. Oh, sure, there were dangers- what was life without danger, after all?- but they came and went and life went on. But now-
( There's a lot of tension in this town- I know it's building up inside of me )
Radioactive rivers. Acidic, toxic slime everywhere underfoot. Helicopters rising over the city's buildings, guns madly ablaze. Shadows full of barnacle tongues, CPs frantically struggling in their grasp before the life was choked out of them. Flying robots that whizzed up out of the darkness and shredded anything in their path to bits. Zombie half-corpses, dragging themselves along by hands and hatred alone for one last chance at killing. Rockets full of headcrabs plunging out of the sky. . . it all added up, and what it added up to was a horrible feeling that things were only going to get worse from here. How, Gordon didn't know, but...
( I've got all the symptoms and the side effects of city life anxiety )
Steady, Freeman, he told himself, adjusting his grasp on the airboat's handlebars. The engine roared behind him, speeding the vehicle along over the surface of the scummy, off-smelling waters. You're not going to get anywhere thinking like that. Just make it to Eli's lab. You can think about it then.
( I could never understand why the urban attitude is so superior )
There'd been a map in the train car, back in the city, with 'Black Mesa East' marked on it. That was his only real clue about where he had to go. He did his best to call the image up without losing control of the boat; he was on the right course-
( In a world of high rise ambition most people's motives are ulterior )
"This is the Freeman. The Combine's reckoning has come."
( Sometimes I feel as though I'm running on ice, paying the price too long )
Gah! What the hell was that supposed to mean? He wasn't a 'the'. He was just- he was him, that's all, Gordon Freeman... Come to think of it, Dr. Kleiner had sounded awfully strange when he'd first said Gordon's name, and Eli too. And not just in an 'I haven't seen you in decades' way, either. He-
( Kind of get the feeling that I'm running on ice- )
-wait. Wait. What the hell. What the freaking hell. Up ahead on the river's right bank, out in front of that old red barn- HIM. The son of a bitch in the suit! The bastard was here!
( where did my life go wrong? )
All thoughts of titles and the definite article were shoved aside as Gordon pulled the airboat over, hard.

---

Funny thing about the squeal the CPs' helmets made when they died: you couldn't hear it over the roar of the airboat's engine.

Given how bad they were at getting out of the airboat's way in time, that was something of a relief.

---

( I'm a cosmopolitan sophisticate of culture and intelligence )
What little he'd seen of City 17 was pretty flat and low-lying. Given how extensive the canal system appeared to be, Gordon really should've expected to run into flood control gates long before this. He stared up at the gates in frustration a moment, wishing for a couple of his old satchel charges. Then he sighed and steered for the right bank. Looked like he was going to have to deal with that CP on the platform after all, if he was going to get through those gates.
( The culmination of technology and civilized experience )
It helped- it always helped- that the masked man was shooting at him. It was damned hard to think of him as anything but a threat while the bullets were flying. Only the tone-shifting squeal of the death alarm reminded Gordon that he was dealing with a human being under the mask. The thought struck him: there was no one else around and no sign of other guards coming. He could take a moment to pry the mask off and see...
( But I'm carrying the weight of all the useless junk a modern man accumulates )
He almost did; but then he thought of the long road ahead of him, and of how many more of them he was likely to see as he tried to flee the city, and what he would have to do to get past them.
( And I'm a statistic in a system that a civil servant dominates )
He couldn't afford for them to have human faces. Wordlessly, he turned away.
( And all that means is that I'm running on ice, caught in the vise so strong )
The door behind him opened onto a dimly-lit room, blue-tinged light spilling weakly from a fluorescent fixture overhead and from an inactive computer terminal as big as the one Barney had used at the train station. Gordon eyed the terminal a moment, but it wasn't doing anything. There was a box of what looked like ammo for the dead CP's submachine gun on the shelves along the far wall-
( I'm slipping and sliding, cause I'm running on ice, where did my life go wrong )
"We now have direct confirmation of a disruptor in our midst."
( You've got to run, run, run... )
Crap! Gordon spun to face the terminal, gun at the ready. The screen had come to life with Dr. Breen's image. For one heartstopping moment he was sure Breen could see him- but no, the white-bearded man spoke blandly on. "-one who has acquired an almost messianic reputation in the minds of certain citizens."
( As fast as I can climb a new disaster every time I turn around )
No.
( As soon as I get one fire put out there's another building burning down )
"His figure is synonymous with the darkest urges of instinct, ignorance and decay. Some of the worst excesses of the Black Mesa Incident have been laid directly at his feet."
( They say this highway's going my way but I don't know where it's taking me )
Oh, no.
( It's a bad waste, a sad case, a rat race- it's breaking me )
"And yet unsophisticated minds continue to imbue him with romantic power, giving him such dangerous poetic labels as the One Free Man, the Opener of the Way-"
( And I get no traction 'cause I'm running on ice )
"WHAT?" Gordon bellowed at the screen.
( It's taking me twice as long )
Whatever else Breen said, he didn't hear it.He was too busy staring in horrified disbelief; people were calling him what?? Were they insane? How the hell did they- what did- where did they get that kind of idea from, anyway? What in the name of everything that had ever made sense made anyone think that one scientist in a fancy orange suit rated that kind of title?
( I get a bad reaction 'cause I'm running on ice )
... how did the people calling him these things even know who he was?
( where did my life go wrong? )
"I am not the goddamn Kwisatz Haderach," he muttered, and stormed away in search of the floodgate switch. It was a positive relief when the CP's around the corner started firing on him. At least their actions made sense.
( You've got to run, run, run... )

It starts, innocuously enough, with a dream:



Gordon yawns, and tries to stretch. There's a dull clunk as the back of his head encounters the wall.

... wait.

Two blinks later he's wide awake, eyes darting wildly and the rest of him still. The train car is not giving way to his room at Milliways. The clothes he wore to bed have been replaced by a loose-fitting denim getup he doesn't recognize. His glasses are on; he doesn't remember putting them on-

There is no pillow. There is no crowbar to be under the pillow.

He's unarmed, un-armored, somewhere he doesn't know, and totally, utterly, completely alone. Oh, there are two other men dressed in the same outfit as him at the other end of the train car, yes, but that hardly counts. He's never seen either of them before. They could be anyone, for all he knows; they have the look of people who want to be anywhere other than where they are now, and to be there as soon as possible. The darker of the two glances his way with an expression of dull surprise. "Didn't see you get on," he comments, and, "This is my third transfer this year."

Gordon's mouth is too dry for him to do anything but struggle for sound. This isn't right. This can't be happening-

-what the hell is going on outside the window? That's not any city he recognizes. The buildings look like they've been stringing themselves along on the strength of old construction and no maintenance for years now-

"No matter how many times I get relocated I never get used to it," the other man says softly. There's an enormous weariness in his voice; Gordon suppresses a shiver. He moves to pinch himself, just in case. It does nothing.

No. No. This can't be- whatever this is, whatever's going on, this has to be another nightmare-

"Well," says the first man as the train shudders to a stop, "end of the line."

Gordon's pretty sure he's going to be sick.

---

He numbly follows the other two men off the train. It's not as if he has much choice. He barely catches a glimpse of his surroundings- a shabby but vast railway station, with a few other trains pulled in and the roof arching high overhead- when a painfully bright light blinds him. One arm comes up reflexively, though too late. As the purple shadows swamp his vision he rubs at his eyes, blinking hard and squinting furiously. The light's already faded, revealing its source: a hovering, metallic thing, almost square in shape, with a glowing red lens or eye or something of that nature at its center. It emits a quiet hum and turns in midair, whirring away towards the rest of the station. There's a voice coming over the speakers, one he's almost sure he ought to know, and oh, God, there's a gigantic screen and a face he does know is speaking to him and everyone else:

"Welcome. Welcome to City 17," says Dr. Wallace Breen, the man who used to be in charge of Black Mesa. "You have chosen, or been chosen, to relocate to one of our finest remaining urban centers."

There are other voices speaking, an indistinguishable murmur in the distance. Gordon shakes himself roughly and makes his way forward.

"I thought so much of City 17 that I elected to establish my Administration here in the Citadel so thoughtfully provided by our benefactors."

There are... security guards? Police? He can't tell. They're dressed and armored like riot cops, but they've got white full-face coverings like mutated gas masks instead of visors. Two of them are arguing with the man who couldn't get used to being relocated. Gordon turns away, looking around for something more hopeful-

"I have been proud to call City 17 my home. And so, whether you are here to stay, or passing through on your way to parts unknown, welcome to City 17."

There's a chicken-wire fence at the right end of the platform. On the other side, one of the red-eyed slave aliens he remembers much too well is morosely pushing a broom across the station floor, its whole body hunched to a degree he'd only seen in the nightmare factories of Xen. It lifts its head and looks Gordon's way, silent and miserable; then it turns back to its work.

"It's safer here."

Gordon can't get out of there fast enough.

---

There's a woman, too young to have those lines on her face: "Were you the only ones on that train? Overwatch stopped our train in the woods and took my husband for questioning. They said he'd be on the next train- I'm not sure when that was. They're being nice and letting me wait, though..."

There's a man, old and worn, huddled at a table as grimly functional as the same jumpsuit they all wear: "Don't drink the water. They put something in it to make you forget- I don't even remember how I got here."

There's another man, pacing, frantic, murmuring words that've lost all meaning through repetition. Something about the trains being empty, how they never arrive on time, how you never see anyone really leaving or coming but they're always going. Another, angrily muttering about the loss of his suitcase. Two others, side by side, watching another great screen; the shorter confirms what Gordon already knew, that the bearded, turtlenecked speaker is in fact Dr. Breen. The other all but elbows his companion in the ribs and hisses something about this being his base of operations. It's like waking up one morning to hear that Bill Gates really did manage to take over the world, and by the time Gordon's put the thought of Black Mesa's chief being completely in charge of... wherever this is?... out of his head, his feet have automatically led him through the snaking chicken-wire fencing to an open space where the gas-masked riot police are searching luggage and hassling people. If there's a way out, he doesn't see it-

No, wait. There's one up ahead. The sign says 'Nova Prospekt', and the train on the other side looks nothing like any train Gordon's ever seen before, but it has to be better than this, right?

There's a camera flash as the gate swings shut without warning. As an alarm shrills, a door Gordon hadn't noticed before opens. "You," says the riot cop on the other side, pointing his billy club at Gordon. "Citizen. Come with me."

One of the other cops gives Gordon a shove, and he stumbles forward. By the time he regains his footing, the door's closed behind him. Some poor fool's cries of protest- "There must be some mistake! I got a standard relocation coupon just like everyone else!"- creep out of a side door before it clangs completely shut. There's nothing here to grab, he notices, nothing to pry loose or pull down or wield in any way, and he's got a nasty feeling that these ... whatever they are... arranged it that way on purpose. The feeling only solidifies when the one in front of him throws open a door to reveal a dingy room with a bloodstained examination chair and an even more bloodstained floor. "Get in," the riot cop growls.

No. No. Not without a fight. There has to be something he can grab, somehow-

One by one, the room's surveillance cameras switch off. Gordon's fingers close on a wastebasket propped against one wall. It's pitifully small, made of cheap metal more likely to bend than to do damage, but it's more than he's got otherwise. The riot cop turns to face him.

"Now."

The cop reaches up to pull off his gas mask.

"About that beer I owe you."

"..... Barney?"

It's him. It's undeniably him. Oh, sure, he's dressed like every other thug in the station and he's surrounded by the tools of nightmare, but Gordon would know his old friend's face and voice anywhere. It's Barney Calhoun, from Black Mesa. Alive.

The former security guard grins (it's the same smile, it throws years and years of lines and wrinkles into sharp relief for a moment, but it's still the same smile) and notes, "Sorry for the scare, buddy. I had to put on a show for the cameras. I've been working undercover with Civil Protection-"

Gordon takes a deep breath and steadies his voice. "Barney, what's-"

"I can't take too long or they'll get suspicious," Barney continues, heedless. "I'm way behind on my beating quota."

Beating quota? Gordon almost repeats aloud, but Barney's turned back to the massive computer terminal that takes up most of one wall. The screen flickers into life, and Gordon's throat constricts a moment at the sight of another familiar face. "Yes, Barney, what is it?" says Dr. Kleiner. "I'm in the middle of a critical test..."

Barney shakes his head ruefully, glances Gordon's way. "Sorry, Doc, but look who's here."

"Great Scott! Gordon Freeman! I expected more warning."

So did I, thinks Gordon, who's too overcome to do more than raise a hand in greeting. I'm home, oh, God, I'm home. And it's all wrong...

He looks up as Kleiner notes, "Alyx is around here somewhere. She would have an idea of how to get him here." He's heard that name before, hasn't he?

There's no time to think it over, though. Barney's talking about checkpoints, and not having time- and someone's knocking at the door. Loudly. As the transmission cuts off Barney mutters, "That's what I was afraid of! Get out of here, Gordon, before you blow my cover!" He jerks open the door to a half-empty storeroom and gestures frantically. "Out the window. Keep going 'til you're in the plaza. I'll meet up with you later..."

The door closes, leaving Gordon in a whirlwind of silent confusion amidst a clutter of neglected boxes.

---

"Let me read a letter I recently received," says Dr. Breen from yet another vast screen. This one hangs inside a municipal building where jumpsuited citizens listlessly shuffle about their appointed rounds under the blank and pitiless gazes of masked Civil Protection officers. "'Dear Dr. Breen. Why has the Combine seen fit to suppress our reproductive cycle? Sincerely, A Concerned Citizen.'"

There has to be an exit around here somewhere, doesn't there? Barney mentioned a plaza, and all these people have to have come in from someplace else, right?

"Thank you for writing, Concerned. Of course your question touches on one of the basic biological impulses, with all its associated hopes and fears for the future of the species... "

The first few doors don't work. Breen continues to ramble on. Gordon realizes, with growing horror, that his old boss-of-all-bosses is speaking on behalf of some agency infinitely more powerful than himself. And it only gets worse from there; if he's understanding correctly, these Combine've made human reproduction impossible- and tried to pass it off as being for humanity's own good. Worst of all, Breen seems to believe it- to agree with it, and to praise it. The door to outside can't open an instant too soon for Gordon's liking; he all but collapses in relief on the external steps of the building...

"-beginning with the basest of human urges: The urge to reproduce," Breen's voice continues from overhead speakers. Dammit. "We should thank our benefactors for giving us respite from this overpowering force-"

There has to be somewhere he can get away from Breen's droning long enough to think. If he can just find someplace out of the way, he might have a chance of pulling himself together before Barney comes along to find him. There's got to be somewhere, right?

Right?

---

It should have been so simple, he thinks, doggedly walling out the sounds of gunfire. There'd been an alley within sight of the plaza; he would've waited there for Barney, caught his breath, figured out what was going on-

But the other cops had shouted at him to move along. He'd gotten himself lost trying to work his way around to the municipal building and seen things he probably shouldn't. Wreckage, fine, posters, fine, even the two masked cops beating up a cringing, jumpsuited woman in another alley; he could handle all that, almost. But the thing that stood over it all was thirty feet or more of spidery leg and a central mass the size of a Volvo, and the gun that hung from its underbelly like some obscene ovipositor swung as it moved in the way that only living things can quite manage. It was no Xen species Gordon had ever seen, but something worse by far, and it had turned to look at him.

He'd broken. He'd run. There'd been a side street and an open door and stairs leading upwards into the building's dingy heart. There'd been people-

Behind him the whirring grows louder, the camera-bot drawing relentlessly closer.

He's running. He's running as fast as he dares across the rickety wooden slats that bridge the gaps in the roof of what was once a decent apartment building. Where he's running to he doesn't know, but he can't let them catch him, can't let the camera-bot flash him in the eyes-

There are boards slanting from the corner of the roof down to a ledge as narrow as any he'd ever had to walk at Black Mesa. He doesn't trust them. He makes the jump instead, just barely, and skitters along with his back against the next building's wall. The camera-bot never falters, even as he tries to scramble up a slanted tile roof to somewhere that a flash in the eyes won't mean a lost grip and a fast death. He ducks his head and closes his eyes, hard, as the thing swings around in front of him. There's a click and a flash, but he's not blinded this time. In fact, he can see that the ledge ahead of him shows signs of recent maintenance. Someone's left a paint can out. As the camera-bot bobs and dives towards him Gordon grabs the can by the handle and swings it upward with all the force he can muster. The shower of sparks and smoke is immensely satisfying for the instant it takes for the damn thing to explode into Gordon's face.

If there's anything to be heard over the sudden ringing in his ears, Gordon doesn't know about it. He's lucky he's not blinded as well as deafened; the chunk of machinery that flew his way caught his forehead, but not his glasses. As it stands he's barely able to keep moving on the ledge without losing his footing. At least there's an open window just ahead; he can get through that without too much difficulty, and wait for the spinning to pass.

But as his hearing comes back and he can lift his head again, he can hear the sound of booted footsteps coming up the nearby stairs...

Because some things are best conveyed by the original:

The inaudible voice sang out in his head again: "Win... you cannot win..."
He was fighting a twenty-foot-tall armored alien venom-spitting spider with a testicle the size of a Buick.

Yep. Gordon was pretty sure he was in Hell.

He was pretty sure the ninjas were real, this time. Either that or he'd died and gone to some kind of combat-specialist Valhalla where the Valkyries put you through one last test before letting you into the feasting-halls. If that were the case, he'd probably passed, since all four of his assailants were dead. He considered the weapons of the one he'd just taken down, but rejected the idea. He was already carrying enough ordinance and ammo to fell an action movie hero. This black ops stuff was too small and too weird to be worth adding to the mix.

Straightening up, he stepped over the woman's corpse and moved on.

---

The door slid aside with barely a whisper of sound. A bespectacled, balding man who bore a powerful resemblance to Dr. Kleiner blinked up at Gordon from the other side. "I apologize, Mr. Freeman," he said, "but I couldn't risk opening that door until I was sure you'd scoured the area."

Gordon's shoulder was still bleeding from where one of the grey-skinned horrors had shot him with some kind of buzzing homing thing (the health dispenser had run out of its payload before that cut had quite closed up), so he just nodded.

"This is the last entrance to the Lambda complex," the man continued. "Every other has been sealed off to contain the invasion. When we realized that you might actually make it here-"

Someone else might have been insulted. Gordon, for his part, was more than a little surprised he'd survived this far at all.

"-we drew straws to see who should stay behind to let you through. Obviously, I drew the short one. My colleagues are waiting at the tip of the Lambda reactor- waiting for you, I mean. The reactor is-"

"Wait," said Gordon. "Reactor?"

"Well, yes. Lambda complex's energy needs are considerably more serious than those of the rest of Black Mesa combined. We operate primarily on the power generated by our own experimental reactor. It's shut down right now, but if this is going to end, it'll have to be reactivated on your way back up. You'll have to flood the core anyway to get into the teleportation labs."

So you acknowledge it, Gordon thought, and nodded. Congratulations, you're the first.

"You're not authorized to know about those, but-" The balding scientist hesitated, and in a sympathetic tone added, "I can see you already know a great deal more than any one man is supposed to."

Before Gordon could speak, the man turned away and lowered his face to a retinal scanner on the nearby wall.

"Good luck, Mr. Freeman."

---

The sign on the door said Weapons Development. Gordon's stomach clenched in an old, half-remembered sort of disquiet; it had been a while since he was last made ill by the thought of combat, but there was something here that put him on edge...

"Oh!" came a cry of surprise as Gordon opened the door. The lab-coated scientist stepped out from behind his instrument console. "Were you in weapons research, too?" he asked. "I built the gluon gun-"

It was a backpack the size of a man's torso, connected to a nozzle meant to be wielded two-handed by a length of reinforced hose. LEDs blinked everywhere, and a faint, ominous hum came from somewhere near the bottom, where a number of universal symbols indicated areas not to breach if you were interested in ever reproducing again as long as you lived.

"-but I just couldn't bring myself to use it on another living creature," the scientist continued. Gordon looked up sharply, but the man appeared to be quite serious. As Gordon started to draw breath, the man added, "You don't look as if you have any trouble killing things."

Never in his life had Gordon wanted so much to put a fist through another man's face. Science had enough crimes heaped up at its feet after all he'd seen today; to add hypocrisy to the mix...

Be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth; I have not come through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man until the lightning falls, he thought, but aloud he only said, "At least I admit the blood on my hands is there."

"What?" said the weapons developer, but Gordon was too busy detaching weapons and adjusting the duct-tape equipment harness he'd rigged up to make it possible to get that backpack on. He knew an advantage when he saw it.

---

He rounded a corner and glanced sidelong at a change in the area light; the fluorescents overhead weren't golden-

Him again! The blue-suit, looking at him just as blandly and calmly as ever despite being surrounded by headcrabs. Gordon fairly snarled as he swapped his crowbar for his revolver, but when he turned back to the other room, all he saw was the man disappearing into a glowing ball of golden orange light.

At least the headcrabs went down quickly. That was some consolation.

---

"WHOEVER DESIGNED THE REACTOR ACCESS SYSTEM SHOULD DIE," bellowed Gordon as he leapt away from the second access button, across the outer ring of rotating platforms that spun through the toxic waste, onto the rising and falling middle ring and then onto the inner ring of rotating platforms.

There was nobody there to hear, but it made him feel better, if nothing else. He held onto that as he flung himself into the teleportation sphere at the center of the whole sorry mess. When the displacement energies faded from his vision, he was standing in a room he'd only caught glimpses of before, nearly at the very top of the Lambda complex. There were no signs, though, and no people around to advise him what came next. With a sigh and a shrug, he picked a door at random and started looking for any clues at all. The corridors were clear of corpses here, for the most part, though rubble and wreckage was strewn in more than a few places. He picked his way over the worst of it, ducked under a few girders, and found a ladder leading even further, up to the yellow-painted walls of level A. At the end of the only remaining passable corridor, there were a pair of sliding glass doors; he leaned forward and squinted through them, shielding his eyes with one hand. Was that a security guard in there?

... holy crap, was that Dr. Kleiner??

"Gordon Freeman," said Isaac Kleiner as the doors slid open, "you've finally found us."

It wasn't often that Gordon found himself at a loss for words. Usually his silences were the result of deliberate choice. But this-

"So this is the guy. We thought you'd never make it," said the guard. "Neither one of us'd be up here if Barney Calhoun hadn't saved both our asses."

"I, uh, I-"

"I'm told that this is the supply depot for our first survey team. Quite a few handsome specimens were apparently collected from the borderworld and brought back this way. Uh... before the survey members started being collected themselves, that is," said Kleiner. "Why, even the health dispensers here in Black Mesa were being supplied with material from the other dimension, Xen- at any rate. We suspect there is an immense portal over there, created by the intense concentration of a single powerful being. You will know it when you see it. I hate to say this, Gordon, but you must kill it."

The guard nodded silently in response. Dr. Kleiner hesitated a moment, then noted, "Of course, you owe us nothing. I know how much you've been through, and how many times you've risked your life already. But you've come this far. You know as much about these creatures as anyone alive."

"Enough to know that if you don't wipe it out, there won't be much for you to come home to," the guard said soberly.

Dr. Kleiner nodded. "Yes, so if you're willing, my colleague is waiting for you at the main portal controls. He will open the gates for you, Gordon. If you intend to go- do hurry."

It had been bad enough when the fate of a handful of scientists in Anomalous Materials rested on his shoulders. When it became a matter of the whole facility, it had been almost too much to bear. He'd come to terms with his own death short of the goal long ago, and now they were asking this of him...

But Dr. Kleiner was asking him, not ordering him, and that was more than anyone here had done since all the hell began. And a thought occurred to Gordon in that moment as he drew breath to speak: My pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year. But eventually it will subside, and something else will take its place. If I quit, however... if I quit, it lasts forever.

He squared his shoulders. "Show me what I have to do," he said.

"Excellent!" said Dr. Kleiner. "I know I could count on you, my boy- ah, yes, here we are. This is a long jump module for your suit, created expressly for navigation in the world beyond. I certainly hope you've received long jump training because once you're in Xen, you're going to need it. I'm told the gravity over there is best described as 'interesting'. Do practice a bit before crossing over..."

Gordon wasn't sure how the module was being fastened on, but he didn't ask, since he figured he really didn't need to know. It was more important to get his suit charged up and as much ammunition as he could carry; when he ran out of duct tape, he regretfully set the last box of shotgun shells aside and saluted both of the other men.

"Godspeed, Gordon," said Dr. Kleiner, and the door slid shut.

The other room was practically a hangar. It took a moment for Gordon to find the colleague of whom Dr. Kleiner had spoken. "Hello, Freeman. I'm up here," called the man. "I can open the portal now. The process is complicated, and once it is begun I must not be interrupted or I'll have to start all over again. Don't enter the beam until I give the OK. Understood?" He didn't wait for a reply. "I will begin."

It occurred to Gordon as the energy streams started to flow among the equipment that he was looking at the end goal of all his own scientific hopes and dreams. He'd come to this company in the first place to study the possibility of teleportation being made real, and here it was, in very possibly its highest form-

"Almost there, Freeman. Get yourself in position."

Gordon nodded and made his way over to an extended ramp in the floor that rose to the stream of teleportation energies like the run-up to a bicycle jump. "Say the word," he answered, and took a deep breath.

"Not yet...."

Something in the air tensed. Gordon reached over his shoulder for the gauss cannon, more out of instinct than anything else.

"It's ready!" the scientist cried, and the beam at the center of the room erupted in coruscating light. Unfortunately, the rest of the room erupted in founts of green as flying creatures the likes of which even Gordon had never seen began teleporting in. "You must go! Now!"

"But those things-"

"Never mind those things! Run, Freeman! Run!"

So he did, and closed his eyes as he leapt...

( I see life and it's passing right before my eyes )
The storm drain through which Gordon was crawling stank of past indignities, but it had this going for it: there were no helicopters in it trying to kill him. He considered that a very definite plus. There was also the part where there were no Marines in it trying to kill him, either. Not to mention the fact that there were no headcrabs, or houndeyes, or alien slaves, or really anything else whatsoever trying to kill him. His suit's Geiger counter wasn't going off. The temperature wasn't excessively high or low. Nothing was descending from the ceiling with homicidal intent. Add in the fact that a faint breath of fresh air was wafting in from the other end and it was practically paradisical. He clambered forward eagerly, feeling his way along-
( and the past is the past, don't regret it, try to realize )
Light! There was light! Even better-
( I need to walk on the wire just to catch my breath )
FWOOOM.
( I don't know how or where, but I'm going- it's all that I have left )
That... was a fighter jet. He was somewhere that freaking fighter jets could fly...
( It don't matter where it takes me, long as I can keep this feeling running through my soul... )
Funny. He wouldn't have thought he was still capable of feeling that much dread, but honestly? There was just something about looking out of the end of his nice, cozy little storm drain and seeing several hundred feet of empty air that really did it to him. If he squinted, he could just about make out the thin little trickle of blue allllll the way down below. Pull yourself together, Freeman, he thought. You've been higher than this before, out with the Mongol.
( never took this road before )
He swallowed and crept the rest of the way out of the storm drain, sliding from the pipe's lip onto solid stone. Immediately he had cause to regret it, as bullets started whanging all around him- two Marines' worth, and a mounted, automated chaingun's. He didn't remember screaming, but after it was all over and the weapons fire quieted, his throat was as raw as he'd ever felt it- and he was on another ledge at least fifteen or twenty feet down from the mouth of the drain. Frankly, he felt he had a right to scream under the circumstances. And he'd probably do it again, considering that his only options from here were a rickety wooden bridge to nowhere particularly promising off to his left and a snaking trail of stone to his right that wended around the cliff face and out of sight. The bridge, frankly, looked like pure death. The trail was almost as bad, but it had one thing going for it: the Marines had fired on him from that direction. That implied that there was some form of access to somewhere a little more sane, or at least a little less instantly lethal.
( destination unknown )
It wasn't as bad as he'd thought, once he started moving. As long as he didn't look to his left and the hundred-foot drop to the river below, it wasn't all that different from taking the Mongol on some of the area trails. The big challege was to avoid catching any of his weapons on the rockface. If he lost one of them now, he'd never see it again. And he-
( won't be coming back this way )
Was that radio static up ahead? He drew his scavenged revolver. Then he thought better of it, remembering the thing's recoil, and reached for his pistol instead. If there was a Marine up ahead, and the first shot didn't kill him, Gordon wasn't going to give him any advantages.
( gotta go it alone... )
The fight was protracted and ugly. The Marine was young and clearly inexperienced, but he was well dug-in and clearly terrified. He had a kind of nervous agility that meant he did more damage by ricochet and flying rock chips than by direct hits. Even his rifle seemed to partake of that, letting off a last three-round burst when it finally fell from his hands. Gordon found that he was clinging to the rock wall behind him with one hand, and that neither that hand nor his feet seemed particularly willing to move. If he just stayed here, things wouldn't get any better, but they couldn't possibly get any worse.
( see a chance- )
It was a surprisingly tempting thought.
( got to take it- )
Still, some measure of common sense- or possibly just bloody-minded stubbornness; Gordon wasn't so sure he could claim to have common sense any more- provoked him into moving forward. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other, one round of fresh aches and newly inspired bleeding after another. Don't look down. Don't look sideways. Don't look anywhere but exactly just ahead. Keep your ears open, listen, listen, listen, round the rock formation, pull the trigger twice and step past the dead man into the cliffside cave...
( Going to meet my fate )
It was an ammo depot. There were rounds for the Marines' combat rifles stacked neatly alongside shotgun shells, rifle grenades, and first aid kits. And there were other objects, olive green cylinders he didn't quite recognize- at least, not until he turned around and saw the massive weapon hanging on the wall with POINT THIS END AT ENEMY neatly printed on one end. Gordon picked up one of the cylinders and squinted at it; apparently they were rocket-propelled grenades. Outside, the sound of helicopter rotors started to echo in the cave, and it occurred to him that if he could just work out how to load the launcher it would probably be more than enough to take that damned gunship down.
( 'cos the last thing I ever wanted was to find out it's too late )
That was when it hit him. When it all hit him.
( no way out when you're in it )
I have been awake twenty-six hours now, went the realization. In that time, I've seen aliens unleashed on Earth with absolutely nothing to stop them. I've been shot at, poisoned, dunked in radioactive goo, bitten, clawed, and lied to. I've seen good men die, and bad ones, and I've killed more of both in less than one day than I used to teach in my introductory physics classes at Boston University. I've killed Marines, for God's sake- the hardest bastards this hemisphere's got! I don't remember when I last ate, I don't remember when I last sat down, and I haven't got the slightest goddamn clue where I'm going now or what I'm doing. Except that I've got a freaking rocket launcher, and a whole bunch of ammo for it, and I'm squatting in a cave in the middle of the desert trying to work out how to destroy the Marines who're trying to kill me. I was a physicist when I got up yesterday morning, and now I'm the goddamn Taliban!
( deeper than the night )
It was more than he could take; he put down the grenade canister and started laughing, a high thin sound of hysterical desperation that echoed around the cave. Somewhere along the way it turned into tears, and then into gulping sobs that refused to stop even though he clutched at the cave floor with both hands.
( there's a light at the end of the tunnel, I see it burning bright... )
When the heaves finally subsided, he was still trembling, but at least the worst of it was past. The little sensible streak that remained to him noted that he was probably crashing again; he'd bonked enough times during particularly long trail rides to recognize the symptoms. He willed himself to get up and crack open one of the first aid kits for the glucose tube inside. It would be enough for a little while, at least. You didn't want to use a weapon like that launcher if you couldn't keep your hands steady.
( it don't matter where it takes me... )