By the time Urban Clearance Team 4 made it back to Black Mesa East, the sun was setting into the sea, and a cold wind from the north had all of the Resistance fighters shivering despite their sweaters and knit caps. Roxy scowled at the old hydroelectric plant – though she knew the Combine were gone, the veteran rebel within her howled in protest at the complete lack of camouflage around the facility.
"It's bad enough that we've returned to a place where the Combine know we have a base," she complained to Jim Green, the unit leader. "But now we've got the exterior lights energized, boats docking openly at the entrance, and guys with guns patrolling the perimeters! This is not how to keep a low profile." Still nursing her bad mood, she reached up to pick at the clotted blood on her cheek, and then glared daggers at Pierre when he reached his hand out and prevented her from doing so. Again. "Would you stop doing that?"
The Frenchman just shrugged. "You should not be picking at eet," he said.
"Pierre, I'm cold and my face hurts and this shotgun is heavy as hell and I'm going into a building that might as well say 'Combine attack here' in bright neon lighting! Stop it! I itch, let me scratch it, alright?"
Two of the sentries turned towards the sound and raised their assault rifles at the patrol, but relaxed when Jim sent the "all-clear" signal over his radio. "Roxy, we'll have somebody patch that up in just a few minutes. Just be patient," Jim said in his slow, deep voice, scratching at a scar that stretched up his neck. The pink line was easily visible against the dark brown of the rest of his skin.
The sometimes-flirtatious squabbling of the two youngest members of his team sometimes made Jim feel more like a high-school teacher than a military commander. For a brief, aching moment, Jim thought about his own daughter, separated from him during his first Combine transfer. He was a mechanic, he was useful to the conquerors, so he was transferred to New York – City 1, the aliens called it – right before Chicago was "sterilized." When he addressed Roxanne, he used the same placating tone he remembered once using on his daughter, a long time ago. "Besides," he added, "with the Citadel destroyed, this plant is the only source for electricity within fifty miles, so we had to get it up and running again – unless you think we ought to let people freeze to death this winter."
"I know," Roxy replied in the same sulky tone. "But that doesn't mean I'm under any obligations to like it. I was here when the Combine raided this place the first time, you know."
"Really?" Pierre asked as the patrol walked past the automated turrets and entered the airlock leading into the base. "You never mentioned zat before."
Roxanne scowled at the scorch marks at the base of the new airlock door – specifically, where the Combine had used explosives to blast through the last one. "Let's just say it wasn't one of my finest moments."
There were chuckles from the rest of the patrol. "Someday, you will have to tell me about zis incident," Pierre said, sensing that whatever had happened obviously contained some comedic value, and was common knowledge within the cell.
"Someday," she replied with an unhelpful giggle, but her flirtatious smile became a pained wince as the motion allowed the cuts on her cheeks to reopen. "If I can still talk," she finished crossly, trying without much success to keep the trickle of blood off of her blue sweater.
"Here," Pierre said, pulling a more-or-less clean cloth from his pocket and using it to dab at her cheek. "Let's take you down to ze second level, and talk to Abraham, get you patched up."
'Honest Abe' was a Vortigaunt that was, as far as the human members of Black Mesa East could tell, a very old and wise member of his race – his mottled skin was cracked and brittle, and his single eye was dull, but his hands were still skilled and he seemed even more wise and mysterious than the other aliens in the facility. He was nearly always found in the medical ward on the second level, assisting Dr. Cheng, the cell's surgeon and chief medic.
Roxy bid a brief farewell to the rest of the team and ducked into the recently-repaired elevator. She was mildly surprised to find Pierre joining her, though, she reflected, she was still holding his handkerchief to her face, so she probably shouldn't have been. The two of them stood in silence for a few seconds as the lift creaked and rattled, and then shuddered to a halt on the second floor down.
Bare bulbs and blank, gritty concrete floors greeted them as they left the lift and entered what the Resistance members ironically called "The Clinic." Pierre beamed at the old, bent figure of the Vortigaunt shuffling towards them, leaning upon it's staff. "'Ello, Abe," he said. "Roxy here had an ecounter with one of ze leetle headcrabs."
"Ah," the alien said gently, his voice sounding like the crunch of heavy boots on gravel. "The Girl-Roxanne will be following, and this old one will see to her hurts."
"Thanks, Frenchy," Roxanne groused to her companion, but she dutifully followed Abraham to a cot under one of the harsh bulbs. "It's really not that big of a deal, you know," she informed the room at large, though the other two wounded occupants of the Clinic were either sleeping or unconscious, and neither Pierre nor Abraham chose to reply.
There was silence while Abraham's long, delicate fingers probed the edges of Roxanne's injury. Pierre looked away and shifted his weight awkwardly, but the girl simply stared the alien in the eye and refused to flinch or make any noise, even when Abe brushed dirt and grit from one of the gashes.
"The Girl-Roxanne is not wanting to show any pain," the Vortigaunt said quietly. "She has never known any life but war." Abe took a medical kit from one of the supply crates stacked at the foot of the bed, and quickly bandaged the young woman's cuts. "We who see with a thousand eyes can read your pain, child… it is a part of all you humans, as beautiful and fragile as all the rest."
The bandages had been dipped in the green nanomedicinal gel – one of the few beneficial things the Combine had introduced to Earth – and Roxy could actually feel her skin knit up in moments. She gazed into the Vortigaunt's bright red eye and found herself feeling more and more uncomfortable, as though all of her secret fears and desires were being laid bare.
She abruptly leapt to her feet with a brusque "thank you" to stalked off to the lift, her face burning. Pierre, more confused than ever, followed after her, leaving Abraham alone in the ward with the two unconscious fighters. The old Vortigaunt sighed and leaned more heavily upon his staff, slipping into the Vortessence. Ever so simple, these humans are, and yet so impossible to truly understand, he thought sadly.
Especially their young ones, another presence commented.
Most of you are children compared to one as old as I, Abe rejoined to a chorus of mental "chuckles." And these humans are but infants. The Girl-Roxanne is young, one of the last generation of the humans. Soon, she will no longer be young, and then their race will pass into the void. The thought saddened him, for he'd grown attached to these irrational, heroic, squabbling, loving rebels in the few years he'd known them.
Perhaps not, O revered elder, a presence from another part of the world said. I have felt stirrings in the music of the universe. It may be that the Free Man and his patron prepare to make another move, to strike another blow against our Enemy.
Perhaps, Abe thought dourly. But while the Free Man's motives may be pure, those of his patron are masked even to such as we. All we can do is wait.