"Black Mesa East to White Forest, come in White Forest."
John Bradford grunted, looking up from where he sat with an elevated leg. Even with all the xen fluid they'd pumped into it, the damn thing still ached. Just a walking pile of injuries these days. As he pulled the leg off of the stool with a thump, it twinged with pain. Thought comms duty was supposed to keep me out of harm's way? John grumbled, limping over to the radio, glad no one could see him.
"Whiskey Foxtrot to Bravo Mike Echo, read you loud and clear, over."
"Is that you, Bradford?" asked the radio. Dr. Mossman. One of maybe five non-Black Mesa scientists I can think of still running around here. John nurtured a private appreciation of Dr. Mossman. Part of it was that she did not demonize the HECU for doing their damn jobs in a difficult situation. The other came from filling out a sweater like nobody's business … not that he would ever admit it.
"Whiskey Foxtrot to Bravo Mike Echo, Captain John Bradford speaking, over." John hoped the doctor would pick up the hint.
"What do they have you running comms for, John?" asked Dr. Mossman, making John roll his eyes. Not even an "over" at the end of the transmission.
"Whiskey Foxtrot to Bravo Mike Echo, we are currently on lockdown due to slight escalation with local Combine forces in the area. I am still running security, but field operations are suspended." John paused momentarily, not sure how much to talk up his ability to a PhD. He'd capped out at a Masters in Homeland Security. And what a fucking joke that is in this day and age. "I am also only one of three pre-Cascade HAM radio certified personnel on base, over." The radio crackled for a few moments before Dr. Mossman responded.
"Bravo … Mike Echo? To Whiskey Foxtrot," began Dr. Mossman, earning her a nod of approval that she would never see, "we are also on lockdown. Have you caught wind of unusual activity in the air, over?"
In the air?
"Combine air forces vacated our immediate vicinity a few days ago," replied John. "Ground activity has been minimal. Only thing in our airspace is crows, over."
"Bravo Mike Echo, be advised; we have detected multiple unknown aerial incursions by a third party." John cocked his head at this, not sure what the hell he was hearing. "Their vehicles are … for a lack of a better term or description, flying saucers. Yes, John, I know what you are thinking, but this is not a joke, over."
No. You, of all people, would not make a joke like this. Might be why you're the one sending out the message. I could see Calhoun, maybe, trying to pull some kind of stunt. But not the Iron Sweater Lady.
"Can you give me a rundown on what to expect from these, uh, UFOs, over?" Why does this feel difficult to believe? I saw a mile-and-a-half long tower fall out of a portal and into the middle of New York.
"Invaders have access to plasma weaponry and their foot soldiers are, I am told, on par in musculature and temperament with a xenian grunt." The sound of rustling papers sounded through the radio. "Only I have been told they shoot, and I quote, "Godawful blasts of green plasma energy that melts steel instead of angry bees." Over."
"I wish that sentence didn't make sense to me. Over." God, I almost forgot about the bees.
"Other forces have demonstrated limited mind control capability over non or lightly modified humans," continued Dr. Mossman, almost sounding like she did not quite believe what she was reading, herself. "They have also learned to disguise themselves as citizens using some kind of … snake-like creatures. They look like citizens but possess inhuman capabilities and the ability to spit poison. Over."
"I should be writing this down," mumbled John without hitting the transmitter. "Uh, copy all, anything else?" John took the momentary silence as an opportunity to grab a grubby notepad and the stub of a pencil. Snake … poison … disguise. Psychic powers … plasma weapons…
"The Outlands should be more secure than usual – the Combine have retreated to the cities and entered a state of high alert," continued Dr. Mossman. John raised an eyebrow. Oh? "The Railroad in City 17 has been destroyed, partially as a consequence. Expect swift reprisal for urban incursions, but also expect more leeway than usual in outlying regions, over."
"I'll spread the word. Over." John pressed the remnant of the pencil's eraser to his lips. Then he wrote, very carefully, "Time to go nuts" on the paper.
"Bravo Mike Echo will keep all known operating outposts updated. As a final note: we have lost contact with our coastal bases. We believe the new invaders are responsible, but we also know that no vortal cords have been cut – no reported vortigaunt fatalities. So negotiation may be possible. Over." John rolled his eyes.
"Sure. Over."
"That's all we have right now, John," continued Dr. Mossman, sounding a little nervous. "Stay safe out there and keep your eyes open. Say hello to Dr. Magnusson for me. Over and out."
"Give the Vances my regards. Over and out." The radio cut out with a snap. John stared down at his notes, half-expecting them to turn into worms or something, and then he'd wake up in bed. Instead, his leg hurt. He sat back down in his chair and lifted it up to the rickety stool. "Guess it's, uh, time to go nuts." No Combine in my zone. I can think of quite a few buildings I'd like to booby trap for when they come back.
But that was not his primary concern. With a grunt, he removed his leg and limped to the wall, hitting the intercom button.
"Daniels to the Comm Center, I'm taking a walk." Then he waited dutifully for Daniels to finish his coffee, or masturbating, or quietly weeping (White Forest did resemble at least one of his postings in the Corps in that respect, he supposed) while he manned the radio. About three minutes later, a clean-shaven and red-faced Daniels sidled into the room, a thermos in his shaking grip.
"What do you need, Bradford?"
"Sit and listen," said John, pointing to the radio and then shoving the notepad, sans the first sheet of paper, into the man's free hand. "If it's Black Mesa East, make sure to write down everything they say. I'm going to speak to my team; I think it's time to end the lockdown."
"Well, uh, that's good." But John did not have time to chat. Straightening his leg and back, he walked as best he could out of the Comm Center and into the winding steel corridors of the White Forest missile silos.
Somewhere below, he could hear Dr. Magnusson shouting at hapless technicians while his pet vortigaunt, Uriah, likely stared on placidly. I think Dr. Mossman's greeting will have to wait. John continued onward, boots ringing against the metal of White Forest's floors. Then he crossed a bulkhead threshold, and the floor turned to concrete. The other side of the bulkhead opened, and John breathed in fresh mountain air. A pity I can't stay out in the sun.
John continued through the courtyard, nodding to the sentries posted atop the nearby rooftops, their rifles and RPGs glinting in the warm sun. He stopped before a door copiously covered in post-it notes, all of them covered in variants of the word "caution," and knocked smartly three times. A slot on the door opened at eye level. John stated Jane Kelly dead in the eyes and privately dared her to ask him the password.
"Pass-"
"Not in the mood. Is the team still down there?" The way Jane Kelly glanced away for a second was not reassuring.
"Yes," she said, in a way that clearly indicated an incoming "but." "But-"
"Good. Open up." John knew his tone brooked no argument, although he also knew sometimes Jane Kelly would be open to an argument anyway. This time, at least, the slot closed, and the door opened. Jane Kelly stood at the side of the door, arms folded, not quite catching John's eye. Oh, God, what is it now? I've got UFOs and snake men to worry about, for fuck's sake. "Lead on." John shut the door behind him. Jane Kelly bit her lip and proceeded down the concrete steps. The staccato of rapid gunfire rattled up the winding staircase, louder and louder as they went.
"Someone's really letting them rip," said John, not certain whether to be impressed or concerned. Some of his newer people would squeeze the trigger until it went click, but usually only out of panic. The only thing they generally ended up hitting under such circumstances was either a teammate or themselves. Still, he could hear gaps in the shooting, so there had to be some aiming going on.
Jane Kelly did not say anything. They rounded the last part of the stairwell and into the best firing range they could come up with in the aftermath of an apocalypse: wooden sheets with Dr. Breen's face spray painted on or the general profile of a Combine soldier, empty beer cans and bottles, and of course, about three hundred meters of empty space for them to set up their targets. If there was only one thing John could wish for, it would be ear protection. Up close, the echoing blasts, even from the relatively small caliber of the submachinegun, made his ears bleed. Figuratively, for the moment.
Vickers and Vandal waved at him from the bench. Arrow and Menloff stood to the side, watching the shooter and shouting at each other over the din. Indeed, John looked around and saw his entire team present, but not shooting. Which meant…
"What did I say about letting randos in here?" bellowed John, making Jane wince. He rounded on her. "Is that why you're all skittish? What, someone bribe you with a can of beans? Who is this motherfucker?" John pushed his way past Menloff, who gaped at him as he passed. "Who is-"
John stopped short. Adrian Shephard calmly let his spent magazine clatter to the floor before reaching for the next shoved into his belt. He did not acknowledge John in any way, but instead took aim down range. John glanced over his shoulder.
When John had last set up the range, targets had been set up for every hundred meters. Most of his people could manage well with their pulse rifles at any range but struggled past one hundred meters with the MP7. Jane Kelly could manage the best at it, but only (a little bafflingly) after drinking. John didn't need his people to engage at that range with a SMG anyway.
Yet here Shephard was.
"Breathe," he said. "Squeeze the trigger at each NRP. Do you remember?"
Shephard was breathing. Heavily. His shoulders went up and down, and his jaw appeared locked in place. What Jane had been thinking, giving the man a gun when he was like this, was beyond him, and he soon intended to find out. But for the moment, well, he could remember a few of his buddies back when, coming back from the sand box. They found some relief in doing this. Some of them. For others, the sound of gunfire sent them back to a bad place. But the fools had already given him a gun. So there was only one way forward, unless he felt like risking reenacting a certain scene from Full Metal Jacket. And you know what? Now's not the day.
"I was on base just a week ago," muttered Shephard, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, I remember. I wouldn't be here if I didn't." John stepped back.
"Three-round bursts. Way you're shooting, might be able to hit all targets in one breath. Center mass." Adrian nodded at John's words. John turned and clapped to his people. "Targets at two hundred meters! Go!"
Vandal slammed her hand against the control panel. Wooden profiles shot up from the floor, propelled by the crappy rig that John had set up. From where John stood, he could see the targets well enough to catch the splinters as they flew forth.
Adrian fired in three round bursts with barely a half-second between each volley. Brass flew freely from his weapon in a stream of steaming metal, and his wrists twitched as the targets shot up from the floor in a pattern John had hoped would see random. It did not faze Corporal Shephard.
The gun went click and the range went silent. John motioned for someone to check the targets, and Jane Kelly hurried out there. Adrian just stood there, panting, feeling for another magazine that was not there. And I'm not giving him another one. Not yet. John approached his comrade gingerly, trying not to make any sudden moves.
"Ammunition wasn't a concern at Black Mesa so much," Adrian said absentmindedly. "There were so many bodies. Our guys. Security guards. Scientists."
"Yeah." John remembered. Their unit had airdropped in crates of ammo as the fighting had gone on, but there were already plenty of munitions on base. Part of the benefit of fighting in America, I guess. No shortage of ammunition or weapons. "I don't remember seeing any MP7s there, though."
"No. First time with this gun." Adrian glanced down at his weapon, as if only really noticing it for the first time. "What the fuck caliber is this? It's not 9 mil, is it?"
"Four point six by thirty."
"What the fuck kind of round is that?" Adrian shook his head and then brandished his weapon. "And why the hell do we have so many of these things lying around?"
"Combine took a liking to them," replied John. "Damned if I know why. Kelly?" The woman now jogged back from the end of the range, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Forty-two fresh holes at 200 meters, Captain. Only missed the last target."
Adrian shrugged. "Had to leave one to tell the other targets what he saw."
John chuckled. "Out of a forty-five round mag, that's pretty good. Looks like you've still got it."
"Be a piss-poor marine if I didn't," spat Adrian with surprising venom. "I was at Black Mesa a week ago, Bradford, I swear to God. It's not my fault time's gotten all fucky."
"No, it isn't." John kept his tone gentle. He gave Jane a look. "Based on what we've seen here today, do you think we can make use of this guy?"
"He's shooting better than any of us, sir." Jane spread her arms wide. "We're not likely to get anyone coming out of the cities like him. You two are the only ex-military people we have."
"What, Cubbage doesn't count?" But John's heart was not really in the joke. God. Combine took the rest of us. Hunted down every survivor and turned them to their side. Sometimes it seems like Resistance just means you go from dying a death by Combine negligence to a eternal life in their service. Best way to go is in combat, before they can grab you… Adrian might still be stuck in Black Mesa, but John had had plenty of other demons to wrestle with since then. And plenty of bodies to bury, too.
"No, sir, he does not." John barely heard Jane's reply, but it did bring him back to the present.
"Right. Rest of you head on upstairs while I chat with Miss Kelly, here." John clapped Adrian on the shoulder as he passed by. "Leave the gun here, marine. My range, my rules."
"Yes sir," said Adrian stiffly. He left the MP7 resting on the rack with the rest of them. John waited for the sound of echoing footsteps to fade. Then he gave Jane the coolest look he could manage, with just a hint of a curl of the lip.
"Look, it all worked out, all right-"
"And if it hadn't? If it turned out you had just handed an emotionally unstable marine a loaded weapon while surrounded by near-complete strangers in an incredibly alien environment?" John shook his head. "That could have gone incredibly fucking badly, Jane. You have no idea what kind of trauma he's living with."
"Is it true, sir?" asked Jane. "Is he really from Black Mesa? Did you know each other from before?"
"Don't change the subject." John took a step closer to Jane, folded his arms. "You do something like that again, you'll be stuck on guard duty in the secondary silo until the next Seven Hour War. Fuck, if we weren't so short on people, I'd sure as hell love to arrange something worse. You understand?" John jabbed a finger at the ground. "My range. My squad. My rules. The world might have ended, but my standards have not. You understand?"
"I do. I'm sorry." Jane Kelly looked and sounded contrite at least, with her head bowed, only intermittently making eye contact. John nodded.
"Outstanding." He held a palm towards the entrance. "After you." Jane began to shamble up the stairs. John paused for a moment, and then decided to go for it. "And for what it is worth, I think it did do him some good."
"That was the hope, Captain," she said, so quiet John almost did not hear. He chose not to say anything back.
John found Adrian surrounded by a half-circle of admirers at the top of the staircase, and he seemed to be taking their questions in stride, even laughing as Vickers said something to him.
"No, I knew a few guys who shot straighter when drunk," he said nodding. "I think they just got nervous every time they shot, maybe because they had a DI hovering over them that would scream at the top of their lungs at the most minor fucking mistakes."
"Bradford does that sometimes," said Vandal, apparently not realizing John now stood directly behind her. "Usually to freak out the newer people fresh from the city, like this one idiot who insisted he could punch hunters to death-"
"The radio operator, yes," said John, trying to suppress laughter as Vandal nearly jumped out of her skin. "The expert on the AR3, a weapon I desperately hope to procure one day." John met Adrian's gaze. "Nice shooting, tex. You keep that up on the field, world will be saved in no time."
"You mean you guys were holding out on the whole world saving thing until I showed back up?" asked Adrian, clearly performing for the people in the room. He took a step backward with a hand on his chest. "Well hell, I'm honored."
"Heh. Don't get cocky, marine. Wait until you see some of things we're up against."
Adrian smiled, like he'd thought of something really clever to say, but the shriek of the intercom cut him off. Then the voice that bellowed forth from it outright wiped the smile from his face.
"Bradford, damn it, where are you? We have a major situation here! Report to the primary silo entrance immediately, and hurry! I don't have time for any more of your dilly dallying!"
"So many good people died at Black Mesa," said Adrian, staring up at the intercom, "how the fuck was he not one of them?"
"Who the fuck said he was good?" John sighed. "Head back downstairs and arm up. Meet me at the primary silo entrance in ten. I'll go see what it is."
"Even me, sir?" asked Adrian as the others hustled back downstairs.
"You got your shit squared away for the moment?" Adrian nodded. "Then yeah, especially you. Go grab a goddamn gun, marine."
Adrian saluted (and what an odd thing it was to see done correctly, after so many years) and sprinted after his new companions. John turned on his heel and kicked open the door. What he expected upon exiting was to see people rushing by to deal with whatever fresh nonsense Dr. Magnusson was stirring up. What he got instead was a half dozen mechanics looking up at the skies with their hand shading their eyes like it was a goddamn solar eclipse.
"What are you people-" John didn't even finish his sentence and already felt stupid. "Oh, of course. For fuck's sake." A (sigh) flying saucer, green and purple lights flashing, rotating smoothly about fifty feet above them, hovered with all the grace, dignity, and potential energy of a particularly garish hummingbird. Being a firm believer in Murphy's Law, this event did not wholly surprise John. What did surprise him was when a voice sounded from the UFO.
"Attention White Forest!" boomed a voice that put a rather unnecessary emphasis on the "wh" in "white." "This is Speaker Odessa Cubbage of the ADVENT! We are about to make a landing! Please do not open fire on us, we are here to establish diplomatic relations!"
"Is this real?" asked John, directing his question at the closest oil-covered mechanic. "Is this actually happening?" The man gave him a look of mixed terror and resignation.
"I knew that pot of coffee had gone bad!"
"I'm not on acid," said John to himself as he took off, sprinting to the (thankfully open) bulkhead and through the steel corridors. "I'm not on acid, I'm not on acid…"
"Bradford? Bradford, have you heard a word I have said? Are you deaf as well as blind? Have you seen what we are dealing with?" Dr. Magnusson's voice doubled on itself as John hurtled towards the silo entrance – he could hear the man himself making his announcement. "Get up here this instant!"
"Here," panted John, just as the good doctor put the intercom back in its place. "Sorry, I was-"
"At your little shooting gallery no doubt," replied Magnusson smoothly, looking John up and down. "Well, I hope you had fun with your toys, because we might end up using them for real in a few minutes." He put his hands on his hips. "I trust you did not waste all of our ammunition?"
"Guaranteeing your people don't miss on the field is never a waste of ammunition, Doctor," snapped John. "And I think you'll be pleased to see how our newest recruit handles himself."
"Would that be the delusional young man who fancies himself a time-travelling member of your former unit?" Dr. Magnusson sniffed. "To tell the truth, I am pleased to see the man can tie his own shoelaces, given his obvious cognitive struggles." Magnusson glanced at the doors and then spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Although, truth be told, perhaps I should not say anything. Did something contaminate the water? Are we, indeed, in our right frame of mind? Because I know I am not alone in seeing and hearing this."
"We got a transmission from Black Mesa East about fifteen minutes ago," said John, knowing he was about to get reamed out, and justifiably so. "They, uh, warned us about this. The UFO part, not the Cubbage part. So this is real."
Dr. Magnusson nodded rapidly, giving John a very obvious fake smile.
"But naturally you saw fit to inform your underlings of this first, rather than the man who runs this entire facility?" Dr. Magnusson kept nodding to himself and began heading towards the entrance . "Yes, yes, that makes perfect sense. Just as much sense as COLONEL ODESSA CUBBAGE COMMANDEERING A GODDAMN UFO."
John decided to keep the fact that he had not, in fact, had time to inform the team of the developing situation just yet to himself. But that was a mistake. Let myself get distracted by Adrian. Although, the whole "unstable man with a gun" thing had kind of thrown him off to start with. As he stepped into the afternoon sun only to find it shaded by the UFO passing overhead, he decided to just call the whole thing a wash.
This is a weird fucking day and the usual rules just do not apply.
The UFO now hovered about twenty-five feet above the road leading into the silo entrance. John nodded at the men and women on top of the roofs and towers, RPG launchers, crossbows, and rifles in their grips and all trained on the hovering vessel. He and Dr. Magnusson were joined by the hunched form of Magnusson's vortigaunt, Uriah, who kept his eyes trained on the UFO at all times.
"We have no songs for moments such as these," said the vortigaunt in a voice as guttural as it was suspicious. "What games do these creatures play?"
John gave a shrug of his tried shoulders. He heard the pounding of footsteps behind him and cast a glance back towards the entrance. Jane Kelly barked out orders, motioning for his people to take up position on either side of the gates, atop the makeshift battlements and roofs. Good woman. If it hadn't been for that fuckup with Adrian earlier, he would have given her a bit of praise later.
The three of them stood on the gravel road, just under the opened gate. The UFO dipped yet lower, the low thrum of its engine now audible over the sound of wind and the chirping of birds. Strangely, the craft had very little updraft, making John pay as close attention as he could to the vessel's features. No visible power source or engine; might have some kind of reactor and an … inertia-less drive? He was no scientist … but he did report to scientists. He kept his eyes peeled and looked for other obvious features.
Purple energy shields at rear of craft. Can't see from here. Horizontal slit facing us, might be some kind of loading ramp. Huh. This craft is easier to describe than what those xen guys had. John would forever remember Master Sergeant Craig Douglas's explanation to the Colonel about what they had been up against. Flying sting rays sir, and they're shooting fricking laser beams!
These were no flying sting rays. If anything, the craft felt oddly disappointing. All the alien invasions until now had possessed panache, imagination. Now the grays had arrived and selected Odessa Cubbage as their spokesperson, because Dr. Breen had been taken. These guys are last to the race. John gave Uriah a grin. The vortigaunt gave him a quizzical glance back.
The UFO finally landed, the grass barely bending at its landing. For a few moments, the three of them stood in still silence, waiting for the moment where the bastards would either send out a bunch of musical tones, or declared they came in peace (but shot to kill.) Instead, the horizontal slit opened with a small hiss of pressure, and ramp jutted from the bottom lip like some metal tongue. Heavy boots clanked downward and into the grass. Odessa Cubbage, clad in bulky and angular red armor, a blue beanie still atop his head. He gave them all a wide, if somewhat sheepish smile.
"Ah! I see you made it, Bradford. And Dr. Magnusson, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you in per-"
"What in Fermi's Paradox is going on here?" bellowed Dr. Magnusson, spit flying from his mouth. "Cubbage, what the hell are you wearing?"
"Armor – a gift from the Ethereal Ones," proclaimed Cubbage, throwing open his arms to the sky. "They are visiting all up and down the coast, bringing food, weapons, and shelter to those willing to accept it. It is why I am here – at long last, we have a strong ally to fight back against the Combine's oppression!"
"Do those who weave the Vortessence not count as such?" asked Uriah, eyeing Cubbage with what might have been disdain. "Has our allegiance not proven a backbone to this Resistance's efforts?"
"Of course they have," said Odessa hurriedly, "but your numbers are few, and you do not have an empire at your back. The Elders are both numerous and advanced."
"We can see that." John kept his hands at his sides but made sure his right hand stayed close to his holster. "Who exactly are these Elders? What do they want?"
Cubbage coughed and wiped his mouth – John suspected it was a tick he used when he needed to think of something to say – before meeting his gaze with a warm smile.
"If you come with me, you might be able to converse with one yourself, but alas, I know you have duties to attend to. Suffice to say, they came to Earth looking for something, and in us, they have found it! There just remains the small problem of the Combine occupation and, in particular, the Suppression Field…"
"How much intel you been feeding these guys, Cubbage?" asked John sharply. "You come to our doorstep, they're already aware of the Suppression Field-"
"You should still address me as colonel, Captain," chided Cubbage, a bit of red creeping into his already ruddy cheeks. "They have been surveying the planet from orbit and have drawn plenty of their own conclusions from there. I assure you, they have no military intentions towards the human race. At best, they wish to act as stewards for when the fighting is done."
"And for vortigaunts?" asked Dr. Magnusson. Cubbage gave the doctor the same smile John's Labrador did when they went to the vet.
"Vortigaunts will most certainly have a place in post-Combine society. They are our guests, just as the Elders are."
"What has become of our brother at the NLO?" asked Uriah. "We would hear his thoughts on this matter."
"I didn't think to bring him." Cubbage shrugged. "We can always make a return visit, should you allow it. Now," Cubbage straightened and made a forward motion with his hands. Two men in citizen's jumpsuits descended the ramp, sunglasses over their eyes. Their gait looked odd, somehow, as though the legs were bending just a tad more than they should be. One carried some kind of radio transmitter array in his hands, which clicked and whirred as they descended the steps.
"What is that? Some kind of microwave emitter?" Dr. Magnusson folded his arms. "Explain yourself, young man! I will not be doused with radioactive particles without first consenting to it!"
"No radiation, doctor," said Cubbage, his eyes on the device instead of the people he spoke to. "It's a scanner, looking for a neurological match, or as close to it as possible."
"Very strong activity," said the man holding the device in a low rasp.
"Above. On the battlements. And here, before us." The man pointed the scanner at John. "This one. Seventy percent."
"That's excellent!" Cubbage beamed at John. "You are a very special man, Captain, but we knew that already. And the other?" The strange man pointed the scanner upwards, towards the battlements where some of John's squad hid. "Ah. Captain, who is that young man? With the very close-cropped hair?"
John took one glance backward. "Why the fuck do you want to know?"
"We have found a new base template," muttered the strange man holding the scanner. "We need to take him in."
"You will not touch him." John took a single step forward, swiping his hands to either side of his torso. The two men flanking Cubbage tensed, like snakes ready to strike. Cubbage himself, tutted weakly.
"He will not be harmed, John. We only wish to unlock his full potential – both as a warrior and a human being." Cubbage spread his arms wide again. "We came here bearing gifts, and all we ask is a day or two with the young…" Cubbage furrowed his brow. The smile on his face went from obsequious to … something else. Something John did not like at all.
"Corporal Shephard, is it?" he asked in a voice that sent John's heart thundering.
"Get out."
"We are all on the same side here, Captain," said Cubbage, something very different about him now, like a shadow had passed over his eyes. "The Combine must be overthrown, and we are being handed the tools to do so. If you would just give us a chance, soon you will see things like I do." Cubbage extended an armored hand. John looked down at it, then back up to the man who once dared call himself "Colonel."
"I said get out, you treacherous piece of shit."
Cubbage shrugged irritably. "As you will. But first, we have something for you and yours." He motioned again to the ramp. Something in the shadowy recesses of the ship pushed out a crate. It slid down the ramp and came to a stop in the road. Another crate followed. Then another. Cubbage slid the first forward with hand and boot, and opened it up with a hiss.
"Salvage from our operations so far," he reported stiffly. Magnusson gasped. Dozens of pulse rifles, stacked neatly in rows. Cubbage opened another crate. Body armor folded neatly, somehow reclaimed from the bodies they were supposed to be fused to. A third crate – Overwatch helmets. Something about the way the blue goggles stared up lifelessly at them all made his skin crawl. Those are never supposed to be empty.
"It is difficult to part the flesh beneath with the Kevlar above, but with the Elder's tools and by the Elder's will, it can be done." Cubbage flashed a smile at the host of people watching from the walls. "We have food as well. Things we do not need, thanks to the Elders … but you still do." Cubbage looked back to John, who gritted his teeth.
"We leave them here, for you to accept or reject as you please. Either way, we are not carrying them home with us." Cubbage gave John a stiff nod before retreating up the right, still flanked by the two men that John now fully realized were not men at all. "We will be back, John, the moment we know you will accept us with open arms. I pray that this day is close at hand."
The ramp retreated, the tongue slithering back into the jaws of hell. Cubbage, clad in crimson, watched them all as the UFO's door hissed shut slowly, his arms folded behind his back, his gaze fixed on, not John, but the figure whom he should not have been able to see, whose name he should not have known. Then the door closed, and the UFO lifted like a feather someone had breathed on. It departed with far less fanfare than it had arrived with. If not for the half dozen heavy red and black crates littered about the road, there would have been no evidence aliens had visited White Forest at all.
John and Magnusson exchanged looks. "Hope I did not overstep my bounds there, doc."
"On the contrary, Captain, I would say you provided an excellent example to the rest of the staff." He turned to the battlements, hands on his hips. "You see that, everyone? That is how we should treat false friends and empty promises!"
"Does the Magnusson wish to destroy the crates?" asked Uriah, prompting the doctor to sigh.
"No, Uriah, we're defiant but we are also desperate. We will scan all of it and make use of whatever we can. I'm not going to condemn the base to reduced rations when we are left meals on our doorstep."
It felt a bit duplicitous, but John saw no reason to argue with Magnusson. There was a war on, after all, and tossing the contents of the crates would have been pointless.
"What I want," said Magnusson, pounding a fist into his hand, "is to finally get Kleiner off his physics-defiant boondoggle and to finally help me tap into that old Lambda satellite that Freeman launched for still-nebulous reasons! It's just been sitting up there, collecting space dust, and now we might be able to use it as a spyglass on our new friends in orbit!"
"Does the Magnusson also wish to launch the White Forest satellite?"
"Want to? Certainly. Will he? Only if he were certain there was not a single active Citadel left on the planet." Magnusson shook his head. "Who knows? Maybe we will get our chance." He gave one last look back to John, then a rare nod of real appreciation. "Well. Enough spectacle. All right everyone! Yes, you, the gawkers and layabouts. Party's over – someone help me with these crates."
John helped tug in the crate of helmets with Uriah, leaving a small trail in the gravel where it dragged. His squad greeted him at the entrance, crowing around the helmets with low whistles.
"What the hell was that about, Captain?"
"Were they telling the truth? Is there gonna be a Resistance civil war?"
"Captain," began Adrian, and John stopped to meet his gaze. He looks so young. "Captain, what did they want with me?"
John froze, not sure what to say. For a moment, he looked away. Then, slowly, deliberately, he grabbed Adrian's shoulder and squeezed.
"They can't have you," said John. "They're not taking you from us again."