Part 2 – Trial and Error
The fog had cleared and the sun was now glowing calmly in the pale sky. Traces of light fell dispersed among the crumbling edifices, casting shadowy threads across the dilapidated metropolitan. Amidst the ash, pillars of concrete rose like ghosts above the barren scape. They stood precariously atop cracked bases, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. Below, the once complex byways were acutely fragmented, buried under mounds of brick and caked in sediment.
Towering darkly above this deserted expanse, the citadel, now visible through the lifting clouds, burned dismally in the morning haze. The many glistening spindles that protruded from its plated mass were now pointed vertically. When the surveillance was heightened, as would happen intermittently, the spindles would shift downward, exposing many branched apertures. Hundreds of scanners would then pour from the tiny openings, swirling synchronously in long bands before scattering out. Later in the day, as the sun made its descent, the obelisk would obscure nearly all of the light, blanketing the entire city in gloom.
Gordon made his away along an enclosed plot. It wasn't safe to stay on the roads since the Overwatch patrolled them constantly. He had trekked a mile, or so he thought–though it was impossible to be sure while navigating the tight slums–from where the drop ship landed. They would search the proximity and if they did not find him, they would sweep out in waves. He had to get out of there.
Crawling over fallen doors and discarded furnishings, he progressed through a dank tenement. The air inside was thick and putrid. In one room, he discovered a box tucked up against the wall, almost hidden. He chopped at it with his crowbar until it splintered. Inside, he found supplies, in particular, more rations. He ate ravenously, keeping an eye on the agape balcony. In another room he found a stack of ammunition for his rifle, as well as some shotgun slugs. He retrieved a backpack from a cadaver he found in a bunk on the upper floor. The body was of a man, pallid and stiff, with one arm dangling lifelessly over the side of his bed. Gordon placed the remaining rations and the ammunition into the pack, sealed it, and left the building.
He estimated that it would take him two days to reach Kleiner's lab as he could not go there directly, but would have to traverse the canals. The canals were teeming with Combine and the guard alongside was formidable. With any luck, the attention brought by the scanner would have diverted most of the watch. If he could make it through before the next surveillance alert, he had a chance of sneaking by undetected.
Gordon clambered over the hood of a jaded pickup truck, which bridged the gap of a massive fault in the pavement, emerging on the edge of the sprawling district. Across the way, the road stopped. In front of him, the ground dropped off and a series of palisades stretched steeply down to the area below. Beyond that, he could see the entrance to the canal, which, on the side closest to him, was lined by a tall barbed fence. There was a wide platform beside the gate; and, standing on the platform, in a black uniform with an orange insignia, was a single patrol.
Spying a makeshift ladder along the rocky face–which he suspected was placed there by the Combine to enable quick transit between the lower zone and the upper tenements–he climbed down to the platform. There were a number of crates assembled here, allowing him to crouch out of view. Sliding behind an unusually large one, he removed his pack and seized his rifle which he had been toting on his back. The patrol still hadn't moved. Gordon waited, watching the guard from behind the crate. The soldier was poised idly, cinching a sub-machine gun and surveying the platform indiscreetly.
The trooper glanced down momentarily. Gordon raised his weapon and took aim.
The shot was loud, resounding sharply over the platform and lingering for awhile in the depths of the aqueduct. The patrol tottered, dropping his gun, and then crumpled up against the fence. A discordant radio static signified his demise.
Gordon snapped the padlock on the gate and bounded down into the canal, landing with a splash waist-deep in the murky water. The cement divider inclined precipitously on either side; there was no going back. Scanning both directions to regain his bearings, he promptly chose a course and headed out. He waded northbound along the narrow channel, advancing toward a large conduit that jutted from the retaining wall. The acrid scent exuding from the mire was insufferable, and he tried desperately to stifle his breath.
As he neared the pipe, which–if his memory served him–would lead him to his destination, he became aware of a dozen footsteps overhead. He sank down into the water, keeping only his head above the surface. Combine radio chatter flared up directly above his position. It was too late. A frenzied voice bayed across the chasm; they had spotted him.
In an instant, five armored troops had repelled down into the canal, plunging violently into the water. Their blue laser sights danced along the walls, immediately resting on Gordon's disheveled face.
"Disarm citizen, or be exterminated!" said a gruff voice.
Raising his hands, our unfortunate hero stood up slowly.