Alyx gently shook D-9 on his uninjured shoulder. "Wake up!"

The world swam back into focus. D-9 sat up, and felt his right arm. Alyx had put it in a sling, and the cold of the Arctic night had helped to numb the pain. Alyx had been standing over at the unbroken glass porthole on the wall of the infirmary, peering down at something. From outside came the muffled clanking of metal on metal.

"That sound like your buddies?"

"Negative." D-9 scanned through the Combine radio bands, finding them silent.

Alyx swore. "Not that mine will be any better. You need to hide, or...or I could try to talk to them."

D-9 stared straight ahead. "Unit D-9 will not accompany unless specified."

The first rebel, clad in thick arctic camouflage, hauled himself over the edge of the ship, securing the end of a rope ladder he carried to the side rail. A second man, making no attempts to disguise his bright orange power suit, vaulted over the rail, cradling a shotgun in his arms.

Finding he could stand unassisted, D-9 hustled at a crouch out of the door of the infirmary and down the corridor towards the bridge. Alyx emerged moments later, heading towards the deck.

The ship was eerily quiet as the last of the rebel assault team vaulted over the railing and assembled on the slanting forward deck in a loose semicircle. Shielding himself from the biting wind, Gordon brought his shotgun up instinctively as a figure stumbled out from the superstructure, arms raised – but then threw the gun down, almost in fright, and running across the deck to embrace Alyx.

"Jesus, Alyx –"Gordon grabbed her shoulders, looking her over frantically. "Are you alright? You still bleeding?"

"No...no I'm fine – relieved, actually."

"Me too..."

They stood for a while, holding each other fiercely, trying to reassure themselves. Around them, the rebels moved towards the superstructure, relieved that they would not be taking part in a hostage standoff again.

Gordon picked up his shotgun from the deck, and worked the action. "Now, time to find that sucker who-"

Alyx grabbed the end of the barrel, turning it towards the ground. "Don't. Please."

"Why not? He kidnapped you, tortured you..."

"Tortured me? Gordon, he's broken. A cornered animal. He's not with the Combine anymore, and he practically saved my life last night. Trust me on this."

"Where is he?"

Alyx whistled the pre-arranged signal, and D-9 emerged, slowly, shuffling across the deck, his good hand raised above his head. He could feel the eyes of the humans on him, could feel their guns being trained upon him, but he continued on, keeping his eyes fixed on Alyx.

Gordon shook Alyx off, bringing the SPAS-12 back to his shoulder. He looked at Alyx, her pleading, tired face, at the Elite now kneeling on the deck, and at the stony-faced rebels.

"Does it have a name?"

"He calls himself D-something. No name, just a number."

Gordon lowered his weapon, but at the same time motioned for the rest of the rebels to raise theirs.

"Soldier. What do you call yourself?"

"Overwatch Unit D-9, Batch 3, City Thirteen."

"Okay, D-9. Stand up. Someone pat him down."

In his helmet, D-9 worked furiously, cancelling the numerous proximity alarms triggered by so many nearby armed humans. This was it. Acceptance. He knew that they would not treat him well, but it would be life. He could not cancel his Stim alarm however, and as the rebels swarmed across him he fell backwards. Sky, cloud, steel, suit, briefcase, deck – then darkness.