Chapter 7: Dystopia Central
"So is he the only guy on the vidscreen around here?"
"Yes."
"Whoa. The Propaganda Channel, 30/10." Quarir considered this. "A bit like the Council Media News, come to think of it."
"30/10?"
"You know, hours and days? Wait. You've got a 24 hour day here. I screwed that one up."
Smiling slightly, Nuri circumvented the fence, which, strangely enough, didn't run the platform's entire perimeter. The compound beyond overlooked the steady trickle of downtrodden citizens making their way through the expansive station; the place was littered with all sorts of refuse, and a hunched figure was attempting to sweep the floor clean…
"Vortigaunt. Those guys are friends too you people now, right?"
"Yes," Nuri confirmed, "but I think that one is shackled."
"Oh, the mind control things? Or mind reading. Whatever. Either way they get hurt if they do the wrong thing, right?"
"If by the wrong thing you mean whatever the Combine doesn't want them to do, then yes."
"Right."
The craggy-skinned alien was working steadily, although it hardly approached its tedious task with enthusiasm. A Metrocop, as coolly vigilant as ever, oversaw the otherworldly cleaner.
Fortunately, after they'd skulked in the shadows for just enough time to make them consider retracing their steps, the CP withdrew into a doorway and slowly made his way down a dark corridor.
"Right, let's go."
"Will you stop saying 'right'?" she snapped at him, "It's getting quite tiresome."
Nuri's stealthy walk had been perfected from years of persecution and flight, while Quarir's own abilities had come from the golden days when he'd stolen physical property rather than conning his way into the bureaucratic hearts of corporations. An observer would've been hard pressed to spot either—
"We see you, Nuri Dekker," intoned a throaty voice. "Come before the oppressor returns from their patrol. Inform your follower to stop shuffling through my paper. The pile took much work to complete."
Quarir guiltily stepped out of the fair-sized heap he'd just disturbed. Nuri, ever cautious, checked the area beyond the enclosure before stepping out.
"You need not fear detection. None have noticed you. Few ever look at this place. That is why my task is such an exercise in meaningless. An affront to my purpose."
Nuri eyed the bonded gate and the equally obstructive fence that bordered it. The Vort was friendly, as they always were, but if it was plugged into the Overwatch's sensory array, it would mean that the Combine could quickly be informed of their location.
"Do those things hurt?" Nalore asked the creature, innocently indicating the alien's green, luminescent shackles and neck brace.
"We are used to such devices. Note that mine are not functional, Quarir Nalore." It touched a strange device around what Nalore could only describe as its waist: it looked like a circuitry-wrapped chastity belt. "I am an emissary of Eli Vance. The oppressor mistakes me for one of my enchained brethren."
"How the hell do you know my name? I thought you guys were only telepathic amongst yourselves!"
"Yes. We remember you from Colony 351. It was an interesting incident."
"But 351 is in a different—" Quarir stopped. "Hey there aren't any Xenians on 351, we would've noticed!"
"You are gravely mistaken."
"That's all very fascinating." Nuri lied, disquieted by the discussion of topics she had no knowledge of, "But did you just mention Eli?"
"Secrete yourselves, they return."
The two human's scattered. The Vortigaunt was patiently tending the pile that Nalore had ruined when the CP arrived. The officer took very little interest in anything other than his charge, but lingered for many long moments before moving on.
"I'm getting sick of this," Nalore muttered, picking a snippet of wastepaper out of his ear.
"Endurance is the path to serenity. As our greatest philosopher once said, 'ch'lar grak dur vik-chuirl darlungh'."
"You sounded like a Desz. Well, a bit. They sound like phlegmy cement mixers."
"Moving on," Nuri interrupted as loudly as she dared, "you mentioned Eli Vance. How is he… I mean, how are they… how is everything going?"
"Since the fall of Ravenholm we have toned down our expeditions. Such acts attract too much attention and endanger us all."
"I heard about Ravenholm," Nuri said sadly. "But we all knew it would happen someday."
"Except for the hundreds that were claimed. They had no inkling that their final reckoning had come."
"I hate it," Nuri glowered angrily, "when you are so… so calm about things like this!"
The Vortigaunt raised one of its three arms, and they sought cover for what felt like the longest period yet.
Eventually the CP left again, and Quarir dislodged a surprisingly large ball of crumpled packaging from his left nostril. "This is getting beyond a joke," he spat, tumbling out of the long-discarded produce.
"Yes," the Vortigaunt agreed solemnly, "I have waited here long enough, and an alien certainly warrants my return. My report shall be given, and you shall be aided. Remain here."
Quarir slowly realised that he was the alien the 'Gaunt was referring to. It was a disturbing thought, but then again, considering how much the Domarians had employed their technologies to best perfect their bodies, they were something other than human…
The Vortigaunt possessed an odd gait, but their loping stride covered ground efficiently. The janitor was within the corridor within moments, broom and all.
Solid, less organic footsteps followed, and after a few seconds there was a splintering sound, a barely audible gasp of surprise, and a thud.
"I have improvised, as the resistance teaches," the Vort announced. "The oppressor is dispatched. Follow me for the betterment of all our species. But note that you still have a ration wrapper in your hair."
"You must have damn good night vision," Quarir said, a hint of admiration in his voice.
"We do see things differently," the Vortigaunt replied. "That much is accurate."
"I always wondered about getting my eyes augmented, but you wouldn't believe how much optics cost these days."
"We cannot claim to understand or desire bionics."
"Yeah, they're not to everyone's taste," Nalore shrugged. "I mean, back in Ucelsia some people see them as fashionable, but a lot of people still think they're weird."
"We are trying to sneak through a disused access tunnel," Nuri said with great restraint. "It's practically pitch black. And you are discussing the finer points of disgusting plug-ins that I've never heard of."
"Better than just stumbling around and sneezing from the dust," snapped Quarir, who, in a few poetic seconds, sneezed and walked into a small boiler.
"This deep within the labyrinth, you need fear no Combine presence," the 'Gaunt began, apparently ignorant of Quarir's bruised pride and Nuri's stifled hysterics, "these tunnels are no longer useful to their twisted cause. They are a place of refuge."
Nuri yelped and tripped over a corroded pipe that was inexplicably running across the floor. Quarir helped her back up, and although it was too dark for her to be certain she would've bet a week's rations that he was wearing a suitably smug expression.
"Chuy-gug glo'wroina," the Vort exclaimed in a voice like damp gravel. "There is no need for this to continue. By the journey's end you would both be worn to dust by your collisions. Secrecy is no longer our aspiration…"
With those words, the Vortigaunt brought light into being. It wasn't much, merely painting the edges of their surroundings in neon green, but it at least meant they wouldn't blunder into the clearly defined obstacles.
"That's pretty impressive," Quarir said approvingly. The source of the illumination appeared to be an emerald flame in the alien's palm, but on closer inspection the glow was down to a tiny, flickering bolt of electricity, constantly wavering between two of the Vort's fingertips.
The 'Gaunt said nothing, just nodding and moving on.
For a moment Quarir did too, but then he stopped, and just gaped at the scene before him.
"There are a hell of a lot of dead people here," he breathed. Nuri actually retched slightly.
The corpses were old and desiccated, mostly rag-clad skeletons littered between the dilapidated machinery. And yet none of the faded clothes resembled standard citizenry attire, Nuri realised, wondering just how old the bodies were…
"These passages were scene to a massacre," the 'Gaunt began, acting as historian and tour guide. "The workers once stationed here refused to bow to the Combine. They instead remained and lived off supplies. But the Combine struck back at their defiance, and made them an example to us all."
"They didn't even move the bodies?" Nuri grimaced in disgust. "That's just—"
"Inhuman? Last I checked the Combine scumbags weren't human," Quarir ranted.
"Nor are we, but we value life and mourn every tie that is severed. Respect is not exclusive to your species."
The two humans had the decency to look embarrassed, but brightened up considerably when the tunnel did likewise. A steep ramp led up and out, and— as contrived as it sounded coming from a man who'd spent most of his adult life inside a floating metal box— Quarir was glad to see sunlight again.
"Yes. We often find your world intriguing. An interesting but melancholy change of climes."
"Xen didn't have sunrises or sunsets like that?" Nuri asked skeptically, indicating the magnificent skyline. It was ruined only by the ever-present Citadel on the horizon.
"No. But somehow your world still instills a sense of purpose. Of safety—"
"Which is a false sense, I assure you."
Two bullets split the air and hammered into the Vortigaunt's craggy hide, spilling yellowish blood upon the soil.
"Surely you didn't think a few primitive combustibles would stop me?"
And there, before them, holding Nuri's long-lost .357 in an extravagant gauntlet… was the Zealot.
Okay, Nalore thought calmly, even as their Vortigaunt ally twitched spasmodically, think rationally. This freak is probably a thousand years old, and he's probably assassinated hundreds of people, easily. So fighting is out of the question. You'll just have to think your way out.
"Oh shit," he said aloud.
"Indeed," said the ancient psychopath, who appeared completely unharmed by his brush with a salvo of high-explosive missiles. "Please excuse the projectile weapon. I merely thought it would be appropriately ironic to finish you things off with it."
"Won't do to much to me," Quarir waved a hand dismissively, although he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that the high calibre round would probably still be fatal with a sufficiently precise shot. "You didn't plan too far ahead, did you?"
"Oh, you're very wrong. I maintained my more… traditional weaponry."
The Zealot made a slight gesture with his free hand, and a blinding flash leapt from his gilded digits and struck Nalore.
He felt as if a bar of white-hot iron had been slammed across his body: the SMG he'd been covertly trying to raise skidded across the floor as it broke his grip. Just as Quarir tried to overcome the intense pain the Zealot twiddled his metal-clad fingers, lazily sending another blast towards him, this time lifting him off his feet and smashing him against a crumbling (but still excruciatingly solid) brick wall.
Smugly, the alien tormentor turned his attentions towards Nuri... and got a torso-full of 9mm rounds. She'd been prepared enough to seek shelter behind a jagged fragment of concrete, realising that Nalore, in a moment of rare bravery, had bought her enough time to do so. But she hadn't been prepared for the bored way that the thing shrugged off her admittedly meagre firepower. The bullets had sparked off its tastelessly gleaming chest plate as if it had been crafted from a Strider's chitin…
A .357 round left a smoking hole inches from her head. "You are conveniently fragile, of course," the Zealot informed her friendlily. "Fitting that your own weapon will claim your life."
Two more shots rang out... and missed, as Nuri deftly rolled towards a second outcropping of debris. Grunting in mild frustration, the Arcadimaarian fired his last shot, showering her in harmless dust as that, too, managed to miss her.
"Not that advanced really, are you?" she called out. Mocking an assassin with a superiority complex was hardly the wisest move to make, but it might allow Quarir time enough to recover and besides, the arrogant bastard deserved irritation…
"I do admit that this weapon is far less potent than I expected," the Zealot confessed, exposing the revolver's innards and dislodging the spent cartridges as if he meant to reload it. "Not even the most basic guidance system. I gave your society too much credit, but I can always improvise."
He waved a hand over the gun's empty chambers, and a second later six glossy bullets were nestled cosily inside. Nuri swallowed.
"I don't remember it doing that," said Quarir.
The Zealot whirled and fired at the prone Domarian, who managed to take the shot on his forearm. "You people mock us for using machines and sneer at the Combine for using biotech," Nalore snarled, sliding behind a rusty generator and blindly pawing for the dropped SMG, "and yet you come down here with your shiny amplifiers and powered armour and lord over us. It's just sad. What, your psionics too shitty?"
He regretted the remark instantly— three more of the pulsing bolts of light hit home, and he again found himself lain across the broken bricks, unconsciousness threatening to envelop him. He'd have sooner been wrestling with a damn bullsquid… at least Xenians were consistent.
Nuri broke cover, firing as she leapt towards the wall with a vaguely Nalore-shaped indentation, and her rash move was rewarded when three bullets clipped the white-haired killer's face, leaving bloody gouges in his cheek.
The Arc winced, gingerly touching the gaping wounds, but as he did so they healed up as if they'd never existed, engulfed by benign white energy. "Enough of this," he spat, pointing both hands out towards the brick barricade, positioning them as if he was holding an invisible sphere.
The blast pulverised the wall with a sinisterly quiet impact, sending charred bricks flying overhead. Neither human was hurt, but they found themselves huddling beside a large crater, bereft of shelter.
The Zealot shook his head disapprovingly. "Two civilisations' best offerings laid to rest already," the Zealot tutted, levelling the revolver at his two defiant targets. "I'd really have expected m—"
Zhhhum.
A brilliant orb of energy zapped out of nowhere, striking the alien's shoulder and severing his limb. Gasping, the Arcadimaarian grasped his horrific injury, only for the Dark Energy grenade to rebound off a chunk of concrete and strike his chest, where it exploded in a shower of bright sparks.
Close to death, the ridiculously hardy Zealot wheezed something unintelligible, and vanished in a crackle of golden light.
A well-built, white-uniformed soldier sporting a cyclopean helmet and an angular pulse rifle loomed over the fugitives.
"A Combine Elite," Nuri breathed, half shocked, half relieved.
"Is that better or worse?" Quarir muttered. And then he fainted.