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Sidelines
Year Eleven by BlindAcquiescence
"He's late."
"You said that two minutes ago, must we really go over this again?"
The two men, clad in their regulation civilian denims, sat on the decrepit couch in an equally decrepit apartment. An old, dirty light bulb glowed, flickering unreliably and casting ghostly shadows across the walls. Not that either men believed in ghosts; the monsters of this world were much worse.
"Rosenberg, you don't think he was…"
But the older man silenced his colleague. "Don't even suggest it, Barney can take care of himself. He's been doing this for ten years, he'll be doing it for another ten."
Walter Bennett promptly fell silent. The two former employees of Black Mesa were serving as contacts for the Eastern European resistance for their counterparts in the west. Through the use of underground railroads, cobbled together dune buggies, and even a small row boat, they had made their way from the coast of France to their current hiding place in what was once Munich, now labelled City 14 by their Combine Overlords for 'ease of supply distribution'. Rosenberg puffed indignantly at the thought.
"If what Eli said was true, he and Kleiner plan to resurrect teleportation," Walter mumbled. They'd had this discussion a dozen times, in a dozen different safe houses. "Is that such a wise idea, given that the same technology has created the current situation? Aren't we only inviting more misfortune?"
"I'll discuss that with Eli, but it seems like they're dead set on bringing it back. If they've got the combined intellect of Mossman, Kleiner and that arrogant ass Magnusson, I think they can pull it off."
Walter smiled slightly at the Magnusson comment. It had become a running joke since the end of the war that Magnusson was good for only two things: his incredible intellect, and the ease at which his features could be turned into humorous caricatures that the rebels under him found amusing to scribble in their down time, if he let them have any. In any case, Magnusson didn't find it as amusing as everyone else seemed to.
Not that there had been any scribbling lately. Rosenberg and Bennett had strict orders that there should be no intelligence brought with them, for fear of discovery. This would be the first face-to-face contact between the eastern and western groups, and Rosenberg wasn't about to let the Combine take the one weapon humanity had left; information.
Besides, the old scientist was excited to see his colleagues once again.
The weather outside was bitter and cold, as dirty snow fell from the sky in an almost picturesque way. Rosenberg huddled his shabby blanket closer, and felt a pang of sadness when he mused that he couldn't remember the last time he celebrated Christmas.
Suddenly there were frantic boot steps in the hallway outside. In an instant Rosenberg was on his feet, sliding up next to the door as Bennett hid behind the couch. Reaching behind him, he pulled his Glock-16 out of the waistband of his pants and held it confidently at the threshold. In the decade since the occupation, Rosenberg prided himself on the idea that he had transformed himself from mild-mannered scientist into a competent fighter.
The old man's lip curled up in the hint of a smile. Bespectacled heroism seemed to be the exclusive realm of another Black Mesa employee.
The boot steps came closer, and began to slow their frantic pace, though the pace of Rosenberg's pulse did anything but follow suit. In the light shining under the doorway, he saw two shadows come to a halt in front of the door. The old man held his breath, finger on the trigger.
"Flash."
Rosenberg exhaled loudly. "Thunder," his voice squeaked.
The door flew open and the haggard form of Barney Calhoun stumbled in. Rosenberg immediately assessed Barney's condition.
"Good God, man. You've been shot!" he cried, seeing the small rips in the fabric of Barney's own denim coveralls.
Barney, USP match pistol held limply in one hand, looked down at himself in confusion and saw the bullet hole right above his abdomen, and the other just below his right pectoral.
"Oh, that." He ripped open the front of his shirt, revealing a Kevlar vest. It was small, the concealable kind that police had worn under their uniforms before the war. Barney must have salvaged it from somewhere. "I'm fine, it just hurts like a motherbitch is all. Now doc, we need to get out of here," he said, rushing over to the windows and looking out of the bottom corner of them cautiously.
"Where's our contact? What's going on, Barney?"
Calhoun had met them in France and followed them on their route to Black Mesa East, an ugly name if you asked Rosenberg. Eli had told them he would organise for the man who had rescued them from Black Mesa to escort them. Rosenberg couldn't have been happier. But this was the first sign of trouble. Barney had left them several hours before to make contact with the next resistance operative, who had seats for them on the next civilian train to City 17.
"He snitched. He wasn't at the rendezvous, but Civil Protection sure as hell was." Barney absentmindedly thumbed the holes in his denim. "They're better shots than they used to be." He stood up and checked his magazine. "Look doc, they'll be here any minute. We need to get the hell outta dodge, and fast. I've got some friends who are gonna help you guys get out of the city."
Rosenberg could hear the sirens outside; Civil Protection must be near their block by now. "What about you…"
Barney was at the window, watching a group storm the lobby of the building below.
"Oh God, we're doomed!" Bennett cried.
Barney ignored him and looked at Rosenberg with an apology in his eyes. "Look doc, this is how it's got to be. You and Walter…" He opened the window and looked out below. "You guys are gonna follow this fire escape, it'll take you to the building next to this one…" The door at the end of the hallway burst open, and Rosenberg could hear the wood splinter. The muffled sounds of Civil Protection warbling at each other echoed.
"Christ, they're right down the hall!" Walter ran to the other side of the room. Barney pointed to the quivering scientist.
"They don't know what unit we're in. We need to move fast. Get over here!"
But Walter preferred to huddle behind the bar in the kitchen. The man reached his hand out to Barney. "Give me your gun!"
Rosenberg came to Bennett's side, trying to pull him to his feet. "Walter, come on. They'll be here any-"
And suddenly the door burst open, a masked metro-cop brandishing a stun-stick in one hand, and his pistol in the other.
"Halt! Cease and desist anti-citizens! By order section 1128 you are remanded…" The back of the officer's mask blew out, as bits of bone, blood, and brain flew out into the hall. The metro-cop fell against the doorway and slid to the floor.
Barney looked over at Rosenberg, smoke billowing from the end of his Glock, which shook slightly in his tight grip.
"Jesus doc, good shot." But Barney had little time before the window of the kitchen broke open and two CP's crawled in, their pistols popping off shots.
Bennett cried out, and crawled across the room to his hiding place behind the couch. Rosenberg, his pistol cracking wildly, made for the window with Barney.
"Walter!" Barney screamed, his own pistol taking several more accurate shots at the metrocops. "Bennett! Get over here!" But the scientist either didn't hear or refused to, as more cops burst in through the open door, stumbling over their fallen comrade.
Rosenberg saw the look in Barney's eyes, the defeat, and the dismay.
"Barney, we need to help him!" Rosenberg cried, but a bullet whizzed by, clipping his left arm. It left a gash that burned and the doctor dropped his pistol. Barney let several shots fly, his anger apparent in the growls and yells of despair.
Finally the metrocops overwhelmed them. Barney ushered Rosenberg outside, bullets pinging off the walls.
"Go, doc, go! I'm right behind you!" Barney crawled out onto the fire escape. The two men frantically scaled the rusted metal ladder, finding the roof devoid of enemies.
Rosenberg heard Barney grunt next to him and looked over, seeing the former security guard throw his empty pistol aside in annoyance.
"Over there," he said, running across the roof top towards the next building. The gap wasn't wide, but it was by no means a hop over. Rosenberg gave himself enough distance and took a running jump, landing on his knees, grunting in pain, the gash on his arm continuing its steady burn. Barney landed, doing a roll and coming up as if it were second nature. He sure had changed in this last decade.
The men hopped several more rooftops until they found one that at one time before the war had been in the middle of construction. Tarps and boards littered the roof, and the two men took shelter underneath.
The snow fell all around them, and the air was bitterly cold. Rosenberg huddled close to Barney for those intense four hours. They heard Civil Protection patrol the streets below, and more than once heard the whirl of the anti-gravity engine of a scanner propel itself across the rooftops. Finally it was still, and they could no longer bear the cold. Barney crawled out from below the tarp and told Rosenberg to stay put.
Several minutes later, Barney silently signalled Rosenberg to follow him, leading him into the uppermost floor of the abandoned building. Barricading themselves in one of the few intact units, Rosenberg nearly burst out in joy when they found several grimy blankets below a decaying mattress.
They were silent for a long time, as they sat warming in the small apartment. Finally Rosenberg spoke.
"What happened to Walter?"
Barney didn't offer an immediate reply.
"Barney?"
"He trusted me," Barney sighed. "He trusted me to keep him safe. And I let them take him." Rosenberg could almost hear Barney moaning in anguish, inside his mind.
"You had no choice, you tried to…"
But Barney simply turned away, facing the wall.
Finally, once the sun began to rise, Barney stirred.
"I need to get in contact with our friends. I won't be gone long." He silently made his way out without any objection from Rosenberg, who could tell Calhoun had no desire to dispute the issue.
Sitting alone in the hovel of a hideout, Rosenberg had time to think. He had lost another friend, in a long line of people lost to the Combine. He hugged the dingy blanket tighter, as if the cruelty of the world was threatening to suck what was left of his will to live right out of him.
But there was still hope, he tried to tell himself. He warmed his spirit by the flames of that hope.
Shephard, Freeman. Those two names held power, one on this side of the planet, and one on the other. But it wasn't just those two mythical figures. People like Calhoun were the ones keeping the fire alive, and that's what mattered most. Let people have their legends, their stories about small men performing great deeds. Rosenberg didn't have a story, he had an actual hero, and he took comfort in that.
Calhoun returned later, three other resistance members in tow.
"We're ready doc. The train's not an option anymore, obviously," he spat. "But we got a plan B."
Rosenberg smiled wryly. "There's always a plan B."
Calhoun let a smile wander across his wary face. "Doc, I don't think I have any other kind."
(A/N: Hey everyone, thanks for the reviews! Keep them coming!)