Author's Note:
With this multi-chap story, I aim to form several rebel (and Vortigaunt) character arcs that loop around and complement an emotionally lost Gordon. So, character studies ahoy! Exactly what you came here for, right?
Leave constructive reviews if you want this story's next chapters (and its characters) to improve. I appreciate you pointing to specific examples within the text so I can cut out the chaff and instead write more of the same good stuff you like. But until we get to reviews… enjoy!
Disclaimer: The Half-Life universe belongs to Valve.
Chapter 1: Preparing for His Arrival
Breathe in. Now out.
Gordon heard rustling in the rubble behind him as stones clanked together and shifted within their piles. He spun towards the debris, pulse rifle already shouldered. Silence.
In. Now—
SKREE!
A headcrab leapt for his face from within the wreckage. Gordon ducked. Its hind legs scratched his scalp and drew blood as it flew over his head and skidded onto broken concrete. They both whirled to face each other.
A duel, it seemed. Man vs. parasite.
Gordon unslung his crowbar from his back and dropped his rifle. It clattered at his feet, alien metal skittering across earthly rock. The headcrab tapped its claws and chittered expectantly, front legs already raised and impatient for a head to latch onto.
In. Out.
Gordon held the crowbar ready. Elbows out, chin down, knees bent…
SKREE—Thwack!
SSSKKRREEEeeeee…..
And that, ladies and gents, was how you scored a home run.
Gordon shielded his eyes from the setting sun to watch the parasite fly over the ruins of a brick wall and land on the other side with a satisfying thump. The right corner of his mouth turned upwards, and he shook his head as he re-sheathed his crowbar. He ran a hand through auburn hair, appreciating as always the value of personal head space. He'd seen enough slobbering, screaming data to suggest the alternative didn't fit his idea of a healthy lifestyle.
Gordon sighed. Break's over. He flipped a stone with his boot and picked his rifle up.
He trudged onward through the bomb-fueled haze of the City's streets to the Citadel—a journey that flashed urgent after an ambush knocked Alyx out on a rooftop and hefted her body up and away.
Her abduction changed something in Gordon, swung another needle in his exhausted mind to "High Alert." Ever since, he'd felt himself gravitate towards that far-off, baby-blue gleam of a Combine sword stretched vertical to the sky—its ugly edges spitting scanners, soldiers, insults at him and his world.
He hated it. Hated the way it stood, dead center, and said, "Look all around you. I did this. This is my work. Fear me." He loathed how it pricked his eyes and played with his heart, its rhythm slowing to a weak th-thump when he thought of his friends up there.
His mind, his muscles, each puff of breath… He spent all his energy hypnotized, reaching close, closer—nearly close enough to smell the Combine bluebloods and knock their heads together. Nearly close enough to phone in for an appointment, smile at Breen, and ask, "Remember me?"
Man vs. Citadel—that's how it'd go down. Hunter and hunted squaring off, confusing roles. The Combine enjoyed pain? Now, there's no need for jealousy. Gordon loved to share. Call him a Good Samaritan—he'd share all the fear, the horror, that only an employee could bestow.
To that thought, a cruel diplomat outside reality straightened his tie and smiled. But back on Earth, one free man closed himself up, switched himself off. He tossed his brain into a cardboard box and shoved it to the corner of a dim closet. Fished out a shotgun instead.
He had no need to think. No need to feel.
So Gordon thought of little else; yet, he seemed to notice more. He passed barrel fires, met wounded rebels burning trash for warmth behind damp mattresses as they struggled to survive another day. Was always a gruesome sight when they couldn't.
He blew air out the side of his mouth and skirted rubble blown off an apartment building two blocks over. He stepped on broken glass—shards of shattered beer bottles. He imagined bands of rebels toasting cheers, bottles clinking, long-gone laughter in ruined hideouts…
He reached a low-lying brick wall where light streamed from around the corner. Another barrel fire. He drew in a preparatory breath and moved forward, crunching gravel underfoot. Time to check for survivors—
Wait.
Gordon stopped. Behind the corner, he heard actual laughter. Soft conversations.
That couldn't be right. Was this a figment of his imagination, another sign of that pesky, desperate need for human contact?
He heard a guffaw, then shushing.
No, this was real. Yes, please, he needed this. Anything. Anything that wasn't the Combine.
With an eye-twinkle the world rarely saw and a push of his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Gordon lifted a leg to step around the corner and join the group.
"So, how about that 'Dr. Freeman' guy?" a voice near the fire asked. "Any thoughts?"
Gordon froze, foot mid-air. He held his breath.
Silence.
"Come on, I can't be the only one with an opinion about him!"
A Vortigaunt voice rasped, "The Free Man's return is nigh. We should prepare for his imminent arrival, or else the Free Man—"
"Oh, put a sock in it, Jonathan. No one's seen Freeman for a week, and he hasn't exactly helped us since Nova Prospekt. Plus, who asked for his help in the first place anyways, am I right?"
A grumble or two of assent.
"I mean, how can so many people fall for this 'Opener of the Way' crap? We started the Uprising ourselves! This Freeman business is ridiculous."
Gordon set his foot down.
A rebel who hates me. How refreshing.
"Why, you ask? Well, here's why, if you happen to be blind."
Gordon leaned against the wall.
This should be good.
The voice behind the wall coughed and cleared its throat.
"One! We store up our supplies every moment the Combine isn't looking, knowing we're dead if we're caught. A shot to the head—BANG, we're done. Suddenly Freeman's here, and we give him everything. Supply boxes and ammo we've lost blood relatives for so we could smuggle them through. And to think, we're not even allowed to use them ourselves, because God forbid there be an emergency where we might actually NEED them. Not false alarms like, you know, Ravenholm."
Gordon sucked air through his teeth.
Didn't expect that.
"Two! We've scouted out the canals and built an underground railroad that's held strong since the Combine took over. But how many people have we sent to their deaths to control its checkpoints? The Combine dumps Manhacks into the canals to slaughter us every time we communicate between stations; and yet, we still man those checkpoints just in case a few people, probably already riddled with bullets, stumble their way a good 15 miles through toxic sludge, Combine patrol posts, and tunnels of barnacle tongues in the hopes they reach Black Mesa East!"
The voice sighed.
"Well fine, we've done that for the past 20 years! But now? We need to sweep the floors and dust the knick-knacks because Dr. Freeman's coming through the Railroad with the Combine army on his ass as entourage! And don't worry if Freeman and the Combine tear up the Railroad through their nationally televised bullet-and-bomb-o-rama! Our guys were meant to die in the process anyways, right? Isn't that why we put them there? Anyways that doesn't matter, we'll just get more rebels to fight because the human population is currently growing at an exponential rate…Oh wait."
Gordon slid down the wall with a frown, head leaning back, until he hit the ground.
That's not MY fault! If you want to take my job as the Combine's chew toy, no one's stopping you.
"But wait, there's more!" the voice continued. "Three! We take care of the few working vehicles that only the entire Resistance has found during Combine rule… They're always fueled up and ready to go in case one of the higher-up's needs them for emergencies or some critical mission. But after all the love we've put into making them work—salvaging spare junk we send entire scouting parties out to get shot and headcrabbed for—can you guess where these vehicles all go? Wanna wager a bet who takes them? Any hands? You know, the boat, the car? No?"
A timid voice offered, "Freeman took them?"
"Yes! Freeman took them!"
Gordon sighed.
"He took them! And he banged them up and threw them back to us like yesterday's leftovers. And then the Combine on his tail took both vehicles for good! Hauled 'em off to their fine Citadel so all those prettied-up Elite sellouts could drive around the countryside instead!"
"Okay Conrad," a low voice broke in. "Looks like you've downed more than enough cans of Breen's Private Reserve. Let's stop here with the rants."
"Shut it, Blake! I'm just getting started! Four!..."
"Conrad," Blake growled, "we all have to get some rest in before dawn, and you're cutting into our—"
"Think of this," Conrad ignored him. "Vance's daughter has been pretty vocal concerning the 'Coming' of the great Dr. Freeman."
Gordon's head whipped up.
"Remember when she radioed in at every station with, 'Dr. Freeman is coming! I repeat, Dr. Freeman is coming! Prepare the boat, the car, your houses! Give him all your med kits! Forget your poor, huddled masses, your wounded and your zombified… Dr. Freeman will save us all! So fire up the altar and arrange the burnt offering because he is the freedom we deserve, and the freedom you will get!'"
Conrad spat. "Well you don't have to repeat yourself, Ms. Vance. We heard that your beloved Freeman was coming the first time you preached it to us."
Gordon froze again, mind logically processing this new turn. But even his logical mind couldn't stop heat from migrating up his face and steadily turning his vision red.
No one talks about my friend's daughter like that.
Conrad continued, oblivious to the mounting danger behind the corner. "It doesn't take a genius to realize that there's got to be a personal reason as to why Vance's daughter threw away all our hard-earned equipment to a 'Resistance leader' we've never heard of! Some guy they've found on the street, cleaned up a bit, and now get to tout as our new savior! The same one, they say, who not only lived through Black Mesa, but freaking caused it! Like, the hell?" Conrad threw his hands up in exasperation.
Gordon's pulse quickened, his indignation threatening to become anger. But he steadied himself, breathing deeply, slowly, and adjusting his glasses.
Conrad perked up again. "Now why would we put the same man who invited the Combine over to Earth to kick our asses—all because he wanted to find a pretty space crystal for his big-boy research project, according to close sources…"
"You mean Breen?" Blake interjected.
"Why would we," Conrad ignored him, "put Mr. Screw-up here in charge of fending them off? Hmm?"
Gordon narrowed his eyes.
"Isn't it obvious," Conrad's voice cracked, "that the Resistance leaders are feeding us absolute fiction, hoping we'll warm up to their 'Chosen One?' Telling us stories maybe because they want to improve their expendable rebels' morale? That way when we die, we die knowing that the 'One Free Man'—who now has all our stuff, mind you—is rooting for us in a safehouse somewhere while Striders stack refugee kebobs on their legs and slow-cook them in the flames of their former homes!" He slapped his rifle, and the cartridge fell out. "Who do the higher-up's think they're fooling with this 'Chosen Coward' BS? Heh, not me!"
Gordon, now thoroughly red, covered his eyes with his hands and tried to focus, focus on something else—the mission, his friends, himself.
But he couldn't.
"And to think—somehow, this cad's got Alyx Vance wrapped around his little finger, and he's managed to convince HER to give up OUR stuff to help HIM do whatever HE wants! Like maybe cozy up to the Resistance before double-crossing them for the Combine!"
Me? Double-cro…. Yeah, Mossman didn't do jack shit!
Of all the things he'd heard... This. This. Gordon grabbed a chunk of concrete with both hands and squeezed, knuckles white underneath his gloves.
"I mean, what does he care?" Conrad said. "He's already got the girl! Now all he's got left to do is distract us with the fairy tale that he, singular, will save humanity from the Combine!" Conrad gesticulated. "Don't you all see what I'm saying? This whole 'Opening of the Way' crap that's cropped up around this Freeman figure lately is just a distraction! Don't you see that nothing's changed? There's been no progress! This Revolution they're all screeching about….Ding! It's not actually real!"
Not real? Not….
So that ambush on Black Mesa East? Not real?
Eli and Alyx kidnapped, Barney leading charges on the front lines. Not real?
That dead Vort siphoned dry in a dental chair, Eli and the rebels suffocating in Stalker capsules, the blood-soaked cement in Nova Prospekt. Not real?
Then what the hell are YOU fighting for?
A low snap came from the weak chunk of rubble between Gordon's hands. Two newly-formed halves crumbled away as Gordon, irritated, shook fine dust off his gloves. He fumbled for another soft, powdery brick to keep his hands occupied from doing other things.
Like wringing this rebel's neck.
"Not to mention Eli Vance has been trying to hook his little girl up since only forever. But don't go thinking that he'll let any old, flea-bitten rebel woo his daughter! Oh, no way! The man for Alyx Vance has to get through Eli first so that he's the perfect son-in-law to father his grandchildren! I mean, it's imperative to get the right kind of little Eli's running around his feet!"
No one replied. Conrad paused and yawned, stretching.
Gordon grit his teeth, trying to keep his breathing steady, keep himself calm, just get through this, you can get through this...
Then.
"In a sense, I guess Dr. Freeman really is the chosen one. He's just been chosen for a different task than the one we'd been thinking of."
Gordon unclenched his jaw. Straightened up. Professionally brushed the rubble off his lap and rose to his feet.
"Actually, come to think of it, that's probably why he's so eager to destroy the Citadel…"
Jonathan, the Vortigaunt who spoke earlier, wisely interrupted Conrad. "This one wishes to remind you of the Free Man's coming, and asks how you will prepare—"
"Look, E.T.!" Conrad bellowed. "We've had enough of your Freeman nonsense for the past half-hour! We're sick and tired of hearing these, these… fabrications, that you're always spewing at us!" Jonathan said nothing and stared right back.
Gordon reached behind him for his crowbar… but on second thought, knelt down on one armored knee, picked up a broken cinder block, and tested its weight. He smiled.
"Conrad, enough," Blake growled, uneasily noting Jonathan's sudden silence.
"Lies, the whole lot of them!" Conrad snapped. He shook a finger at Jonathan. "Freeman's probably dead, if he's even real!"
Gordon stood up to his full 5'10 and stepped around the corner, now in wide view of the rebel party. Conrad sat with his back to him, still gesticulating at Jonathan. The rest of the group looked up wide-eyed at the sight of a bloodied Freeman.
"No one is coming! Why can't you all understand that? Dimwits!"
Gordon walked towards an unsuspecting Conrad, footsteps leaving imprints in chewed-up rock. He brandished the rubble fragment with a half-smile, and one rebel covered her mouth.
"They've left us all here to die!" Conrad gestured hysterically. "So get it through your thick skulls already that we! Are! Screwed!"
"No, not we," Blake replied softly, unbelieving, as Gordon raised his cinder block above Conrad's head. He looked straight at Conrad.
"Just you."
Gordon whammed the block against Conrad's head from above and Conrad crumpled to the floor, legs limp as his head trailed blood into the gravel.
Silence.
Gordon nudged Conrad's body with his foot and gazed down at it, contemplating his next move.
One more hit would finish the job, he idly thought.
The rebels watched Gordon stand there and they waited—stunned, breathless—as predator towered over prey. Even now he seemed cautious, calculating… But still more than ready to rip Conrad apart.
And he seemed like he'd really enjoy doing it.
Did Conrad do this to him? Did that poor fool really deserve this?
Maybe not.
But he happened to be in the way. Kept on saying the wrong things and pouring salt into raw wounds. Conrad probably didn't deserve more than a concussion, but he made the mistake of offending the right man in the wrong place.
The rebels noticed Gordon adjust his grip on the cinder block, and they forgot about the Combine for the first time since the Black Mesa Incident. They forgot about Stalkers, Striders, synths. Themselves.
Breen and his benefactors could rot for all they cared. What they feared was Gordon.
Breathing heavily in a world tinted red, Gordon stepped on Conrad's leg and raised his cinder block…
But then a small thought hit him. A thought that said,
this is not me.
He hesitated—eyes glazed in heavy concentration, fingers still gripping rock—and the thought whispered again,
th-this isn't me.
"Enough, Free Man." Jonathan grabbed Gordon's shoulder and pulled him back. Gordon stared at him strangely, not quite seeing the Vortigaunt friend. Jonathan shook him.
"The Conrad has learned his lesson from the Free Man. However, the Free Man is now weary and needs his rest. Observe, even the Conrad rests," Jonathan gestured at Conrad's body. "Come, join us, and I will take the first watch."
Gordon blinked. He refocused on Jonathan and slowed his breathing. He remembered where he was standing and how he'd just attacked a rebel camp with a single brick because it fell out of his grasp and he stepped off Conrad's leg.
His head swam.
Gordon placed both feet on the gravel to ground himself but stumbled.
Was he dreaming?
His steps were too surreal, too fluid, smooth. He felt lightheaded and the world spun, the cracked walls behind the Vortigaunt looking a hell of a lot like Black Mesa's, the injured man on the ground a Red Beret, the rebels themselves those guilty scientist bastards who ruined the world, ruined the world…
Gordon's knees buckled and he fell.
Jonathan caught Gordon as Blake jumped to his feet. "Get Dr. Freeman some water!" he barked at the group. "Tina, lay him a blanket, or find a mattress!" The rebel who covered her mouth earlier scampered behind Blake and pulled Conrad's body a few feet away to reveal a thick blanket underneath him.
Jonathan helped Gordon onto the blanket as Tina offered him a canteen. Gordon grabbed at empty air before Tina placed the container in his hand and closed his fingers around it. He looked down at it dizzily, fumbled with the metal cap, sloshed the water within, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth and handed the canteen back to Tina as she floated throughout his vision. "Thanks."
Tina took the canteen, deathly silent as she had been when Gordon stood above Conrad, brick in hand. Her memory still stung of the armed stranger who threatened justice, demanded blood, just moments ago.
So this is our "Chosen Coward," she thought.
Huh.
Gordon noticed Tina watch his reclining form, hawk-like, even as she stepped away. All eyes on me as usual, he shrugged to himself weakly and tried to push the anxiety away.
He lay down fully on his back—sharp rock between shoulder blades, blanket bunched up under his back—as the world around him kept spinning, spinning. He gripped the gravel, closed his eyes, and willed the whispers around him to go away. They soon died down on their own as the rebels settled in for the night.
But Gordon still gripped the gravel tightly the hour after, eyes still closed as the world spun too fast, way too fast, for him to keep up.