Chapter Text
Subject: Dr. Gordon Freeman.
Location: Unknown.
Vital Signs: Elevated.
Status: Alive.
With a single bound, Gordon leaps from the narrow opening to the crevasse, landing on the sloping gravel without slowing down. His armored feet plow` through the scree, as does his left hand, held below him for support. With his right, he holds the tau cannon, pointing in roughly in the direction of several Xenians gathered around a control console.
WHANG!!!
The particle beam covers the distance faster than all but the finest instruments could measure, grazing an alien grunt's arm before punching through the stamped metal console. A cloud of smoke and sparks erupt from the device, causing the Xenians gathered around it to recoil in shock.
A mere second later, the physicist's feet hit solid ground, and his downwards momentum is transferred forwards. Rather than letting it push him off-balance, he rides with the motion, coming down in a kneeling position on the smooth stone ground, aiming his weapon at a different alien grunt, watching as the laser pointer follows his attempts to guide it to the unarmored belly of the otherworldly soldier as it raises its hivehand.
WHANG!!!
Charged for just one second before the trigger is released, the powerful beam cuts clean through the monster, burrowing through the armor on its back from within and punching into the side of one of the strange green objects on a conveyor belt. A stream of lime fluid begins leaking out as the grunt clutches at its gut before dropping to the ground.
On the other side of another conveyor, there is a flash of green as a Vortigaunt draws in energy from the air around it, an instant away from casting it fourth unto the interloper.
BAM!!!
A shotgun blast sends the slave-soldier reeling as Shephard leaps into view. Without waiting for his target to fall, he turns to the grunt that had been grazed by first shot from the tau cannon. From only ten feet away, he levels his Benelli M4 at its gun and pulls the trigger twice, creating a spray of yellow blood before him.
Gordon cannot spare any time to watch, for he has another target to eliminate. Hovering in the air, twenty yards away, a controller's hands a wreathed in orange as it lifts one of the volatile barrels into the air, then casts it straight towards him. The scientist ducks, and the projectile explodes against the scree slope. He feels a patter of gravel against his armored back, but nonetheless holds his aim true.
With a short squeeze-and-release of the trigger, the particle beam takes the commanding alien just below its head, dropping it out of the sky like a sandbag discarded from a hot-air balloon.
The shot has barely connected before Gordon makes his next move, stowing the tau cannon in the device on his back. A glance at the small meter on the side confirms that it is running low on power. Instead, the scientist now switches to his MP5, before immediately turning around to confront a Vortigaunt attempting to approach him from the side.
T-T-T-TAT!!! T-TAT!!!
With two rapid bursts, the alien cries out in pain and falls to the ground. Without pause, the physicist turns one hundred and eighty degrees in a flash, knowing that it is lethal to face a single direction for a significant length of time in an open battlefield.
Before he has time to identify the threat, another Vortigaunt has cast forth its powerful electric discharge, and the forks land dead center in the scientist's chest. Caught unprepared for the sudden shock, he stumbles backwards, just barely managing to keep his feet. The shock produces a numbing sensation throughout his body.
'Electrical shock detected', his suit hums in his ears, and the same warning shows up visibly in the bottom center of his helmet's HUD.
But the numbing sensation is the worst it will get. The Vortigaunt's lightning, while capable of instantly boiling a person's innards while charring their skin and clothing, is of little use against the HEV Mark IV he wears.
The numbness fading in seconds. Time seems to slow down as the scientist takes aim at the alien that had just fired upon him, lining up his sights in an instant. The Vortigaunt begins to tense one leg, preparing to dive behind the cover of a control console, but it simply won't make it in time.
BOOM!!!
Before Gordon finishes taking up the slack on the trigger, an orange flash lights up his peripheral vision, and the alien he was aiming at is blown backwards, its blood splattering across the control panel and the conveyor beside it.
Next to him, Shephard leaps over a conveyor, using one hand to mantle it and his legs to push him up and over. His boots hit the dirt a few feet from the scientist, and he immediately goes back-to-back with him.
"Gotta' reload!", he calls, and makes a sudden rush forward. Gordon moves backwards with him as the Corporal crouches in a nook between two pieces of unfamiliar machinery. The scientist fires off a burst at a Vortigaunt taking a peak around a corner, forcing it back into cover, while Shephard slides fresh shells into his weapon as fast as he can.
The Marine is nearly done when Gordon turns around as the all-too-familiar roar of a grunt echoes from behind him, expecting to see it thundering between the various walls and machinery around them. Instead, to his surprise, it enters the fight in an entirely different manner.
The side of one of the rectangular objects on a conveyor belt sudden bursts open, a vast quantity of lime fluid flooding through the rupture as a familiar pair of stubby hands force the gap open wider, an ugly crab-like maw roaring once more and a set of four red eyes fixated on the two men.
Without further hesitation, the alien soldier rips its way out of the pod, leaping off the conveyor belt and rushing straight for the two men, devoid of its armor and hivehand.
As one, Gordon and Shephard open fire.
T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-TAT!!!
BOOM!!!
Without its thick armor, the monster never stood a chance. Gordon squeezes the trigger, firing most of the remainder of his magazine, while Shephard fires one blast from his Benelii. In half a second, the grunt stumbles, staggers, and falls, face planting against the rock.
Immediately, Gordon turns back around, expecting to see at least one Xenian attempting to take advantage of the distraction. But, to his mild surprise, he sees nothing but dead aliens and a column of smoke rising from the busted control panel.
The physicist relaxes physically, but nonetheless keeps a sharp eye out. Shephard covers him as he swaps out the nearly-empty magazine in his MP5 for a fresh one from the storage system on his back, which he had refilled from the displaced HECU ammo dump.
'Nine millimeter. Magazines remaining: zero-four. '
That done, he rapidly scans his surroundings once again. But aside from some distant chittering and grunting, there is no sign of further opposition. And it makes him anxious.
They didn't run from him and Shephard. Despite the two men's dramatic entry, the aliens still had more than enough numbers in the area to continue the fight. Did they mistakenly assume they were being attacked by a significantly larger force than was actually present? Are they falling back to set up an ambush? What if...
Gordon gazes out at the open sky above and beside them. Its stunning beauty is unchanged by the violence below, except that the avian lifeforms that had previously been flying about have now vanished, scared off by the commotion.
It is a familiar feeling from his one-man campaign in Black Mesa: standing beneath the open sky, alone among the dead. Alone, at least, until an HECU Osprey shows up to put an end to the current respite.
And that's when it hits him. He suddenly realizes why the Xenians have fled.
"We gotta get out of here!", he shouts, and Shephard jumps to his feet, unquestioningly ready to follow. But it is already too late.
Without premonition, a vast shape shoots upwards from beneath the cliff, the scream of its close passage echoing off the rocky escarpment as it pulls back in a vertical loop. Then it swoops back down, turning parallel to the length of the wide ledge upon which two men stand, before rolling forty-five degrees to the left, its underside lighting up with a familiar and terrifying orange glow.
Subject: Deckhand Mason Hughes.
Location: Bering Sea.
Vital Signs: Elevated.
Status: Fishing.
Many miles from dry land, theDawn Treader plows though the fifteen-foot swells as she seeks out the last of her pots. Her decks are already stacked high with the empty wire cages, her holds filled with a plethora of freshly-caught Alaskan king crab, a testament to the years of experience of her crew and captain.
With nine souls aboard, the 140-foot vessel braves the wrath of the cold, dark waters as she seeks to fulfill the quota the buyers on shore had set for her. Thus far, they have had an extremely prosperous season, taking in ninety percent of their target catch with a couple of weeks to spare. If their final thirty pots produce the same turnout as the rest, the entire crew can look forward to an early paycheck, and theDawn Treader will be afforded a well-deserved rest in a safe, sheltered harbor.
But for deckhand Mason Hughes, a nine-year veteran of this harsh, turbulent sea, the joyous expectation of an accelerated profit is dampened by the knowledge that far greater dangers than the fury of the ocean are spreading across the world.
Far from shore, and even further from civilization, cell phones and pagers are useless. But the broadcasts from the radio station at Dutch Harbor can be picked up by the crabbing fleet's powerful transceivers, with the hourly news reports keeping them informed of the goings-on around the world. And Mason just happens to be at the bottom of the stairs to the wheelhouse when the latest broadcast is received.
Hearing the beginning, he climbs the stairs to listen more closely. Paul Newport, the ship's skipper, glances at him as he enters but says nothing.
"...that Barney Calhoun was seen in Twin Falls appear to have been mistaken, although authorities believe that he remains in the country. Federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies across the country have issued an APB for the subject, and encourage any citizens who encounter him to keep their distance. The Canadian government has thus far refused to issue any similar statements, citing the claim that the charges against Calhoun and other BMRF staff are the result of an attempt to conceal the origins of the ongoing crisis. A spokesperson for the Mexican government has refused to comment on their response to the situation, claiming internal disorganization resulting from the ongoing evacuation from Mexico City.
"The Department of Justice has announced its intention to convene a special probe into the events at Black Mesa once the military situation has stabilized. When prompted to name possible defending parties in the probe, a spokesperson stated that no decisions have yet been reached. However, many citizens have been calling for an immediate inquiry into US military and intelligence activities in the region of Black Mesa, once again claiming that several communications made from the facility on the night of May 16th purport a cover-up operation. An unidentified official from the Department of Defense has stated that these claims are quote "ridiculous" unquote, while the Central Intelligence Agency has issued a statement denying that they have conducted any operations on US soil. CNN reports that it is in the process of scheduling a further interview with the mentioned DOD spokesperson."
Without warning, the broadcast ends, leaving nothing but static to be heard.
"What do you think?", Mason finally asks. "Was this really some kind of conspiracy bullsh*t?"
The grey-haired captain leans back into his chair with a sigh. "Only God knows, Mason, only God knows. Thankfully, its not our problem to deal with." He looks at a map displayed on a screen on the console. "Same as any other government BS, it'll sort itself out. But aliens or not, we got an assload of crab below us to catch. We'll be on the string in about five minutes."
Leaving the wheelhouse, Mason heads back out on deck, pulling up the hood on his orange rubber jacket just in time to deflect a wall of spray that cascades over the bulwarks. Then he takes his place next to the sorting table a few yards away, ready to identify and collect keeper-sized crustaceans once the first pot is hauled aboard.
"Captain says we're almost there", he calls to Jack, who is standing next to the pulley, grapple in hand. "Keep your eyes out."
Feeling a sudden change in the movement of the deck below him, Mason instinctively braces himself, preparing for the ship to buck and roll as it breaks through yet another large wave.
There is a lurch, a roar, and a fountain of spray cascades upon the deck, drenching everything and everyone with a deluge of saltwater. Aside from taking action necessary to keep their footing, the hardened deck crew hardly react - until they hear the screaming.
Mason spins around in surprise as he hears a blood-curdling bellow, and his mind immediately begins racing though the possibilities. Was somebody thrown against the pot launcher and break an arm? Did a pot fall from the stack and crush them? Both have happened before in his years at sea.
But that is not to be.
Between the table and the stacked crab pots, Ullar, one of the deckhands, is screaming and thrashing, desperately trying to free his leg from the powerful jaws that have closed down upon it.
Mason has heard stories of sharks being thrown up onto the decks of crabbing vessels before, sometimes resulting in injuries to the crew. But this... this isn't a shark. It is at least twelve feet long, with a head the size of a chest freezer, eyes as big as dinner plates, and long arms ending in jagged, knife-like blades. Its body flips and flops as it thrashes from side to side, trying to subdue the unfortunate deckhand.
For about three seconds, the rest of the tableau is frozen in place, as Mason, Jack, and the rest of the deck crew try to comprehend what is happening. Then, all at once, they spring into chaotic action.
Mason glances around frantically for a weapon, searching for something,anything he can use. His eyes light on the long-handled sledgehammer hanging from a rack on the wall by the door, used for clearing ice from the ship's machinery. He rushes for it, staggering briefly as the deck rolls underfoot once more, before grasping it just beneath the head with his right hand and lifting it up and out of the metal rack.
As he turns around, he sees that Jack had taken a more direct course of action. Already holding the end of a grappling line, he had vaulted over the pot launcher before raking the blunt-but-narrow metal prongs across the side of the monster's head in a savage swipe.
The creature roars with pain and fury, releasing Ullar in the process, as the metal instrument rips through its eyeball and lodges in the edge of the socket. With a mighty thrash, it swings its finned tail at Jack, who just barely manages to avoid the blow. Meanwhile, another crewman rushes forwards and grabs Ullar under the shoulders, trying to drag him away from the beast.
The spray from the next wave hits, washing large quantities of blood through the scuppers as Mason takes his turn, rushing around the sorting table with the hammer held over his shoulder in both hands. Stopping just short of the monster, Mason lets out a inarticulate, primal roar as he brings the hammer up and over his head, the seven-pound iron head coming down with unstoppable force.
At the last instant, the prehistoric-looking beast twists to one side, and the blow that would have landed atop its head instead smashes the bones in its lower jaw, sending yellow blood and white teeth flying. Before the sailor can even think about trying for a second attack, one of the creature's arms swipes at him, the backside of its bladed limb catching him across the ankle.
Mason falls to the ground as if a rug had been yanked out from under him, and his head hits the metal deck hard enough to make him see stars, a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his skull.
When he opens his eyes again, having briefly shut them upon impact, the deckhand sees those enormous jaws snap shut just inches from his face, a combination of blood and water flying from its maw and splattering across his face and chest. He scrabbles for purchase on the slick deck, his shipmate's blood impeding his every effort to move as the demon opens its mouth again.
BA-DOOM!!!
Thunder claps in his ears as a brilliant flash lights up the deck around him, briefly overpowering the illumination provided the lights shining down from the superstructure and the crane. Green blood flies everywhere, coating Mason, the deck below him, and everything else within a ten-foot radius.
His heart pounding inside his chest, Mason can feel the buzzing in his ears as he manages to sit upright and scoot backwards, attempting to put some distance between himself and the ravening beast. Except now, he realizes, the threat is now more.
A large, grisly crater has been blasted out of the front of the creature's head, jagged bone and grey brain matter protruding from the wound, blood pouring onto the deck below. All the tension is gone from its body, its remaining eye distant and unfocused.
As he shakily gets to his feet, he sees a shipmate by the name of Thomas holding the double-barreled eight-gauge shotgun that they keep on board. Although it has only ever been used for clearing built-up ice, the compression waves from the blanks it fires serving to fracture or shatter the frozen seawater, they do keep a box of live shells on hand 'just in case'.
Thomas breaks open the shotgun, as if about to reload it, then looks up and remembers the reason he needed it in the first place. "Oh sh*t!"
Ignoring the still-recovering Mason, he rushes across the deck to where another crewmate has dragged Ullar to the base of the stack. He then frantically begins helping the other man attempt to apply a crab-rope tourniquet to the base of what is left of his masticated leg. But by the time Mason has cleared his head and stumbled over to try to assist them, they have stopped. And it soon becomes clear why.
Ullar, his face deathly pale, lays unmoving on the deck, his eyes staring up at the thousands of far-distant stars, yet not seeing a single one.
Subject: Corporal Adrian Shephard.
Location: Unknown.
Vital Signs: Elevated.
Status: Alive.
Shephard thought he knew what to expect: the Manta Ray would unleash its devastating laser-like energy beam, carving through the machinery and the ground beneath it with enough power to blowtorch a tank in half. Yet in spite of its raw power, the direction of the attack would be predictable, and relatively simple to avoid provided he and Gordon can time their movements right.
Already, the Marine is preparing for a sudden dive to one side, transferring his forward momentum into a diagonal roll, instantly and drastically changing his direction of movement without an immediate loss of speed. It is a move he has long practiced during training, one that has allowed him to evade bullets, lightning blasts, and thornets.
But then the enemy throws him for a loop.
With a brilliant flash, the Manta Ray fires a luminous orange orb from its weapon, one that appears similar to but far larger than the plasma attack used by the controllers. A fraction of a second later, it fires another, then yet another. They fly through the air, plunging towards the ground with wicked speed.
BADONG-BOOM-BOOM!!!
The Corporal throws himself to the ground, dropping his shotgun before protectively clasping his hands over his already-burned neck. The ground around him shakes as the fireballs explode like artillery shells, splintering conveyor belts and turning metal walls and fences to scrap. The shocks vibrate painfully into his chest, and he belatedly remembers a veteran's advice to prop oneself up on their elbows to reduce the potential concussive damage.
T-T-T-T-T-T-T-TAT!!! T-T-T-T-T-TAT!!!
As soon as the shaking stops, Shephard scrambles to his feet. Several meters away is Gordon, seemingly unaffected by the shrapnel, defiantly firing his MP5 as the manta banks to the left, turning away for the time being. Then the scientist lowers his gun and looks at him.
Opening his mouth to pop his ears, the Corporal manages to catch the end of his comrade's dialogue.
"-gotta go now! Come on!"
Stooping briefly to pick up his shotgun, Shephard races after Gordon as the scientist hops over a conveyor belt and dashes around the corner of a black metal wall. The Marine has just followed him around that when the scientist turns a second corner, only to be struck dead-center by a powerful green fork. Stumbling a bit, he dives behind a control console as a storm of thornets buzz through the air where he had just been.
Shephard leans back on his heels, screeching to a stop just before going out into the open. At the same time, Gordon looks at him and shouts. "Don't go out there!"
The words have just barely left his respirator before another lightning blast shoots through the gap. A green Xen grenade bounces across the ground towards them, overshooting its target and exploding somewhere behind them. Then come more thornets.
Unable to see the enemy but knowing that they are zeroed in, each man goes his own way, with Gordon continuing to the left and Shephard the right, avoiding crossing through the enemy's killbox. Even without any communication, they both know the plan: go around the flanks and take the enemy from the sides, forcing them from their prepared position.
The Corporal has barely gone twenty feet before a fireball streaks down from above, blasting a crater in the ground and blowing away the metal walls he and Gordon had taken cover behind. A piece of debris strikes Shephard hard in the back, a pulse from his vest deflecting the projectile. He stumbles a bit but keeps going, until he reaches the bottom of the cliff.
Unlike where he and Gordon had accessed this area from, there is no scree slope here, just a completely vertical wall of rock rising hundreds of yards into the sky. A couple of openings are visible in it, some of them caves and others deliberately drilled tunnels. Here and there a lime-filled pipe juts out, running along the face of the cliff before plunging back inside.
Out of the blue, thornets flash past him as he sidesteps a rocky outcrop at the base of the cliff. He ducks behind it for cover, then leans around it. He just has time to ensure that his targets are alien before he pulls the trigger.
BANG!!!
With a neon green burst, the steel pellets slam into holographic barrier that materializes out of nowhere, blocking the shot that would have mortally wounded the grunt behind it. A few feet further back, a Vortigaunt stands with its arms outstretched, hands aglow with its misty green light. Then, before Shephard can even comprehend this new development, the grunt fires another burst of exploding razor bugs at him, forcing him to conceal himself behind the rock once again.
Damn, they can make force fields now!?, Shephard realizes incredulously, as more thornets continue to keep him pinned down.Do these guys ever run out of tricks!?
A roar from above and behind catches his attention, and Shephard turns around, his heart rising into his throat as he sees the manta bearing down on him, its underside aglow as it prepares to fire directly on his position. He takes a step to run, but knows that he won't make it in time. The enemy is simply too close.
WHANG!!!
From somewhere in the direction of the cliff edge, a beam of energy materializes, zinging through the air and punching a hole clean through one of the mantas wings. The biomechanical aircraft jerks to one side in the same manner as a flinching human, and the fireball that would have turned Shephard to ash instead explodes against the cliff face above him. He ducks and covers his head as a shower of stones rain down around him, sharp pieces nicking his arms. There is a loudcrash as a particularly large piece lands somewhere nearby.
As the manta reels from the sudden assault, Shephard begins to point his own gun at it, then remembers the threat that had forced him into this corner in the first place. Quickly, ready to snap back into place at an instant's notice, Shephard whips around the corner, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger should the enemy's shield be down.
Where the Vortigaunt and the grunt had been, a large pile of tire-sized rocks now sits. Forty feet above them, a crater has been blasted out of the cliffside, a web of cracks spreading away from it in all directions.
The Marine takes just a second to breathe a sigh of relief.You've saved me again, you magnificent bastard.
Then he retrieves a shell from his newfound bandolier, replacing the round that had been stopped by the shield, before making his way through the maze of machinery towards Gordon.
Subject: Second Lieutenant Travis Stoll.
Location: Near Russellville, Arkansas, USA.
Vital Signs: Stable.
Status: Alive.
With an enormous roar and a blur of motion, a lithe shape flashes past at meteoric speed, desperately trying to reach its destination before the enemy.
The F/A-22 "Raptor" screams through the sky at nearly sixteen hundred miles per hour, the pilot pushing his aircraft well beyond its set safety limits as he attempts to reach the enemy before they reach their target: a city of 25,000 people, completely unprepared for the savage aerial ambush heading their way.
Once upon a time, Second Lieutenant Travis Stoll would be the last person one would expect to become a hero. He and his twin brother Connor had enlisted in the Air Force straight out of high school, attracted by the prospect of career advantages and bragging rights to chat the ladies up with. For them, joining the service was more about image than patriotism, no different than the ridiculous stunts they'd pull to impress their classmates.
But their view of the situation was a rosy misconception, to put it lightly.
From their very first day of basic, Travis and Connor got their asses beat. The very bullsh*t that had made them so popular in school made them a favorite target for their instructors and comrades. Five-minute showers got cut off after one. Bedding sent to be laundered came back even filthier than before. They were singled out for one-on-one exercises that left each and every muscle aching as if stung by a hornet.
And whether because of this tough love, or in spite of it, they came out better than they went in: disciplined, honorable, punctual, ready to stick up for those who needed it and ready to dis those that needed to be downed a few pegs. When put into the co*ckpit of an F-16, they could give even the best of their instructors a run for their money. They consistently came out on top in their exercises, their studies, and their simulations. Each of them could shoot a target out of the sky in an instant, land in a fierce gale, and then explain every last system and mechanism that was used during the flight.
In no time, both of the Stoll brothers had been promoted to Captain. And both were subsequently given a unique opportunity: to serve as test pilots for a brand-new, cutting-edge fifth-generation interceptors: the YF-22 "Lighting II".
Unfortunately, after several more years of loyal service, things took a turn for the worse.
In 2001, Connor was struck by an out-of-control Humvee while on a walk around the airbase. Although he survived mostly intact, he lost the use of his left hand and foot, ending his career as a test pilot and sending him home with an honorable discharge. Travis continued his service, but without his brother by his side, his heart was no longer in it.
His record began to slip. First one mistake, then another, at one point nearly crashing his precious prototype aircraft. Sent home to cool off afterwards, he instead went to a nearby bar. Once highly inebriated, he began to senselessly pick a fight with a seemingly random person - who just so happened to be an off-duty supervisor for the bases Military Police.
The resulting brawl put six people either in the hospital or behind bars. And unfortunately, Travis was counted among both groups.
It was a long and painful court marshal. Ultimately, he avoided being dishonorably discharged, but got his rank busted back to Second Lieutenant, was grounded from flying, had his leave days cut by two-thirds, and was otherwise prohibited from leaving Little Rock AFB without a signed authorization from the base commander.
All of that was seven months ago. Ever since, Travis has been itching to get back into the pilot's seat of what is now known by the name "Raptor", eager to redeem himself and prove that he still has what it takes.
He just never expected the chance to actually come.
Up until now, the so-called Manta Rays that have been plaguing the southern and western United States have done so individually or in pairs, showing little sign of coordinated tactics. But just a short while ago, things changed.
Satellite surveillance and radar had detected a significant number of alien aircraft converging on a single point in central Arkansas, before turning and heading northeast as a group. At least fifteen of them had been reported to be heading in a straight vector pointing directly towards the city of Russellville, a quiet small city where nothing interesting ever happens.
Every serviceable plane at the base was already airborne and engaged, either supporting ground forces in Texas or hunting down the Mantas across the southern great plains. There were no notable air defenses in the vicinity. And with scarcely half an hour until the estimated time of arrival, a mass evacuation would be impossible.
There was only one option left: the F-22 sitting under a tarp in one of the hangers, idle now that its pilots have been indisposed.
And there was only one person on the base who had been trained to fly it.
There was no heads-up, no detailed briefing, no preflight checks. Travis had barely five minutes to suit up while the technicians scrambled to fuel and arm his plane. Eight air-to-air missiles and 480 rounds of 20mm ammunition were hurriedly provided. No flares, jammers, or other countermeasures were supplied, given their redundancy against any enemy not armed with guided missiles.
Ten minutes after being shaken out of bed, the Lieutenant is wheels-up and turning to the northeast, pushing his aircraft to the absolute max to intercept the mantas before they rain hell upon the sleeping city before them.
Subject: Dr. Gordon Freeman.
Location: Unknown.
Vital Signs: Elevated.
Status: Alive.
After being damaged by the blast from the tau cannon, the manta had apparently retreated, disappearing into the nebular abyss through which Xen's islands drift. With the immense threat now neutralized, Gordon was free to flank and destroy the knot of defenders blocking his progress. As he shot, blasted, and swung his way through the factoryscape, switching from his shotgun to his crowbar to his pistol and back again, he could hear Shephard wreaking similar devastation just a short distance away.
BAM!!! BAM!!!
Even with the assistance of his motorized suit, the .44 Anaconda bucks in Gordon's right hand as he gives two rapid pulls of the trigger, disregarding co*cking the weapon in favor of doing more damage, faster. Struck twice in the chest, on either side of its third arm, the grunt that was rushing him sinks to the ground.
Not an instant is to be wasted. A green flash of electricity flies past him, while a smaller white blast ripples across the surface of his HEV suit. Disregarding the latter as the lesser threat, the scientist turns to confront the Vortigaunt as it charges up for a second attack.
BAM!!!
The creature releases a surprisingly high-pitched shriek as the slug blows it's knee wide open, sending it crashing to the ground. Before it is even down, the crowbar practically leaps into the research associate's hand as he takes a single bound and lunges, bringing the heavy steel tool down upon his enemy's head.
Once again, a bright surge of energy rolls harmlessly off of his suit as the nearby sphere fires again. But in spite of the lack of damage, the attack prompts a concerning alert.
'Auxiliarypower is at one-five percent.'
Fifteen percent.
It has been quite some time since Gordon had last had a chance to charge his suit's armor. Unlike the luminous power cells, which are carried inside the back of the suit and can be recharged from an identical device via a cord, the damage-reactive panels are powered by a bank of capacitors. The energy between these and the power cells is not internally transferable, as they are two separate systems that just happen to be charged concurrently from the same port. The capacitors power the armor's reactive qualities, and the cells power everything else.
All of this goes through his mind in an instant as Gordon co*cks the gun and fires a shot at the sphere before it can even ball up, blowing it into two distinct pieces that drop to the ground. Then he turns around, checking his six.
Nothing.
Deciding to reload while he has the chance, Gordon shoves the crowbar back through its gear loop before using the thumb of his right hand to depress and drag back the release on his Anaconda. As soon as he has, gravity takes over, and the cylinder swings out on its crane.
Pointing the gun upwards, Gordon pushes on the ejector rod, sending four empty casings and two live rounds tumbling to the ground. Then he pulls a moon clip out of one of the pouches attached to his waist and brings it up to the gun, now pointing slightly downwards. Lining up the rounds with the chambers, he slides them in, pushes the pin in the back of the speedloader, and pulls it away, leaving six freshly-loaded rounds in the cylinder.
After pushing the cylinder shut with his left hand, and taking a quick glance around, Gordon bends down and recovers the unspent rounds, partially refilling the speedloader with them before dropping it back into his pouch. Then he holsters the pistol, grabs his MP5 from his back, and stalks forwards, ever on the alert.
He can't help but note that he no longer hears any gunfire from Shephard, meaning that he has presumably vanquished his own opposition. And he has only just had this thought when the Marine confirms it.
"Gordon!?"
"I'm here!", the scientist responds, shouting to let his voice carry through the maze of machinery. "You good?"
"Yeah, but... I've found something a bit strange here!"
What is it now?
Having long since grown tired of surprises being thrown at him, the scientist heads in the direction of Shephard's voice, still wary of potential threats as he weaves between mysterious hunks of industrial machinery and hops over a conveyor belt.
He comes to a stop as he finds Shephard standing on the other side of the rough open path parallel to the cliff, an area free of the obstructions. His Benelli M4 is slung over his back in favor of the MP5K, and fresh alien blood is splashed across his vest. Two dead Vortigaunts lay in heaps at his feet, their bodies covered with bullet holes.
At first, Gordon doesn't see anything exceptional about the situation. "Well, it looks like you got 'em. So?" He feels a twinge of regret at his callous comment, knowing as he does that these beings are not willingly fighting them. But he still doesn't understand what Shephard meant by "something a bit strange".
"I didn't shoot them", the Marine says matter-of-factly, as if he were being interrogated for murder. "They were dead when I got here. And look at the injuries."
Shephard steps aside, watching their surroundings as Gordon looks more closely at the bodies. And indeed, thereis something odd about them. In spite of each one having at least a dozen entry wounds, there is next to no blood. And the wounds themselves...
"They're cauterized." Gordon prods at one with his finger, noting the resistance of the charred flesh. "Bullets don't do this. What could have-"
"Gordon!"
Hearing the Marine's urgent hiss, the scientist snaps back up to a standing position, gripping his submachinegun tightly, looking around for their potential attacker. Yet he sees none.
"Gordon, you'll want to see this."
Realizing that the Corporal's voice is coming from behind a row of grunt pods, the scientist takes several quick steps to follow, only to stop in his tracks when he sees the... thething laying on the ground.
It appears to be some form of robotic humanoid, with wide, plated shoulders, a narrow waist, a cylindrical pelvis, and two long, lithe metal legs with some kind of panel hanging down between them. Set into the top of its torso is what appears to be its head, with dark, hollow eye-like optics and a small mechanism below resembling a respirator. Hair-like bristles cover its shoulder plates, and what appears to be an antenna sticks up from behind its back. A bizarre-looking object that could only be a weapon lays a few feet away.
The thing is pitted with scars and burn marks, evidence of the thornets and energy blasts that it sustained before going down. Its metal plates are fractured, one foreleg snapped, hanging on by a single wire. Clearly, the end had been very violent for this strange, futuristic-looking droid.
If it evenis a droid. Looking more closely, Gordon can see some kind of thin, colorless fluid leaking from its cracks and joints, almost as if it were blood.
"What the f*ck is this?", Shephard asks bluntly, although Gordon is sure they both already know the answer.
The drawings Shephard described from the cave. The strange aircraft the manta had shot down over the swamp. The apparently desperate need the enemy has to escape from their world to Earth. And now this.
Ever since their earlier suppositions about an even greater enemy driving the Xenians towards Earth, Gordon has been wondering desperately whether they had drawn the wrong conclusions. Could the earlier incident just have been a one-off? Could Shephard have interpreted the carvings he saw incorrectly?
But there is no denying it. The answer is literally right in front of them.
Whatever these things are, they are already here, probing the locals, testing their defenses, preparing for the day when they finally come in force.
And if the rift is still open when that day comes, everything that Gordon knows and loves will be at their mercy.
It is up to him and Shephard to ensure that doesn't happen.
Briefly, the two men recoil as green sprites split the air with a sizzling noise, casting their glow upon their surroundings before fading just as quickly. The air briefly smells strongly of ozone.
"It can't be much further now", the scientist says to his companion.
"I'm with you." Shephard raises his arm, resting his MP5K on his shoulder before bringing it back down into both hands. "Its time to end this."
Together, the two men turn and continue their long trek forwards, seeking their ultimate target.
