Alyx opened her hand, and let the black cable ties fall to the ground. Her hands were free. For some time, the human stood, staring down at the Elite, the scene bathed in the red afterglow of the thermic lance.
D-9 attempted to stand, but was interrupted by a shooting pain in his left arm. His helmet informed him that the limb was broken. He slumped back against the wall with a muffled grunt of pain.
The Elite looked up towards his captive, and saw that she was holding out her hand to him, her face one of apprehension and fear, familiar emotions, but also one that D-9 had never seen before. He looked at the outstretched hand in confusion, and then took a tentative grip on it. Alyx heaved him up, and tucked herself under his uninjured arm. Slowly, captive and captor began to inch their way back towards the infirmary.
Inside, D-9 seated himself on the bed. His head was clouded with pain, and his internal bladders of sedatives and stimulants had run dry. He looked at Alyx again, her face as she tended to his injuries, and in a sudden flash a word was associated with her emotion. Pity. A word he had never had a context for, a feeling he had never expressed, or seen expressed. But here was a human, feeling pity for him.
Alyx sat at a corner desk, idly toying with the buttons on her parka. She was desperate to sleep, but her mind was still in turmoil about what had happened. The Elite had risked his life to save her from that...thing. She could have killed them both, alerted one of the rebels watching the ship, and have been back at base before sunrise, yet she felt she could not. To her, the roles of captive and captor had changed to that of...nurse and patient. The thought brought a weak smile to her face.
D-9 stirred, raised his head, reached behind his back, and produced Alyx's machine pistol. For an awful moment, the weapon was aimed straight at her face, with the red lens of the Elite visible through the sights.
D-9's helmet automatically registered Alyx's face, painting it with a swirling crosshair on his heads-up display. It would be so easy, thought the part of him that was not completely empty of Stim, to terminate the Anticitizen.
A quick flick of the wrist reversed the weapon, and he leaned out and passed it over, almost throwing it, as if it had burned his thickly gloved hands. Alyx instinctively worked the action, surprised to see that the soldier had not removed the magazine.
"...thanks."