Career Change

You load sixteen tons and what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt,
Saint Peter, don't you call me, 'cause I can't go,
I owe my soul to the company store.

The spike heels - they had to be five inches, at least, Alyx grumbled to herself - made her back hurt worse than anything had since she'd been stabbed by the Hunter. She hadn't quite gotten the hang of walking in the things yet, and tottered periodically as she cruised back and forth along her circuit, nearly pitching into the traffic once or twice. But there was no point complaining. She'd tried it once and only once, with the secretary who had helped her get kitted out for this new assignment, and had received in turn only a blank stare and a curt query, "Do you want me to tell you about my second job?" She'd passed on the offer. From the tone of the woman's voice, she could guess all she needed to know.

She'd heard it had something to do with whips...

Turning, Alyx caught sight of herself reflected in a store window and did a quick inventory review. Blond wig, check. Tight black skirt ending a couple of inches above the knee, the heels making her butt stick out, check. Black leather jacket cut fuller in the front than it needed to be, check - "Give the client's imagination somewhere to wander in, dearie, because you don't have a hell of a lot there in reality," as the secretary had said. Too much makeup, badly applied... she hadn't gotten the hang of the horrible glop yet. "Were you born in a barn?" her coach had exclaimed in disgust, to which she had simply replied, "Yes." End of message. Alyx was confident she would acquire a touch for it sooner or later. Right now, though, her lips looked as if the Spy had tried to cut her throat six inches too high.

Not that the clients were picky. "They won't be looking at your face that much," the secretary had said. She'd been right.

Alyx glanced at the sky. It promised rain. Like all bad things promised, it would probably arrive ahead of schedule. Damn. How had she ended up here, in the "personal services" business, strolling along the street trying to appear innocent to the cops but luscious to her potential customers, unable to decide which she missed more, her gun or her underwear?

Ah, yes. Company policy. Efficiency. Cash flow. A new direction. Can't have any passengers on this ride. Economics. The invisible hand of the market. Which was headed straight up her skirt, it seemed.

That's what Mr. G, the modern-world G-man, had told her, anyway. He wasn't anything like the real G-man, the one she knew from the good old days, now a sad relic who sold newspapers, candies, and contraceptives from a tiny kiosk a couple of streets down, sixteen hours a day, forbidden to vanish, not even allowed to walk through the occasional wall - "It would cut a good ten minutes off trips to the bathroom," he complained. Sometimes she strolled down there during lunch hour and they would talk of the past. It depressed the hell out of both of them, but that was reality for you. No use denying it.

"The wrong man in the wrong place, Ms. Vance, made all the difference in the world. In our world, anyway." The G-man had been especially glum the last time they had talked. "The writers were simply not up to doing justice to the characters they had created. They failed us. I honestly have no idea whether we would have been enemies or friends by the end of the tale... but anything would have been better than this." He'd gestured at the crowds, loose women and lustful men, the trash on the road, the dirty brick walls and broken windows of a decidedly lower-end part of town. "They had no idea of what to do with us next and so... we earn our bread however we can, I suppose. Episode Three is on indefinite hold. That's what Mr. G says, anyway."

Mr. G, the real G-man, Galaxy News as someone had once nicknamed him in a coy allusion to another story with an unhappy ending. Oh yes. It had been him who had given her this new job as well, in a brief interview before handing her over to his secretary for her makeover and beginner's guide to making out.

"Well, Alyx, it's been a great trip, but we've had to make some fundamental changes around here. Money's pretty tight," Mr G. had said. He hadn't invited her to sit down. "We're going to have to give you another assignment for the time being. Not hard labor, by any means," he had said, and flashed his most winning smile. "Just something where you can use your natural assets to support yourself and help our bottom line."

Bottom line, indeed. Which meant her bottom and their line. And since she had developed no other talents useful in this world, she would have to go with what she had been born with.

It could have been worse, she supposed. Look at what had happened to Gordon. They'd taken one look at his HEV suit and shipped him off to the Sanitation Department to do sewer repairs. Neck deep in shit fourteen hours a day. They scarcely ever got together any more. Barney was chained to a customs booth over in a miserable corner of the docks, and Dr. Kleiner was sharing shifts with Team Fortress' Medic at an abortion clinic a mile or two away: "A useful contact, if you happen to, er, miscalculate or something," Mr. G had said. Judith had been shunted into the same line of work as she had, for a slightly more upscale market. Alyx had caught sight of her a few times, over on the other side of town, driving here and there in a company car for a "maid service" called MILF Patrol. Ugh. Even at a distance, she'd looked ridiculous in her French-frills uniform, and very top-heavy. Some people didn't need any reinforcements sent to their front lines. But when your only academic expertise was in the made-up physics of a made-up world, what could a girl do other than leverage her cup size?

You went with whatever you had that gave you an advantage over others. Scout had been drafted as a bicycle courier for Parkour Packages and Post, the same company that had hired Chell, and Soldier was digging drainage ditches and potatoes out in the suburbs. Sometimes Gordon crossed paths with him. The Heavy had been press-ganged into regaling sulky kids in a department store, dressed as a clown, or Santa Claus in season. Alyx had been through there once and chatted with him, and his lament still echoed in her ears, "So many little people! They send children to torment us! Where is my darling? Where is Natasha?" He had then put his head on her shoulder and started crying, which had embarrassed her. Spy had become a store detective in the same place, collaring shoplifters, but Heavy had told her that he was angling for a promotion to French teacher in a private girls' school. Two people ahead of him on the hiring list had already turned up with knives mysteriously planted in their backs. Sniper had snagged a shoot-the-bottle concession at an amusement park in the suburbs - his parents were delighted that he'd found "respectable employment" and were now bugging him to get married and "start a family, already." GLaDOS was running the help desk at a computer store, enjoying herself, as always, the bitch. And Pyro was working the kitchen at a barbecue joint. Wage slave whores, all of them. Just like her.

Alyx squinted down the street, looking for cops. She preferred to avoid them rather than being forced to buy them off in trade goods. Mr. G's secretary had been curt and explicit in how she was to accomplish that without bothering the home office. Alyx had asked, "But what if the cop is a woman?" and the secretary had replied, "Use your imagination and thank your lucky stars. No chance of pregnancy anyway." She'd gone into her first same-sex encounter with a fading glimmer of hope, but in the end found it didn't suit her tastes. In fact, nothing did, these days. Nothing at all.

The traffic slid past in a steady stream. A few vehicles slowed down and Alyx felt the hot eyes of horny strangers rolling over her curves. She shuddered a bit. Still hadn't gotten used to it. But at least there seemed to be some business in the air. She turned and strolled down one of the side streets, where it would be more possible for a customer to pull over and speak to her. Focus, Alyx, she thought grimly. That rent doesn't pay itself. And even if it did, you owe your soul to the company store.

After a few moments, a rather battered black car hesitated when passing her, and then came around again. Alyx stepped into the mouth of an alley and took a deep breath, hoping that this time, the john would at least be willing to spring for a hotel room, rather than insisting on being serviced pulled over in a dark corner of a parking garage.

The black car came around again. It slowed to a halt beside her, and the passenger-side front door opened. Alyx hesitated. She preferred to speak to the john through the driver's side window first, so that she could get an idea of what she was getting herself into. But did it really matter? As if she was experienced enough to be able to spot a nut right off...

She closed her eyes, suppressed a shudder, and swung herself into the passenger-side front seat, pulling the door shut behind her. The car began to move again. It had begun to rain, Alyx noticed, big fat drops plashing down on the windshield. Then she turned to get a look at her lunch money for the day.

And froze. Oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck... a thin shriek inside her going down and down, like someone falling into a very deep well.

Silence except for the sound of the car: the engine, the rattling impact of raindrops, the hiss of the tires on the wet road, and the rhythmic fapfapfap of the windshield wipers.

Finally Alyx spoke.

"I thought you were dead."

She had to force the words out, like frozen toothpaste, or glue from a tube left too long in the sun. It didn't sound like her voice at all.

Dr. Breen smiled - the same thin, sad smile that the G-man of old now wore - and replied, "I was. How have things been going, Alyx?"

"How do you think?" she replied, ice-cold tones from far away. No way, she thought inside, slowly warming up with a rising anger. No fucking way, Galaxy News. Is this what it's all about? Ritual humiliation? Shitting on us because you don't know what to do next?

"You seen a bit stressed," Dr. Breen remarked. "Let me put your mind at ease, my dear. I didn't pick you up to fuck you."

Suddenly Alyx began to giggle. She couldn't control it. She tried desperately to stop, but it burst out once more. Dr. Breen gave her an inquiring look.

"You..." Alyx choked again. "You said fuck... Dr. Breen said... oh God..."

"You can call me Wallace," Dr. Breen said, and pulled into the parking lot of a diner. "That's all the intimacy I'll ask of you. Now, can I buy you a coffee?"

He ended up buying her four and giving her a hundred bucks into the bargain. "I may not be using your professional services, but it's still working hours," he said. "It's probably more pleasant to hear an old man ramble on than to..." He waved his hand at nothing in particular, and continued, "...but you still have a living to make."

It was strange, Alyx thought, as they went over the past together. They'd always assumed that Breen was at the center of every web. But he seemed to have known as little as they had.

"To tell you the truth, Alyx," he said with a sigh and a shake of the head, "I don't think there was anything more to know. The last part of our story seems really to have been the last they'd thought through. I'm not even sure what I was doing at the end. I did have to give Gordon that scolding, but I don't know how it was supposed to have come out for him. For all I knew, he was going to dream it."

"You mean when you asked him what he had created instead of destroyed?" Alyx nodded. "Gordon always thought it was a pointer to the way the plot would go forward. Something about accepting his own guilt for something, though he didn't really know what."

"Well, if it's any consolation, neither did I." Breen rolled his eyes. "I didn't even find out whether I was supposed to get killed in the end or not. You would have thought, with that explosion at the top of the Citadel... but who knows?"

He sat silently for a moment, staring into his coffee cup as if it were a well he was contemplating flinging himself into to end it all. "And now we're surplus," he finally said, flatly. "Busy for the sake of busyness."

"One thing that does puzzle me," Alyx said, "is why the others are here. The ones from Team Fortress 2. Our story ended, or at least it came to a halt, but what about Heavy and Sniper and the rest? They're still at it out there, aren't they?"

"Replaced with robotic substitutes made in China," Breen replied. "Or at least that's what I heard. Cheaper that way. They don't have a story, at least not the sort of story we did, and their public characters are established well enough to go on with. All the company needs are placeholders now to market bling from the Mann store. The real ones, the originals? They can take a pay cut, get laid off, go dig ditches or something. Earn their livings. Just like us." He laughed mirthlessly. "Did you think they were going to get credit for what they made possible? Not likely. Once the money machine was up and running, out the door they went."

"Just what our old G-man would say if he were here," Alex sighed. "We're replacement cogs for a broken machine."

Silent, they watched the rain fall outside, splashing on the pavement and pouring off the edge of the window canopy. Back where all my conversations seem to end, thought Alyx. There's nothing further to say and nothing new to suggest. Just keep on keeping on, I suppose. Another day older and deeper in debt.

Finally, Breen glanced at his watch and called for the bill. "I can't think of more charming company to be depressed in," he said, "but duty calls. I've got some business to attend to in less than an hour, and I'd better not be late."

Alyx nodded silently, still lost in her own thoughts, still silent as he paid the bill and they walked out together to his car in the pouring rain. The sky was already darkening, and the wind had picked up. It was going to be a filthy night.

Breen started up the car and turned to Alyx. "Where do you want to be dropped off? Where I found you?"

Alyx shuddered and shook her head. "Game's called on account of rain, I think," she replied. "Anyone desperate enough to be out looking for bodily comfort in weather like this isn't the sort of customer I'd want to have anyway. Just drop me off home before I break a leg on this wet pavement with these heels."

She gave him her address and Breen steered silently toward it. They rode without speaking, with only the wind and rain and hiss of tires against the wet pavement as accompaniment. They were both lost in their own thoughts, both depressingly certain that they were thinking about exactly the same things, and how helpless they were to do anything about any of them.

By the time they drew up in front of Alyx's apartment building, a run-down three-story walk-up on a grimy street littered with garbage, it was already dark. Alyx slipped out of her seat belt and turned to thank Breen, reflecting that his attitude had been the only pleasant surprise she had had in a very long time. Something was nagging at her though, a matter of detail, and when they shook hands in parting she finally remembered it.

"What is it that you do then, Wallace? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I am kind of curious." What use had Galaxy News found for the suave Mephistopheles of their abortive epic?

"Oh, I've become a promoter of sorts. Product recommendations, that sort of thing," Breen answered, a bit vaguely. "You haven't seen me on the television, then?"

"I can't afford a television, and if I could, I wouldn't be able to afford cable."

"Oh, well... it isn't important. We all have our own expedients for keeping body and soul together." He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a small package, pressing it into her hand. "There, you might find some use for this. I feel a little ridiculous touting it but...the bills have to be paid, as you know so well." He gave her one last sad smile. "You put it very neatly, our souls and the company store. But duty calls and I must be off..."

He ostentatiously glanced at his watch. Alyx took the hint, and after one last exchange of smiles, dove out through the downpour to the front door of her building to watch the red tail-lights of his car disappear into the night.

It wasn't until Alyx was back in her own tiny apartment, relaxing on her broken excuse for a couch, that she remembered Breen's last gift. Fishing it out of her pocket, she examined it under the light. Then she began to laugh, helplessly, so loud that her neighbor banged on the wall for her to stop. She couldn't, not for the world, not for a very long time.

No wonder he can say fuck now, she thought. No wonder. Company whores, never allowed to forget it, not for an instant. God. You'd think if they were that inventive, they could find us better jobs. But no, no. All the inventiveness goes into shit like this.

Alyx began to laugh again, lying back on her couch. She laughed until she could hardly see or breathe, until her neighbor began to bang the wall again, until the small box in her hand slipped to the floor and bounced into the gloom under the couch, where Breen's cultivated face looking out comfortingly from the packaging was almost as hard to see as the Viagra printed in small, neat letters below it.