Disclaimer: I don't own Half-Life.

(A/N: Guess what I'm going to thank hhgbh for. That's right. Excellent biscuits. Also, beta-ing.)

The Black Mesa Incident

Chapter Eighteen: Residue Processing

Gordon splashed down into a very shallow pool of water, grunting from the impact. A small fleck of water entered his mouth as he grunted, and almost retched from the taste. He quickly stood up, gripping his crowbar tightly in his gloved hand as he walked out of the pool and onto solid ground.

The hot New Mexico sun bore down on his exposed neck as he walked onward, and, for the moment, it felt fantastic. Someone could only spend so long in an underground labyrinth before they yearned for some sunlight. He was in a canyon, the rocky cliff-faces on either side of him stretching up so high on either side of him it made Gordon stumble slightly when he craned his neck upwards to look at them. The boots patted gently against the rocky ground as he walked, echoing around the enclosed space.

He walked through a small archway in the rock and came out to a much more open area. In front of him on the far side was what looked like a power plant, but Gordon knew better. Judging by the smell and the fact that he had just escaped from a trash compactor, he would guess it was a plant dedicated to processing sewage and waste. It certainly looked like it had seen better days. There were some windows along the bottom, but even from where he stood Gordon was sure they were safety glass, making even his crowbar pretty much useless. A ladder on the left led up to a walkway that ran the width of the plant, and Gordon could make out some vents which he hoped were used for ventilation placed along the wall at regular intervals.

Gordon headed towards the ladder when he heard a loud noise above him, something he actually hadn't heard in some time.

The teleportation noise faded as quickly as it had come, and two headcrabs dropped to the ground in front and behind him. The one in front leapt at him, hissing. He swung the crowbar around, catching it with the blunt side in the midsection and tossing it across the canyon floor and into another stray pool of stagnant water. Gordon whipped around in time to see the other headcrab coming straight at it his head.

He ducked and allowed it to sail over, landing ungraciously on the ground behind him. Crowbar held above his head, he charged at it and brought the pointed weapon down, going straight through the creature into the rock beneath. It made a half hearted growling noise as it died, and Gordon removed the crowbar.

He climbed up the ladder and to the first vent along the walkway. Sliding the crowbar between two of the bars, he pried it off and crawled inside. The metal of the vent was a dark brown, and Gordon hoped that was just its natural colour. After a few minutes of crawling, Gordon came to a vent cover in front of him, through which luminescent green light filtered through.

A scowl steadily working its way onto his features, Gordon ripped the vent cover off and dropped to the ground below. A tank of chemicals stood to his right, and judging by the green glow – not to mention the Geiger counter in his suit – it was full of toxic chemicals. Luckily, there was a doorway in front of him, and Gordon took it. Walking around the corridor with a certain purpose in his stride now that he knew he was moving away from radioactive waste, Gordon almost walked straight into the waiting tongues of about five barnacle creatures.

He looked up, his scowl quickly becoming a full blown deformity as far as his face was concerned. Without a gun, there wasn't much he could do about the barnacles except take the risk of allowing himself to be pulled up and then whacking the creatures to death with his crowbar.

With sigh, he knew what he had to do, and he walked back to the tank of chemicals dejectedly, climbing up the ladder on the side to reach the ledge. Inside the tank were two stirring devices, one after the other, although why toxic waste had to be stirred, he wasn't sure. From the side Gordon imagined that they would have a P shape to them, and the outgrowth at the top of the P was just thick enough to accommodate him if he were to jump onto it. An open vent lay at the other side of the tank.

Gordon sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, the area beginning to ache slightly from the constant pressure. This place was getting beyond ridiculous now. He waited for the stirrer to rotate around to him, and he leapt onto it, almost falling straight into the thick green ooze below. The P rotated around until the tip almost met that of its partner, and Gordon took that moment to simply step from one to the other.

He waited for the P to get around to the vent and stepped into it. It was tall enough to accommodate him, which, along with the inner red lights of this vent, made Gordon think that this passageway was used by workers at least some of the time. Well, it hadbeen used by workers. Gordon doubted if the Black Mesa facility would be used for much of anything ever again after all this was over and done with.

If it was ever over and done with.

The vent came to an end in a deep room, the drop of which would no doubt result in Gordon breaking his legs and spending the rest of his life down there until his suit ran out of energy. A conveyer belt of all things, however, began just below him, moving into an open passageway on the left that was about the same size as the one he stood in now. On the right wall, a smaller tube spurted broken wood and used metal, all of it ending up on the conveyer belt by some miracle of science.

With a shrug, Gordon leapt down onto the moving belt, falling back onto his rear as he lost his footing. He decided to just sit down and enjoy the ride as the belt took him down the red light corridor and around countless bends. Occasionally random objects would fall down from holes in the ceiling, but usually it was just wood and metal. Bloodied bones fell through every now and again as well, and Gordon did his best to turn away from them or simply look at something else. The military were throwing their kills into the residue processing system.

An entire skeleton fell down at one point, the black forms of two security guard's belts falling shortly after. Gordon managed to swallow the wave of nausea long enough to retrieve the belt from the top of the rotting remains. With some ingenuity and help from the sharp end of the crowbar, Gordon managed to fashion two straps that he could tie tightly around his left thigh. Positioning one of the holsters that was usually reserved for ammunition cartridges at his upper thigh and another just beneath it, Gordon managed to slip the crowbar inside both with little difficulty. With the hooked end at the top, Gordon would be able to take it out quickly at any juncture where he might need it. And the way it was positioned meant it wouldn't dangle about irritatingly or impair his movements.

And voila. Gordon Freeman, one of the knights of the Black Mesa table, had a sheath for his sword.

He frowned.

"'Knights of the Black Mesa table'?" he muttered to himself quietly, shaking his head. He felt a little ashamed of himself for saying such a 'sixteen year old nerd' type of thing. It was the kind of statement that would have earned him a slap around the back of the head from Barney, which in turn would have prompted a genuine 'thank you' from Gordon. It usually happened when they were around women and Barney was trying to make a good impression.

The sound working machinery came to his ears from around a corner, and Gordon got to his feet, his hand going straight to his crowbar. He couldn't help a smile at his own ingenuity. The crowbar strap really wasa good idea.

And then he turned the corner. An incredibly powerful looking metal piston was launching itself out of the wall in front of him, smashing anything in its path into the wall, no doubt allowing the bits and pieces to be digested more easily by whatever chemically induced system was waiting for them. Past that piston, Gordon could see two more before the corridor turned a corner to the right. A completely unnecessary yellow sign reading 'WARNING: HAZARDOUS MACHINERY' dangled from small chains above his head.

Gordon removed his hand from the crowbar, deciding that he wouldn't be needing it. He back-pedalled on the spot directly in front of the piston, and he waited for the piston to slam into the wall and slowly move back before he made his move. A quick jog got him past that one, and the other two, working at the same rate as their brother, were fairly easy to bypass as well.

Smiling and breathing heavily, Gordon turned the corner.

Another borderline sarcastic sign dangled above his head with a warning about hazardous machinery. This time, the pistons were replaced by three industrial press type-machines, slamming down into the conveyer belt itself. The first slammed down twice in a row before steadily rising into the ceiling, which, after a few aborted goes and shouted exclamations, Gordon managed to get through.

The second slammed down into the belt once, and stayed there for a few moments before steadily rising and repeating the process. This one was pretty easy to bypass as well.

The third and last one, however, was a bitch. It slammed down twice on the belt, and just as Gordon was about to dash underneath, it slammed down a third time. The damn thing tried to pull a fake out on him.

Gordon hated fake outs. With a determined frown, Gordon waited for the three slams and then darted beneath, coming out the other side with a smile and quick, smug adjustment of his glasses.

And then he fell straight down off that conveyer belt, slamming heavily onto another below, this one going off to the right. With a groan, Gordon adjusted his now crooked glasses yet again as he sat up, taking in his surroundings. This place was a veritable maze of conveyer belts, more resembling an airport luggage system than a residue processing plant. He decided to stay the course and remain on the conveyer belt on which he sat, sitting upright and crossing his legs. When the crowbar on his left thigh got uncomfortable, he stretched both legs out straight in front of him.

The conveyer belt led into another red lit corridor. Coming up on the right and left, Gordon could see two grates, bright lights coming from both. As the belt took him closer, Gordon heard the sounds of flames, and covered his glasses before dashing through the brightly lit area. He was fairly sure the heat from the industrial strength flames scorched his hair, and once he was through, he ran and experimental hand through his cropped reddish-brown hair. He didn't have that much to begin with, he didn't need to lose anymore. With a sudden sense of horror, he checked his goatee as well. Still there.

He breathed a sigh of relief. At the moment his goatee was one of the few things from his previous mundane life that he had to cling on to. In his subconscious, as long as he held on to a few of those things (even if he hated them), like his glasses and strange beard, he would eventually be able to go back to those old days.

In his subconscious, anyway.

After a few twists and turns (but no more flames or industrial presses), a welcoming light at the end of the tunnel could be seen. As the conveyer belt reached it, however, Gordon couldn't help the loud yelp that escaped his lips as the belt suddenly ended, dropping whatever contents were unfortunate enough to be on it into some huge metal teeth below. The floor of the room was a square, all of the floors at a downward angle leading towards the put in the middle where said teeth resided, chomping away with deadly regularity at whatever ended up on its surface.

It reminded Gordon of that Star Wars alien in the desert from 'Return of the Jedi'.

He leapt off to the side, dropping onto the inclined metal floor below him. Gordon figured that sliding towards it would give more of a chance to time it properly than jumping into it from a height. Much to his relief, however, he didn't slide down, somehow kept in place by the magical force of friction. Wary of getting to his feet, Gordon managed to stand up but kept a steadying hand on the ground as he carefully lowered himself down towards the teeth.

Chomp number one.

Chomp number two.

Chomp number three.

A few seconds…

And repeat. Gordon nodded, understanding the pattern. He rubbed his hands together as he counted, getting ready for the magic number. As the teeth closed for the third chomp, Gordon leapt into the red light tunnel below. His feet touched the conveyer belts just as the teeth closed above him, taking one his hairs with them.

A very quiet 'Ow' escaped his lips as he ducked down and rubbed the back of his head, glaring up at the chomping teeth irritably. Green light once again bathed him, and Gordon looked to the next challenge that awaited him. This one, luckily, was pretty damned easy. The conveyer belt ended up dumping all of its' mushy and smashed cargo into a tank of toxic waste. Luckily, just in case some insane person wanted to witness said event, a walkway led around the circumference of the very tall, green lit tank, leading to a red ladder on the opposite side which in turn led to a door.

Gordon just stepped off to his right and onto the walkway as the conveyer belt reached the appropriate juncture. He walked around, climbed up the ladder, and walked through the old fashioned handle wielding door. The red light of the corridor ahead felt like a warning, so Gordon reached down and withdrew his crowbar. He closed the door behind him and headed off to the unknown.

Knight of the Black Mesa table, indeed.

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(A/N: I thought it was about time we got a reminder that Gordon is, at heart, a complete and total nerd. It should serve to show the differences between the good doctor and a certain Corporal once the latter's story starts picking up momentum.

And speaking of everyone's favourite soldier...

Next Chapter: Welcome to Black Mesa)