acts_of_gord | Entries tagged with hl 2

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...

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 )

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... )

The spybots, Gordon had decided, were rapidly moving to the top of his list of things about his world that needed to be changed ASAP. The flash on that last one had almost gotten him killed. If the rails hadn't started singing under his feet he would've never had enough time to dive out of the oncoming train's way. At least he'd been able to wreck the blasted thing without getting a faceful of shrapnel this time. Hopefully there weren't any others in the vicinity; the cinderblock-walled corridors he was creeping through were poorly lit, and a flash to the face would blind him for-

"No, please!" cried a woman's anguished voice from somewhere up ahead, around the corner. Gordon thought he heard a faint electrical crackle. "Stop! What are you doing?"

He flattened his back against the corridor wall and peered around the corner. Two of the helmeted riot cops- no, Civil Protection, he corrected himself- had a man on the filthy corridor floor. One held a pistol; the other, the sort of electrified stun baton he'd seen on the CPs at the municipal building. The woman who'd cried out was weeping against the opposite wall. The jumpsuited man on the floor wasn't moving in the slightest.

None of them were looking his way.

Gordon had never struck a human being with the crowbar before, except once in a hardware store in Espanola, and that had been meant to disarm, not kill. It showed. The CP swore in pain as the gun skittered out of his fingers, but nimbly twisted around to face his attacker. As for the other, he moved more swiftly; Gordon got an electrically amplified blow to his midsection for his pains. Gordon sent up a silent thought of thanks for the HEV suit and flung himself fully into the fight.

The two CPs crumpled after another strike or two each. Easier than the headcrab zombies, Gordon noted in some abstracted part of his mind; he was still panting a little from the adrenaline, and there was an odd ringing in his ears. The woman darted past him to the unconscious jumpsuited figure, touched two fingers to the groove of his neck.

"They'll be looking for you now," she said tearfully as she looked up. (Gordon wasn't entirely paying attention. The pistol the first CP had dropped looked like it was still in working condition. Wherever Eli's place was, he was going to need a lot more than the crowbar to get there alive.) "You'd better run. There's nothing else you can do here-"

Gordon's hand brushed against the CP's helmet as he retrieved the dropped gun. He paused, remembering the mask being torn off and Barney's face underneath. Way behind on my beating quota, Barney had said, and Working undercover with Civil Protection. What if this was somebody else he'd known?

"Get going!" the woman cried, snapping him out of the moment. Gordon nodded and set off for the stairs at the end of the corridor.

Somewhere there was a modulated female voice calling out to Unidentified Person of Interest. He didn't know where. He wasn't sure it mattered. He'd just brought down his fourth CP, and he'd had it confirmed for sure: that wasn't a ringing in his ears. It was the squeal of some sort of monitoring system going flatline before winking out with the last of their life.

Damn, that was unnerving.

The bizarrely tall, thin train whizzed by on the opposite side of the canal. It blocked the line of sight between the few remaining CPs and Gordon, but it wouldn't do so for long. The door in front of him must've been some sort of emergency exit- there wasn't a handle anywhere in sight.And for all his trying Gordon knew he'd never be able to jump high enough to pull himself up on the ledge overhead and get to the street. That left one option: the brown, stinking waters of the canal below. What he wouldn't have given for his helmet...

Crowbar in one hand, nose pinched with the other, Gordon jumped.

It was exactly as foul as it looked, but it had this going for it: nobody was trying to shoot at him down here. Mindful that the train would only offer shelter for so long (and wanting badly to get out of the stuff), Gordon made his way forward as swiftly as he could. The current was negligible, though the water was deep enough to drag at his legs, and several times he had to take a deep breath and dive under the surface for a while. At least it wasn't as bad as some of the swimming he'd had to do at Black Mesa, but honestly!

The way ahead was blocked, he suddenly realized. A wrecked, red traincar sat in the water. Too low to get under, but not too high to get over; he could just make out a ladder along one side, and a gap in the bars that blocked the canals above water every few yards or so. A quick glance showed him that the CPs were nowhere in sight. If he could just scramble up on the roof of the car quickly enough and get over to the-

A panel in the roof gave way under his feet. Gordon hit the floor of the- no. Not the floor, the... mattress? It sure felt like-

"Guess those sirens are for you, huh?" Gordon pulled himself upright and turned to face the speaker: a dark-haired, bearded man in the same denim jumpsuit as virtually everyone else in the city. "Good thing you found us. You're not the first to come through here, by all-"

"This is the Freeman," said a voice like a sock full of gravel. "The Combine's reckoning has come."

Gordon half-turned, and froze. The speaker was- it-

It was one of the red-eyed aliens.

You can talk? wanted to come out. And it tried, too, but it ran headlong into Wait wait wait wait what? 'The' Freeman? What the hell?. He couldn't have spoken either aloud if he'd tried, so he turned to face the human instead. A flicker of sympathy showed on the man's face as he said, "Look. We're just a lookout for the underground railway. The main station's right around the corner. They'll get you started out of here on the right foot. Meanwhile, let my Vortigaunt friend here give you a jolt to get you going."

He jerked a thumb towards the alien. Before Gordon could so much as manage a 'wait, what?' aloud, the same green lightning Gordon remembered only too well from Black Mesa was streaking towards him- No. Not the same. There was no pain, no damage of any kind. In fact, there was another sound he remembered: the low, satisfied hum of his suit's batteries rapidly charging.

"That should keep the Freeman safe," the- Vortigaunt, was it?- said in a tone of considerable satisfaction as it finally lowered its hands.

"Be careful," said the human, who was pulling the side of the car open with the greatest of care. "If Civil Protection catches you down here, it's bad news for the whole railroad."

Gordon nodded; that, at least, he understood completely. He cast a glance at the Vortigaunt, still not quite able to believe what had just happened, but it only spread its two-clawed hands and said, "We serve the same mystery."

"You'd better get going," the human said. Gordon clapped a hand on his shoulder in silent thanks and dashed through the door into the wreckage beyond.

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...