Gordon Freeman

Barney pulls the bridge shut almost as soon as Gordon touches down in the building across the road. They've just come from apartments in foul condition, but this building's suffered more; the holes in the walls are enormous, and the floor feels as if it might give way at any moment. Some previous Resistance member took the precaution of bridging the gap between this building and the next with a length of metal walkway. It's very thoughtful of them, but Gordon can't help but wish he still had his old long-jump module. That's just not solid-looking enough for him.

That, and he can hear the whirring, thupping sound of oncoming rotors from somewhere very close by indeed.

If things ever became normal again, and he was fully aware of just how unlikely that was going to be, Gordon would never, ever, ever set foot in a glass elevator as long as he lived. The Combine were far too fond of unwalled glass platforms for his liking, and the thought of riding one more elevator where he could see everything going on around him... well. To tell the truth it was a distraction from the fact that he was about to run into the heart of an atomic reactor doing its absolute best to throw off what remained of its shackles and light the atmosphere on fire, and attempt to collar the thing and bring it to heel.

Not much of one. There wasn't much that could take his attention away from the vast swelling, trembling, collapsing, and re-swelling orb of energy overhead. Even the pain that seared his eyes when he tried to look at it (was it his imagination, or did the blue-white light surround a core of utter darkness?) only warned him off a little. It was-

It was horrifying. It was a living and visible warning of the end of the human race, of the disaster that was only waiting for the Combine's signal. But in its own way it had a bizarre kind of-

( If the radiance of a thousand suns
were to burst into the sky
that would be like
the splendor of the Mighty One )

-splendor.

( and I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds )

He shivered and forced himself to look away.

There were unformed bridges to be spun across the abyss, with Stalkers tending the controls to stop him. They didn't last long. The soldiers and Elites waiting for him in the first stabilizer room lasted a little longer, better-armed and self-willed as they were, but in the end they lay scattered around the chamber like a pile of ragdolls. Gordon wondered, just for a moment, what he would see if he took the helmet off an intact Overwatch soldier's head. Was there a face anymore under that? How far had the Combine remade those poor bastards?

Far enough, he told himself, that whatever remains, we'd never be able to recognize it. Leave the unmasking to Luke Skywalker and get on with the work.

---

The last of the manhacks exploded, its shrilling alarm cutting off abruptly as he punted it into the wall. Escaping unmolested from the chamber after firing up the first stabilizer would've just been too easy, he supposed. Well, nothing to stop him now but-

No. Oh, hell no.

He stood on a tiny metal balcony overlooking the reactor core's gulf. There were no elevators, no platforms, no gantries. The only way left to reach the next stabilization room was to cross the glassy, shimmering energy bridge directly to the center itself- to the glowing, half-melted metal ring that was all that remained uneaten by the heaving shudders of the fluctuating core. One touch of that thing would be like expecting a tin can to survive being touched by the corona of the Sun.

( "It's always an option. It's just one you choose not to take." )

Gordon watched the energy core shudder, flare, fall back-

( Pain fades. Fear fades. Something else takes its place. If I quit, it lasts forever. )

He ran. It was the longest six seconds of his life.

---

The second stabilizer was back on line, and there were no bridges this time. Just the ladder-like containment claws that would descend from above and envelop the core when everything else was in place, rotating slowly around their not-quite-captive sun.

Either the Combine's normal maintenance crew could fly, or there was no such thing as OSHA in their empire.

He leaped anyway.

---

The third stabilizer ground to a halt halfway into position. Gordon swore; he had not come through rapid-fire energy orb cannonades and Elite death squads to screw around with an alien machine until the lightning fell. Maintenance failures on the enemy's part were all well and good, but only when they worked in his favor, dammit.

Some poking around revealed a gap in the floor leading to a series of what should've been orb-powered generators. One was operational. Two were cold and dark. He gritted his teeth and went back the way he'd come, to the conduit full of onrushing energy packets. Apparently, he had to do everything himself around here. Damn Combine. Probably sabotaged the thing to make blowing the reactor that much more difficult to reverse.

(It occurred to him, in a dim and distant sort of way, that this probably wasn't a healthy reaction. Better, maybe, than the alternative- screaming at the top of his lungs and hiding somewhere until it was all over- but still.)

As the orbs he yanked out of the conduit snapped into place, the floor panel started to clamber upwards again. He ran for the platform and made it into the room in time to see the stabilizer resume its forward progress. The panels slid aside; it fired its energy stream-

There was one last blaze of coruscating light, and the containment claws descended on the unwary core from all three sides. He scarcely noticed as the extra power drained out of his suit and the gravity gun flickered from blue back to orange again.

Now he just had to find a way back.

A flicker of light on the wall in front of him as he waited for his suit to finish charging was all the warning Gordon had; behind him, two telescreens had come to life. He turned, gravity gun in hand, and found himself facing Dr. Breen.

"So, this is Dr. Freeman, at last," Breen said, in a tone that other men reserved for their first sighting of one of their own kidney stones. "I wish I could say this was a pleasant surprise, but it's neither a surprise, nor, as you would surely agree, very pleasant. Well, I am nothing if not pragmatic."

The screens went back. Gordon blinked a few times, and kept moving. Useless as the moment was, it probably indicated he was on the right track.

---

Damn. Even the Elites' pulse rifles disintegrated under the strange new energy blasts from the gravity gun. Oh, well, not like he wasn't doing just fine without-

"Well, Dr. Freeman," said Breen from the telescreen behind him, "under other circumstances I like to think we might've been able to work together in an atmosphere of mutual trust and respect. Certainly judging from your brief tenure at Black Mesa while I was its Administrator, you showed every promise of becoming a valuable and productive contributor to the scientific process. And yet, I'm not sure what spurred you to it, but there is no place in this enterprise for a rogue physicist."

The chirruping sound of a scannerbot moving into position to blind him could not have come at a better time. Gordon grinned as he snatched the thing out of the air and aimed for the dark-again screen.

---

Gordon tapped the green button to call the lift; there was no other way out of this part of the Citadel except the wide, flat, open elevator platform. To his disgust, he heard a nearby telescreen switch on.

"Your mentors are partly to blame, of course. My disappointment in Eli Vance and Isaac Kleiner is far greater than my sorrow over your unfortunate choice of career path. In a way I suppose you could not have done otherwise. Who knows what seeds of iconoclasm they planted when you were young and gullible? But while they certainly share a great part of the responsibility for the recent troubles, it is you alone who have chosen to act in such willful disregard for humanity's future!"

Fine words from a man who'd informed his soldiers that they'd better shape up because the alternative, if you can call it that, is total extinction - in union with all the other unworthy branches of the species. Gordon sort of had to wonder whether Breen believed any of what he was saying, or whether absolutely everything that came out of the man's mouth was a lie.

But there were Overwatch coming, and a whir of manhacks in the air. Speculation could wait. Survival now.

---

Everything hurt. Everything. The Overwatch had been matched in number by the Elites, and no matter how many of them he tore from their balconies as the lift rose past floor after floor there were always more of them. The suit still had enough power left to begin repairing its own structural integrity, but the morphine was gone, and the feel of his own blood slithering between suit and skin from unstanched wounds was something he'd feel in his nightmares if he lived to ever dream again-

"Tell me, Dr. Freeman, if you can," said Dr. Breen from the suddenly-live telescreens in front of him. "You have destroyed so much. What is it, exactly, that you have created?"

( "This is the Freeman. The Combine's reckoning has come." )

"Can you name even one thing?"

( "For once the lesser master lay defeated, we knew the greater must also fall in time." )

"I thought not-"

( "You're not 'the One Free Man'. I understand that. But I believe in you." )

"Hope," he said aloud, and tore the telescreen from the wall.

The harsh chill light of day in the latter half of the year greets the final team to arrive from Milliways as they step out of a shattered building's shadow and into the street. The cobbled courtyard underfoot is dusted with yellowed leaves, the walls with posters and graffiti. An old, tired wind wends its way between the buildings, carrying the stink of gunfire and ash with it. Gordon knows this place well enough: it's the courtyard he first arrived in after scrambling out the window of the City 17 arrival processing area. If he recalls correctly, the street ahead leads to the long-forgotten playground, and ultimately to the central plaza.

He glances to Barney and the others briefly for his cue.

The group of fighters tasked with getting civilians out of the line of fire opens on an unremarkable side door of a thoroughly unremarkable building. The walls here are largely grey brick, scribbled here and there with graffiti in a mingle of languages- English, Spanish, something that might be Russian or Ukrainian. A tattered poster of a white-bearded man in a business suit hangs limply from the wall next to a roll-up garage door.

Barney leans forward to rap swiftly on the smaller door, as there's no handle to open it from the outside. The first thing anyone sees of what lies beyond is the muzzle of a shotgun. Before any hostile reaction can happen, the wielder leans forward: a bald, bespectacled, lab-coated figure, blinking in the light of day. "Barney?" he says. "Alyx? My God, when did you get here? And who are these people?"

( Here we stand or here we fall )
"I have been asked to say a few words to the transhuman arm of Sector Seventeen Overwatch, concerning recent successes in containing members of the resistance Science Team."
( History won't care at all )
It was Dr. Breen's voice this time over the prison's PA system, not the distorted, pseudo-British female announcer who'd made all the other announcements Gordon had heard so far. Not that he was listening very closely. There were laser tripmines up ahead-
( Make the bed-- light the light )
"Let me say up front that I regret having to temper my heartfelt congratulations with a strong measure of disappointment. But I wouldn't be doing my duty as your Administrator if I didn't pass along the message I have received from our Benefactors."
( Lady Mercy won't be home tonight )
There was a BOOM, and a rain of antlion parts. So much for the tripmines.
( You don't waste no time at all )
"The capture of Eli Vance is an event of major significance, make no mistake. And while it's true that conceivably we could have taken him at almost any time in the last several years, the manner of his capture may prove to have unexpected benefits."
( Don't hear the bell but you answer the call )
From somewhere around the bend came the sound of booted feet at a forced run. Gordon started digging into the tattered remains of his pheropod for a pellet.
( It comes to you as to us all )
"It cannot have gone unnoticed by all resistance members that Doctor Vance's capture coincided with the act of giving shelter to Gordon Freeman. This might cause other resistance members to think twice before harboring Doctor Freeman. It might cause them to question his allegiance; even prompt some to turn him out, or turn him over to our cause. "
( We're just waiting for the hammer to fall )
There. The guards' shadows ran ahead of them; they were within range.
( Oh, ev'ry night and every day )
"However, we cannot count on such developments. Doctor Freeman's reputation is such that other desperate renegades are likely to grant him a great deal of license in the spirit of spreading general chaos and terror."
( A little piece of you is falling away )
Paff! went the pellet against the first of the unlucky bastards to emerge. The soldier froze, looked up; the antlions screamed...
( But lift your face the Western way )
"This brings me to the one note of disappointment I must echo from our Benefactors. Obviously I am not on the ground to closely command or second-guess the dedicated forces of the Overwatch, but this does not mean I can shirk responsibility for recent lapses and even outright failures on their part. I have been severely questioned about these shortcomings, and now must put the question to you:"
( Build your muscles as your body decays )
Antlions, Gordon had found, tended not to leave much in the way of corpses. Just blood and crunchy bits, which Gordon tried not to think about too much when he fished through the little heaps after the fact, looking for the soldiers' ammo. He wiped his hand on his suit, loaded the pulse rifle, and kept moving.
( Toe your line and play their game )
"How could one man have slipped through your force's fingers time and time again? How is it possible?"
( Let the anaesthetic cover it all )
Up ahead they'd had enough warning of his progress to set up an emplacement. Once again, Gordon couldn't help but feel that the Marines had done a better job with theirs. Honestly, if you couldn't expect quality and care from forcibly upgraded half-alien soldiers in their own fortress, what was the world coming to?
( Till one day they call your name )
"This is not some agent provocateur or highly trained assassin we are discussing!"
( You know it's time for the hammer to fall )
Paff. And again, the screaming...
( Rich or poor or famous, for your truth it's all the same (oh no oh no) )
"Gordon Freeman is a theoretical physicist who had hardly earned the distinction of his Ph.D. at the time of the Black Mesa Incident. I have good reason to believe that in the intervening years, he was in a state that precluded further development of covert skills."
( Lock your door-- the rain is pouring )
Hm. That was an interesting little comment. Gordon filed it away mentally as he ran up the stairs to the emplacement, wheeling swiftly to turn the gun against the soldiers trying to close in from behind.
( Through your window pane (oh no) )
"The man you have consistently failed to slow, let alone capture, is by all standards simply that--an ordinary man. How can you have failed to apprehend him?"
( Baby now your struggle's all in vain )
"Don't know," Gordon answered aloud. Two of the soldiers were left- no, one- no, that was the last of them. "Don't care."
( For we who grew up tall and proud )
"Well...I will leave the upbraiding for another time, to the extent it proves necessary. Now is the moment to redeem yourselves. If the transhuman forces are to prove themselves an indispensable augmentation to the Combine Overwatch, they will have to earn the privilege. I'm sure I don't have to remind you that the alternative, if you can call it that, is total extinction - in union with all the other unworthy branches of the species."
( In the shadow of the mushroom cloud )
Gordon would've rolled his eyes if he weren't already on the move again. Two tripmines, a set of gun turrets, another tripmine; okay, he had to admit, this would've been a much hairier situation if he hadn't had the antlions to soak up the worst of what he was running into now.
( Convinced our voices can't be heard )
"Let's not allow it to come to that. I have done my best to convince our Benefactors that you are the finest the species has to offer. So far they have accepted my argument, but without concrete evidence to back it up, my words sound increasingly hollow even to me. The burden of proof is on you."
( We just wanna scream it louder and louder louder )
Another squad of soldiers up ahead, now. Gordon dug into the pheropod again and found... one last pellet. He considered his chances, then opted to throw it anyway. The empty pod would still leave him smelling enough like a bull that he wouldn't get attacked, which was probably more important right now regardless.
( What the hell we fighting for? )
"As is the consequence of failure."
( Just surrender and it won't hurt at all )
Paff.
( Just got time to say your prayers )
"I'll just leave it at that," concluded Breen, as Gordon ran on into the darkness.
( While you're waiting for the hammer to, hammer to fall. . . )

For all that he knew it made him a blatant target, and for all that the rebels at Lighthouse Point had assured him he was close enough to his destination not to need it any more, Gordon stell felt a twinge of mourning as he watched the Combine dropship cruise away with the dune buggy in its clutches. He'd liked that car. On the other hand, there wasn't much functional road left between Lighthouse Point and Nova Prospekt, just rocky landscape and sand- and the thing's traction on sand was absolutely horrible. Given that there was supposed to be some kind of antlion warren nearby, that would probably make the car more trouble than it was-

"Hey! You there! Don't move!"

Gordon froze in mid-stride.

"Stay on the rocks," ordered the speaker: a bald human in a dingy grey jacket, crouched several yards away beside another man's prone, bloodied form. "This is antlion country. We're right over their warren. Stepping on the sand around here makes them crazy."

Gordon looked down; his right foot hovered above a patch of sandy ground, but his left was securely on stone. He backed up a pace.

"Smart man," said the bald fellow. "Laszlo and I were on our way to the Vortigaunt camp to get some bugbait when they attacked us. We made it this far and they gave up, but-"

The wounded Laszlo moaned, rolling sideways. The bald man's eyes widened in alarm. "No! Laszlo, don't move!"

But he was too late; Laszlo had rolled off the island of rock and thumped one hand against the ground. The sand shivered, shuddered, began to rise- and erupted in screaming green and orange as the antlions tore through to the surface. It took Gordon a moment to realize that the men were completely unarmed. The instant he did, he pulled his shotgun free of its harness (anything less and the bugs wouldn't even notice, but anything more and he'd almost certainly take out the humans, too) and started firing.

It was all over in a few moments. Bug guts splashed over the rocks and sand alike- and the survivor, who stared wide-eyed at his companion's tattered corpse for a moment before breaking into a deluge of sobs. "Dear God!" he cried. "Laszlo! The finest mind of his generation- gone..."

Gordon really didn't know what to say to that. He opened his mouth to speak, but the other man wasn't finished. "I know we were going to go on, but-" The man choked back a wail. "Without Laszlo, what's the point?"

"Uh-"

The man shook himself sharply, apparently remembering Gordon's presence. "It's all right," he said tearfully. "I don't blame you. I know you tried to help." He glanced at the shattered carapaces a moment before looking back to Gordon. "You'd better go on, if you can. Teach these antlion bastards a lesson."

The prospect of leaving an unaided, unarmed human alone in a place like this didn't sit well with Gordon at all. "Listen," he said, "can you use a gun?"

"Not a good idea," said the man. "I'm afraid Laszlo here used to call me 'Butterfingers'. He said I'd shoot my own eye out one of these days."

Huh, boy, thought Gordon- but a moment later an idea occurred to him. The sandy valley that led off to the northwest was littered with all sorts of detritus. "If I can get you a bridge from one rock to the next," he said, "will you come with me?"

The man shook his head. "Thank you, but I- I'm going to stay here. With Laszlo." He nodded to the corpse. "There's something I have to do."

"If you say so," Gordon murmured. He took out the gravity gun anyway. Whatever funeral the man had in mind could only last so long, and the least he could do for him before moving on was pull together enough of a trash bridge to let him reach the path back to Lighthouse Point.

---

Two football fields' worth of open sand behind him. Gordon's arms were starting to tremble from having to hold the gravity gun so steady for so long, having to grab objects at the very limits of its range and pull them in. The antlions didn't pay much attention to the scraping of large objects, but a short shart impact from anything small was enough to send them boiling out from under the surface. Not a problem if only one or two of them showed up at a distance, but more than that, or closer, and it was everything he could do not to fall onto the sand and inadvertently summon more. . .

Five yards ahead of him a ridge of stone reared up, offering an antlion-free vantage on whatever lay ahead. How much farther Nova Prospket was from there- or even the Vortigaunt camp Laszlo's friend had mentioned- he didn't know, but the important thing was that it was stone. It was safe. He could decide what had to be done next once he got there. Gordon closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, deep breath. He'd come this far. This was no time to falter.

The trail behind him- wooden planks and sheets of metal from what'd once been a shed roof, mostly- wasn't quite long enough to bridge the gap, but it was close. Gordon managed the leap to the lowest part of the ridge without toppling back onto the sand, and spent several minutes leaning against the stone, panting. How much farther did he have to go? He couldn't do another hundred yards of this. Not without a thumper, or a car, or a- or something. No more antlion sand. that wasn't so much to ask, was it?

Apparently?

It was. Because once Gordon clambered all the way up the ridge, what lay on the other side was a long, wide valley of sandy soil, ringed on every side by stone. Gordon's stomach twisted briefly at the prospect, but a gleam of sun on metal gave him some hope: something man-made had been built into the cliff face up ahead. His suit was fully charged. If he was very, very lucky, once he picked his way down to the valley floor, he should be able to get there in the sprint to end all sprints.

Of course, said the treacherous little voice in the back of his head, that assumes that what you're seeing is a sign of life, and not some abandoned piece of architecture. Or something Combine, for that matter. Gordon set his jaw, told the voice to shut up, and ran. The first step, the second, the third, nothing happened.

On the fourth, the ground began to shake.

On the fifth, hell erupted.

It was fifteen feet of raw insectile rage, and it bellowed. Nothing like that ought to bellow! Its huge blunt head swung from side to side even as it CHARGED, thundering after him like the end of the world. Even the stone was shaking, or seemed to be; GOrdon couldn't tell and didn't want to. All he could think was shelter- find shelter- somewhere small! If he didn't find somewhere small enough to wedge himself without the beast being able to get at him, he was doomed. There was no way he could get off any kind of gunfire; it was right on his tail-

From somewhere up above, in the rockface, automatic gunfire rang out. The beast roared a challenge, pausing in its charge to face the gunman. Thank you, Gordon thought silently, and made the last few strides to the nearest solid stone. Then, and only then, did he unshoulder the rocket launcher. There was, after all, no such thing as overkill.

The thing didn't stand a chance. The rockets flung it backwards, and the bullets tore through its carapace without mercy. With a last scream of rage it expired, legs twitching as it toppled to the ground. Gordon eyed the corpse warily. He'd never seen the creature before. For all he knew, the corpse might be hatching one last surprise-

"Don't get twitchy down there," called out a voice from up above. "We're sending someone out."

Metal scraped against metal. With agonizing slowness, a gate concealed in the rockface slid open. A Vortigaunt trotted out briskly, casting an expert eye over the vast corpse. It gave what sounded like a hum of satisfaction. "Rest well, mighty myrmidont," it rumbled. Then it turned to Gordon. "The Freeman will do well to carefully perform the extraction of the myrmidont's aromatic pheropods."

"... what?" was all Gordon could think to say.

"He says he's going to split that dead bug open so you can pull out a souvenir set of glands," called a human voice from the gate.

"And... I'm going to do this... why?"

The speaker, a dark-skinned man in the delta-marked jacket of a Resistance member, emerged from the gate. "Get hold of a couple of those glands and you've got yourself your very own antlion army," he said. "They're the whole reason we're camped here. It's amazing how handy they can be in a tight spot. You're Dr. Freeman, right?" Gordon nodded. "Then you're gonna need them for sure, where you're going."

"The process is not entirely hygienic," the Vortigaunt added, "so stand back."

Gordon stepped back to the black man's side and watched the Vortigaunt summon the same green lightning he remembered all too well from Black Mesa. The vast corpse spasmed, sending sand and other substances in all directions. Then it fell back to the sand, the carapace cracked neatly down the middle. Gordon noted with some distaste that something green-grey and vile was already oozing out of it. Then he realized the Vortigaunt was looking at him expectantly. "You mean I have to..."

It nodded.

Suppressing a sigh, Gordon moved forward and knelt at the corpse's side. It's no worse than any of the things I had to swim through at Black Mesa, he told himself. At least it's fresh, not rotten. "What am I looking for?" he asked as he tried and failed to pry the carapace further open.

"The pheropod's about softball sized," said the human. "It feels about like... oh, if you put your finger against your eyelid and press."

"Great," muttered Gordon, and shoved his arm into the cracked carapace up to the shoulder. It helped a little if he thought of it as being like digging the bag of giblets out of a Thanksgiving turkey. Well- no, it didn't but it was at least a distraction from the fact that he was arm deep in a giant killer alien bug that smelled like the inside of a forgotten gymsock. The instant he encountered moderately squishy resistance, he closed his fingers around it and yanked it out. "There," he exclaimed, relieved. He held up his prize. "I got the pheropod. Can I stop now?"

The Vortigaunt said nothing. The black man seemed to be suppressing a snicker. Gordon's eyes slid over to the thing in his hand.

"This... isn't a pheropod, is it."

"No," the human said, "but it's the biggest antlion turd I've ever seen."

Gordon wanted very badly to cover his face with his hand.

"Wait here," said the man with a broadening grin. "I'll go get the camera."




[OOC: Thank you, Chris Livingston!]

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...