Chapter 1: Fallen Foe
Rare occasions deserved a reward, especially when they involved the death of a horrifyingly mutilated spore monster. The sun twinkled out behind the dilapidated buildings in the distance, brilliant splashes of red and orange trying to resist the encroaching darkness. With a final wary scan around the crumbling office, and a quick glance towards the door he had shoved closed with a desk, Larry Anderson settled down on the least infested square foot of floor with a relieved groan. He eyed the bottle he held in his hand, watching the light diffuse through the dark liquid. An appreciative whistle fled from his lips.
"Finally, a chance to taste the finest Gold Lion has to offer," he spoke to the rapidly darkening sky, a chuckle following his pronouncement. Fifteen years ago, had he been locked in a quality distillery for months without having to worry consequences with the law, he would've rejoiced. Now though, he hadn't gotten drunk in years. These days he considered himself lucky to let his guard down, even fractionally.
Evading Jeff for the past few months had put him on a sharper edge than anything he had previously encountered. He lamented the days only headcrabs, zombies, and CPs were his most dangerous enemies. Well, they still were, but Jeff… A shudder rolled over Larry's body in a wave, finger twitching as he instinctively reached down to grasp his gun-which was in Keith. Or to be more precise, what was left of Keith.
Damn it, thought Larry with a dejected tone in his mind.
Maybe Keith didn't crush my gun. Maybe the semi-acidic digestive enzymes haven't completely eaten through it. With a small pit of despair settling in his stomach, his optimism slowly shriveled away. Although he was half-decent at Texas Hold-Em, it was impossible to bluff against himself.
With another dejected sigh, he carefully unclasped the buckle under his chin, pulling his helmet off carelessly. Swiping at the sweat on his forehead with his forearm, he glanced back down at the bottle of vodka still gripped tightly in his left hand. Even a few sips of this stuff could easily set him off-kilter, well, more so than he wanted.
Maybe I should have grabbed some of that Kvass I stashed away. Larry considering this for a few moments, tapping his fingers unconsciously against the filthy hazmat suit he had managed to poach from a dead Combine soldier.
Eh, why not. There're probably thousands of bottles here, I should use some of the really good stuff. Bonus being I won't get instantly hammered. Carefully placing the bottle down on habit, Larry heaved to his feet, wincing at the last ray of sunlight piercing his eyes. Snagging his helmet off the floor, he pulled it on before carefully securing it with a faint click of the clasp. A heavy sigh fell from his lips as he walked over to the door, grabbing his pack and swinging his arms through the straps with ease. And now another issue. The desk stood, seeming to stare at him. He stared back. Truth be told, this was the one of the few times he had been able to create a barricade on this scale ever since he had holed up in the distillery with Jeff. Working up the nerve to shove it against the door had taken him longer than he cared to admit. Silence was Larry's greatest defense against Jeff, and now, he was hesitant to make any sort of noise above conversational tone, despite the infested beast's gruesome demise. Another shudder made him squirm uncomfortably in his suit, the sensation of something crawling over his skin forcing him to nervously scratch at his neck with the rubber gloves encasing his hands.
Wonder if I'll ever feel relaxed when a loud noise is made. A small, mirthless chuckle fell from Larry's cracked lips. He doubted he would ever completely recover from his time in the QZ. He had only spoken to a total of seven people since he had snuck in four years ago, and one of them was a crazier-than-normal vortigaunt. Lack of human interaction had changed him, and Larry had enough self-awareness to acknowledge this, albeit grudgingly. Normal people didn't willingly walk into an alien-infested city borough. Normal people didn't semi-willingly live above a more-horrifying-than-normal man-eating monster. And he was fairly confident normal people will never name face-eating aliens and plants, speaking to them like people. He was 100% certain he was the only person ever to grow a small garden of the least dangerous (he broke this rule for unique specimens) Xen flora to try and study how they grew, trying to find out if it was possible to crossbreed them. Larry shook away his darkening thoughts.
Keep it together Larry, you can think about what color you want your padded cell to be afterwards. Reaching his hands out, he placed them against the desk. Hesitation overtook him again. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and shoved against the desk. Predictably, it gave out another horrible screech of steel against concrete. Unpredictably, Larry crouched down in a panic, the transition from silence to deafening shrieks giving him whiplash. Eyes darting around the room, straining to hear the guttural roar, he desperately tried to find something to distract it, draw him away-He's dead. The almost embarrassed realization ground his movements to a halt.
Jeff is dead. He's not coming. A shuddering breath.
I'm so messed up. Standing up with an embarrassed cough, Larry tried to ignore the faint trembling of his hands.
Tomorrow, he decided on the fly. I'll pack everything up, get out of the QZ somehow, and somehow find the Resistance again. I've gotten as much data as I'll ever be able to. Maybe I can bring a couple specimens back with me. He pondered this while determinedly shoving the desk completely free of the door. Thinking helped him ignore the noise. Somewhat.
Maybe I should say goodbye to Tatanya and Alejandro, hell, why not the Vort too? Larry paused as he grabbed the squeaky door handle, a small smile lighting up his face as an idea flew into his head eagerly.
Hey, maybe I'll ask them to come! Last I spoke to Anton, he sounded like he really wanted out of the QZ. And they can help carry my notes! Mostly ignoring the squeak as he pushed the door open, he laid out a tentative plan.
Alright, celebrate tonight, pack tomorrow, swing around to the others, bring anyone who wants out, get out of the Quarantine Zone, and hopefully find the Resistance again. Hopefully. Larry strolled down the hallway, feeling a bit more relaxed. Tension was still wrapped around his limbs, but it had loosened somewhat. Humming the lyrics of "Once in a Lifetime," he made his way down the rapidly darkening hallways with the aid of his flashlight. After several twists and turns, jumping over pieces of collapsed floor, the door to what he had dubbed "The Treasure Room," presented itself dully.
Opening the door, he glanced around the room for rouge headcrabs. Seeing and hearing none, he glanced over to his pile of valuables. Well, if alcohol, a couple dozen notebooks, a vintage polaroid (finding that had felt like striking gold, especially upon discovery that it still worked), dozens of photographs carefully hidden in thick, unbendable folders (finding those had been like finding diamonds), and a couple of vodka bottles containing a few of the more rare specimens he had chanced upon, could be counted as valuables. Striding over to the corner of the room, he coughed a few times as he rifled through the wooden crate he had placed on a table. Pleasant clinks of glass sang through Larry's ears as he pushed bottles aside, lifting them up to scrutinize the label before letting them fall back into the crate with a dull thud. Soon finding his prize, he let out a quiet "Ah-ha! There you are, precious. Nothing like a good old-fashioned bottle 'o kvass. Kvass? Vass? Kay-vass?" Frowning, he briefly inspected the label before waving his hand dismissively.
Ah, whatever. I just wanna celebrate the death of a mortal enemy, I'm not here to correctly pronounce Russian. Or Romanian. Whatever. Shrugging indifferently, Larry slotted the bottle into his backpack with the care of holding a baby, replacing the generic brand he had kept on hand for distracting the blind zombie. Shrugging his pack back on and walking back to the door, he paused just as he touched the doorknob.
I should go pay my respects to Jeff. Bewilderment in his voice, he spoke out loud.
"He tried to kill me. Many times. And he invades about 65% of my nightmares." But he's dead, and so is the poor bastard that used to be Jeff. Larry let out another sigh. All he seemed to do these days.
I make a very convincing argument, don't I? Not to mention, drinking alone can result in alcoholism. An ironic snicker flew into the air. Honestly, it was a miracle that he had the self-control to barely touch a drop of the stuff ever since he made his way into the distillery. Face-melting reanimated corpses tended to make a very convincing argument against lowering one's inhibitions. But hey, Jeff was dead, and he wanted to commend the occasion. Carefully. What was the saying? 'If you're going to do something stupid, be smart about it.' Walking through the doorway with a shrug, he started toward the antlion vault before quickly turning around and quickly walking in the opposite direction.
Quick detour, maybe Keith didn't destroy my gun. I might be able to clean all the blood and bits of flesh out of it. Switching his flashlight back on, he carefully navigated through the ruined building, taking the path that he knew would make the least amount of creaking planks or groaning metal. It didn't take long for Larry to make it back to the site of his immense stupidity. Keith was beginning to calcify, he noted, glancing up, then down to the puddle of dry blood and bones. Poking through the pile of sick with the tip of his boot uncovered nothing resembling his gun. Nada. Zip. Zero.
"Guess I'll have to do this the hard way." He uttered with the air of informing someone of a death in the family. Larry swung his light around, spotting some shipping crates in the corner. With some considerable effort, he grabbed the straps surrounding the crate and heaved the entire thing to sit directly under the dead barnacle. With that, he set his pack in the corner, clambering to the top, before taking a deep breath and carefully reaching past the still teeth with a final thought of "open wide."
Fighting through muscle and things he didn't want to think about, he stopped upon touching the cartilage-like material gluing the barnacle to the ceiling. Unfortunately, this left his face directly under the mouth of the creature, the rope-like tongue brushing his helmet. Fighting the urge to vomit, and praying he wasn't hit in the face with the still slick tongue, Larry slowly began moving his hand around in the guts of the barnacle, trying to find his gun. Stopping with shock, he felt his fingers touching something distinctly hard and metallic. Quickly shoving his hand deeper, he strained, trying to find some purchase-. His fingers closed around a long cylinder. Excitement rushed through him as he pulled his hand out, exclaiming,
"I knew you weren't-" He stared at his gun. His gun with its barrel nearly bitten through and was hanging to the grip by a thread. "…broken." Larry finished, his voice both toneless yet defeated. Sighing, he tossed the remains away, looking back up at the barnacle.
"Keith, if I had my gun, I would shoot you. But I can't. Because you broke it. And you're dead anyway." Larry relived the moment of Keith's death. The strange woman covered in blood who had saved his life. Alyx, he recalled, but her last name…Vane? Vast? Something like that. With a pang, he realized he had forgotten to thank her for killing Jeff.
"Oh well, doubt I'll ever run into her again. Anyway, on with the funeral." The half-hearted quip hung in the air like a half-empty balloon, as Larry grabbing his pack and walking away, dejection clearly visible in his stride. It didn't take long to reach the antlion vault. Shining his light to the ground, a very morose Larry lowered himself off the catwalk, grunting as he let go and fell to the ground, stumbling as to not fall over. Glancing down, the light glistened against the rubble and antlion guts covering the ground. With slow, careful steps, he made his way to stable ground, walking through the door Alyx had emerged from a few hours ago, a large, triumphant, relieved grin visible even from where he stood.
With a pang of embarrassment, Larry silently berated himself for not exploring the lower levels of the distillery sooner. He had been very much unwilling to venture to Jeff's level unless absolutely necessary. Not to mention the threat of antlions. Jeff was one thing, but antlions were terrifying in their own right. Not to mention there were dozens of them. The glow of the Combine force shield shone faintly against the corrugated metal of the compactor.
Stupid! Smacking his hand to his forehead, he continued to scold himself. There was a trash compactor here the entire time! I could've gotten my samples and killed Jeff months ago! Shining his light around the room, he zeroed in on the bright yellow supply box in the corner. Running over to it, he gasped in surprise and happiness, self-inflicted disappointment forgotten. Grabbing the two gas masks in there, he beamed.
"Oh, how I've missed you! I haven't seen you in months!" With the excitement of a child at a carnival, he quickly strapped one to his belt and shoved the other into his bag. His small victory dampened at the sight of the trash compactor. Slowly, quietly, with bated breath, he peered into the gaping maw, pointing his light to shine upon the carnage in the dark pit. Steel walls painted with blood and strips of flesh, spore particles floating lazily in the air bled into his vision. Unusual materials for a painter.
Looking at the floor, he could just make out the tattered remains of a CP worker uniform. Definitely Jeff. Or at least a bit of Jeff. Especially given the rapidly fading scent of ammonia and rotten eggs. Nevertheless, Larry stepped back, letting out a cough of disgust. Quickly grabbing the mask, he strapped it to his face, waiting for the filters to kick in. With the first breathe of stale air indicating the filter was working, he walked back to stand in front of the entrance of the compactor. A terrible fate indeed. Yet, a mercy at the same time. Larry didn't know what to say. He didn't even know if he wanted to say anything to the drying puddle of blood. Pulling the bottle of alcohol out of his pocket, he held it uncertainly, staring at Jeff's remains. A single, silent moment. Finally, Larry raised the bottle slightly.
"Well Jeff, you tried to kill me. Multiple times. Almost got me a couple times as well. Lightly put, I wouldn't say I'm your biggest fan. But hey, you're dead, and not walking around as a…walking mass of fungal spores." He stepped back, pulling his mask down and uncorking the bottle.
"Here's to you Jeff, and whoever you used to be. You were an anomaly in a sea of anomalies, and you'll probably be the only one of your kind." He paused.
"Hopefully. Ah well, to Jeff, a long-deserved death. Wait, that came out wrong. Somewhat. To a long-deserved release from your fungally prison." Concluding his small, impromptu speech, Larry took a small sip from the bottle, savoring the sweet taste of the booze. Without warning, a thundering alarm began trilling, sounding as if it was coming right from his ears.
"JESUS!" Larry jumped in shock, dropping the bottle. Pushing his hand against his chest to keep his heart from leaping out, he let out a shaky breath, looking down with wide eyes towards the casualty of the surprise. As the final drops of alcohol fell from the glass shards, a pained whimper fell from his lips.
Always has to be the good stuff, he bitterly remarked in his head, lightly pushing a large shard with his boot.
Critical Breach. Standby. Standby.
The cold, resonating voice of Overwatch cut through the alarm, the faintest hint of concern just barely audible. Sensing that something was wrong (wow, great work Sherlock), he dashed outside, only to stare in shock at the vista hanging before his eyes. The massive floating ship that had appeared without warning several weeks ago was surrounded by a shimmering blue-green shield that seemed ready to fall apart.
"What is…" he let out the words almost automatically. The dull light of the moon shone upon the ship, highlighted against the starless navy sky. It also shone on the antlion plug, the strange, cool metal glinting with the hardness of diamonds. The antlion plug that she had opened. She. The blood-covered woman who killed Jeff. What had she whispered behind the hand covering her mouth? Alyx Vant? VANCE!
"Oh shit!" the expletive flying from his throat, his mind kicking into overdrive. Vance. As in Eli Vance. The head honcho. Anticitizen One. Another realization struck him.
She got in! Nobody's gotten in since the Combine seriously clamped down on the Q! Back then, Larry had been in the QZ for about a year at that point and hadn't been concerned about getting back into the city. But after a few hurried conversations with fellow scavengers (well, the ones that didn't try to eat or kill him), he learned it had finally been locked up. Concern faintly struggled in the back of his mind, but at the time, he figured it was a problem for future him. Besides, he still had so much work to do, so he deprioritized escape, reasoning that their security would weaken with time, or he would be able to sneak through a crack in the system. But now, he finally got his hands on a sizeable amount of data. Samples, notes, photos, a couple unique specimens and toxins. Not to mention Jeff was finally dead. Thanks to Alyx Vance.
"I need to find her!" Breathless, Larry continued to the silent metal plug, dull metal glaring back at him in response. "I can get out, bring my research, find the Resistance, maybe even meet up with Ross again-" He stopped again, retracing the path he took though his mind. Alyx Vance. Daughter of Eli Vance, otherwise known as Anticitizen One. And she had appeared on the day the massive vessel in the sky was being sabotaged.
She's going there, thinking numbly as he stared up at the ship, before the split-second decision was made. I need to go find her. Find her, help her do whatever she's doing, and get out of the QZ. Being chased by the Combine. Who are really pissed off. More than usual. His train of thoughts ground to a stuttering halt, his wretched brain truly considering the implications. For a brief moment, a vicious voice in his head whispered,
"You'll never find her. And even if you do, she'll be dead. Or hunted by the Combine. If you've seen with her, they'll kill you. What about your work? You'll-"
"No," he said out loud, instantly silencing the voice.
"I can help her. I will." His voice lowering slightly, "I need to get out, and I'll be damned just letting this chance slip away. Also, I would imagine she could use a hand going toe-to-toe with the Combine."
With that, he took off back to the Treasure Room, pulling himself up to the catwalk with some struggle before beginning to carefully jog into the pitch-black distillery. 20 minutes later, he finally arrived, breathless and still shaking from the few times he had ran too fast and almost fell 15 meters through a ragged hole in the floor. Bursting into the room, Larry ground to a stop, heaving for breath with hands on knees as he glanced around, his thoughts running as frantically as he had been.
What should I take with me? Should I take all of it? Or take some and come back for the rest? Might not be able to get back, thinking as his heartrate began to slow. But you have a plan for a situation like this, remember? Straightening up, he walked over to the far-right corner of the room, where a solitary filing cabinet remained. Pulling the top shelf out, he quickly grabbed the three notebooks for emergencies, which he had dubbed, "The Black Boxes." Journals containing his most valuable research. Technically, he considered everything he had recorded in his time in the QZ vital, but this stuff was key. Especially for the Resistance. In the event of an emergency, these holy books were coming with him, no compromises. Gently sliding them into his backpack, he suddenly realized, these might get bent, or torn if I put them in here.
Ideas raced through his head, trying to find a solution to this complication, until Larry had a lightbulb moment. Without delay, he took off to the room across from the Treasure Room, quickly searching for-Ah-Ha! Found you!
Picking it up, he wiped as much dust off as he could and returned to his holy books. Setting it down, he gently unclasped the latches and pulled open the briefcase with the care of a bomb diffuser. With that, he gently laid the books in, wrapping them in old newspapers he grabbed from the cabinet to cushion them. Not a great solution, but hey, work with what you got. Idea nudging into his brain, he turned to the table and grabbed the folder full of photographs and placed it in alongside the books. Triple-checking that his cargo was properly protected (at least as much as he could protect it, given the situation), he nodded, an approving hum leaving his throat.
Larry gently shut the briefcase, flipping the latches closed with a satisfied click. Reaching back into his backpack, he pulled out the coil of rope and the duct tape he had chanced upon just before he met Jeff (the stuff was a lifesaver. Literally). Covering the clasps in the tape, he then shoved the briefcase against his pack, lashing the case against the side of his pack with the rope.
High chance of getting shot in the back, grimly considering the dark but likely predictions running through his head. Those thoughts running through his head, he quickly decided to bring the volatile canisters he had carefully rigged together in case he ever needed it. The three jury-rigged surprises were gently placed into his pack, as Larry silently prayed that they wouldn't go off right next to his spine. Finally securing his semi-dangerous load, he zipped it shut and pulled it onto his back. Dusting his trousers off, he gave one last final sweep of the room.
I really hope I'll be able to come back. Willing the moment to exist forever, Larry stood there, absorbing the dark, dusty interior. Eventually, the nagging sense of urgency crept back into his attention, and he turned away, almost unwillingly, with the strange feeling he was saying goodbye to an old friend. Standing in the doorway, he suddenly twisted around and whispered into the dark room,
"I'll be back." Realizing what he just did, he let out a snort.
"Did I just unintentionally quote Terminator? Where did my life go so wrong that I do that unintentionally?" With that he turned and walked out. In his mind, Larry gave his regards to the more interesting specimens he had named as he walked past them.
Goodbye Biff, Todd, Jennifer, Mako. I'll miss you all. Ignoring the voice screaming at him that he was completely psychotic, he made his way back to the ominous metal vault door set in the ground like the world's biggest, ugliest metal jewel. After a moment of examination, testing and fiddling with the controls, Larry soon pulled the gate out of the ground with an ominous groan. Staring down into the depths, he noted the faint orange glow of antlion growths. And remains. Larry sighed.
"I really never thought I would want to be the last guest to the party." He lowered himself into the darkness.
He refused to look back.