The cloud whirled by overhead, the shadows dancing and deepening as day turned to night turned to day. Trees budded, sprouted leaves, and then the leaves withered and drifted away, dead and brown. In seven hours, all the effort in the world went to waste, until … well.
Gordon Freeman waited for a train. He did not know it yet, but he stood still and silent atop the platform, the clanking of wheels on rails just at the edge of his hearing. From above, He looked down on Freeman, expressionless. Gordon's thoughts were obvious – the man waited, dreaming, the horrors he had witnessed temporarily forgotten. But this other, his handler … he only straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
"Rise and shine, Mr. Freeman. Rise and … shine."
This handler wore a blue suit and red tie, a metallic grey briefcase gripped in his thin fingers. His eyes shone with a green people would remember, even if they forgot the rest of his face. Gordon Freeman's eyes possessed a similar emerald sheen, although his goatee and glasses made him more distinguishable than this G-Man.
Gordon's eyes were already open. Some remnant of consciousness still sparked deep down. Yet, as the G-Man spoke, he finally … woke up. His eyes moved back and forth as his lips thinned into a worried frown. But Gordon Freeman did not speak. This was hardly unusual.
"I do apologize for the wait, Mr. Freeman, but recent matters have required an … adjustment of our schedule." The G-Man's voice possessed an odd cantor, speeding and slowing at random like a drunk driver, holding on a "s" at one moment, before jumping through "adjustment" in a blur of syllables. Gordon shook his pounding head. He could see the G-Man's face and torso, but also something else as the G-Man grew transparent and, confusingly, remained in sight.
Behind the apparition, the Anomalous Materials test chamber ran its final scan, the anti-mass spectrometer blazing in lurid gold. Gordon looked down at the place that had turned his life to hell with a mixture of disgust and regret. The G-Man inclined his head.
"The hour drew near, but hitherto unforeseen circumstances forced us to … reconsider where you would be most needed, Mr. Freeman." The G-Man straightened his tie. The test chamber behind him faded to the frozen image of a strange angular train in flames, smoke rising from the passenger cars in great plumes. "Of course, you are hardly unaccustomed to running a little late to work, hm?"
If Gordon took this as a slight, he gave no sign of it. The train changed to the rolling waves of the ocean, speeding by under them at the speed of sound. But Gordon could not hear the water or smell the salt. It was little more than a slide on a projector, running at the behest of the man operating it. The G-Man's smile widened.
"I must duly claim responsibility for your tardiness, Mr. Freeman, and pray that those you must serve understand your absence. In time, all will become clear. In time."
The ocean view shifted upwards. The air distorted, making Gordon grit his teeth. It was like looking up and seeing a heat wave rising from the tarmac – common enough at Black Mesa. But this wave stretched in all directions and made his eyes water – and the source remained unclear. Some enormous source of energy lay before him, floating over the seas … yet he could not see it. But he heard it, just as his vision began to narrow out and darken – a great roar punctuated by a hoarse whisper.
He is here.
"In the meantime, Mr. Freeman," said the G-Man, putting a strange emphasis on time, "you have a train to catch. Breathe deep. Feel the sunlight on your face."
Light edged its way into Gordon's vision. He stood aboard a train, its windows cracked and dirty, bullet holes puncturing them in several places. Grubby men and women in dirty blue jumpsuits sat slumped on the filthy seats, luggage planted securely in their laps or at their feet. The G-Man began to fade into the distance, the projector reaching the end of its presentation. After a moment, he faded away entirely. And Dr. Gordon Freeman, employee of the Black Mesa Anomalous Materials Lab, veteran of the Black Mesa incident, came to as his vision flashed white.
Gordon breathed heavily, not sure whether these strange and grubby people would notice his entrance. Not a one of them looked up. The rails beneath the train squeaked and clanked as the vehicle continued its passage. Gordon looked to his left. A cliff greeted his sight, a strip of barriers running at its edge. A highway. He looked to his right. The sun, beginning to set, casting a resplendent reflection over the glimmering waves of the ocean. I am … free?
Gordon Freeman breathed out, knowing that, whatever else, he stood on Earth once again. Then, heart thudding, he knew that the next stage meant figuring out exactly where on Earth was "here." There were plenty of places he could think of he would rather not be. Black Mesa was of course at the forefront, but there were others. Albuquerque. Afghanistan. Belgium. Gordon Freeman glanced back out over the ocean. Can't be Belgium. Thank God.
And judging by the occasional alpine tree dotting the nearby cliffs, as well as the temperature, it was unlikely to be the other two places. So, if nothing else, Gordon Freeman had to conclude he was in a better place. He took a hesitant step forward. A bearded black man, leaning against the wall next to the train doors, spared him a tired glance.
"Didn't see you get on," he mumbled, before resuming staring at nothing. Gordon Freeman shrugged. No, I'm sure you didn't. He looked the man up and down. Am I on some kind of prison transport? A white label ran between the man's shoulders, a row of numbers and letters stretching across it. The threadbare knees of his jeans barely kept his pants past his shins up, and dirt and food stains dotted his arms and torso. Looking around the train carriage, the others looked little better.
A woman shivered to herself, teeth chattering, thin arms crossed across her chest. Her stringy blonde hair came up in a ragged ponytail that ran down her back. Her cheeks clung close enough to her face to look sunken, and she pointedly refused eye contact with anyone else in the train.
Another man sat in the corner, practically slumped over a suitcase that did not close completely. Periodically he would try to push the contents of the bag down and run the zipper through, but it would not budge. He paid no one else any mind.
Co-ed prison with lax security? Something was not right. Well, many things were not right. At times like these, it made sense to check the fundamentals. Gordon sucked in a short breath and hopped in place. He came down with a thud, just as he should have. Not Xen. The black man by the door glanced back at him.
"Do you mind?" he asked, his heart plainly not really in it. No one else looked up at Gordon. Gordon shrugged again and sat down to think. The gentleman shrugged and resumed staring out over the sea.
Stuck on a train. Late for work. Last time this had happened, he had wondered how the day could have gotten worse. The answer to that question had been both unbelievable and incredibly unwelcome. Gordon took care not to ask it here.
Gordon also knew better to ask his fellow passengers where they were all going and why. They spoke English (a good sign) but were plainly not in the best mental or physical health – even the man by the door had heavy lids under his eyes. Have to wait for it. The situation should make itself clear. If only I didn't feel so naked. Wait…
Gordon looked down at himself. A wrinkled blue shirt, torn in places, draped over his chest. Jeans, scratchy and a little tight, ran over his muscled legs. And, almost as an insult, his shoelaces were untied. Whoever that specter had been, he had really been thorough in making sure Gordon was dressed the part as a beaten-down human being railroaded to nowhere. Sighing, Gordon tied his shoelaces. Thought he said I had earned the suit?
Of course, as his mother would have pointed out, Gordon had been foolish to trust a stranger, even one who could control space and time. No, especially. Who knows what he has gotten away with since … Gordon's eyes widened. Exactly how late for work am I?
"Oh, for crying out loud," murmured the man by the door, neck craning against the window. "Grab on to something."
The train braked without warning, making Gordon start. Hardly like the IVB back in Innsbruck. He regained his balance easily and waited, hands on knees, for the train to come to a complete halt. The other two passengers looked up anxiously to the door.
"What do they want?" asked the woman, voice cracking slightly. "Did we hit another garg?"
"Looks like another damn security checkpoint," spat the man by the door. "Leave your luggage here if you want to keep it."
"Don't touch my stuff," mumbled the man in the corner, hurriedly standing and placing his still-open suitcase on top of his seat. "Don't touch my stuff, don't touch my stuff."
"Civil Protection?" asked the woman.
"Nah. Overwatch." The woman slumped in her seat, hands shaking.
"Can't do Overwatch today. Don't want to. Do you think they'll let me stay in here?"
"What do you think?" asked the man by the door derisively. "Come on." The woman stood, her knees knocking against each other. Gordon felt a pang of pity for the girl, even if he could not quite tell what was going on. Her fear felt quite palpable. The train finally lurched to a stop. The doors screeched open. The man by the door stretched and gave Gordon a backwards glance.
"Get a move on, buddy. You don't wanna keep them waiting."
Gordon, trusting this train guru's sage wisdom, stood up and followed his fellow three passengers down the steps and into the gravel. A stretch of beach lay below them, fallen tree branches dotting its still sands. The air felt damp with salt. Still, Gordon breathed it in gratefully.
Other passengers jumped down from their respective cars into the gravel with a crunch. At the forefront of the train, someone in black and white uniform, wearing a gas mask of all things, waved them all forward. Up ahead, strange sheltered towers rose on either side of the railroad, and men with guns at their shoulders waited for the passengers to proceed towards them. Don't like this. Could be bad. Are they checking for me?
Was this all a ploy to hand him back to the government? Gordon had so many questions, but this was hardly the time to ask any of them. All he could do was step forward and pray that whatever plan that bastard Time Lord had in place involved his survival. He went to a hell of a lot of effort to get me out of Xen, however he managed that. And freeze me in time, however he managed that. And send me here, however he managed that. Many questions.
One man, rail thin with slicked back hair, leapt nimbly down from his carriage. As Gordon passed by, the man made eye contact, and then he gave a queer smile.
"You – friend," he said stepping forward, breaking up the line. The red-haired woman behind Gordon stopped in apparent shock, not quite sure what she was seeing. "Pardon, friend, but might I know your name?"
"Word to the wise," said the woman, stepping in and glancing at both of them, "keep it to yourself. This isn't the time."
The thin man smiled in a way that made both Gordon and the interloper step back. Gordon had only seen smile like that before on Shark Week.
"Can't you see that he is special?" asked the thin man quietly. The woman looked at him as if he were mad. "No … no, of course not." The man gave a swift jerk of his head to the line of soldiers in the distance. Something about the way it bent made the hair on the back of Gordon's neck prickle. "Tch. They're waiting for you, friend. At the checkpoint."
Gordon shrugged and continued past the weirdo, who fell in after the red-haired woman, who noticeably sped up to give him a berth.
As the line reached the head of the train, Gordon got a better look at the man who might be their conductor. He wore a white gas mask, obscuring his features, but the broadness of his shoulders, and the way he puffed his skinny chest out revealed that he, at the very least, was a male specimen. He wore a pistol at his hip, and his right hand never strayed far from the holster. Gordon spared the man a single glance, and he immediately took a threatening step forward.
"Keep moving." The voice was so heavily vocoded to sound almost completely mechanical, but at least Gordon had not been recognized. Gordon obeyed the conductor's command and followed his shivering compatriots to the two towers ahead.
Up close, Gordon could hear the tower shelters flapping in the stiff sea breeze. The towers themselves appeared constructed of some kind of dark blue steel, with a yellow spiraling symbol of some kind adorning their side. A cluster of buildings, previously unviewable, huddled together to the left of the rail line. Heavy electrical cables stretched from the leftmost tower to the buildings below, but Gordon could not tell whether it was drawing power or sending it. To their right, the slope to the side of the railroad gave way to the beach, a small paved road providing a path downward. Strangely and somewhat inexplicably, a blue steel obelisk about ten feet high sat at the top of the drive, a pillar in its center periodically coming up and slamming back down, sending up a shockwave each time. Even from here, Gordon could feel the vibration beneath his feet, and hear the muffled thud.
Whatever this thrumming machine was would have to wait, however. He was close enough now to see this Overwatch firsthand.
More gas masks. Gordon took some small relief that they were clearly not HECU – hell, from what he could see, they didn't even look American. The soldiers stood at a uniform height, unfamiliar lengthy rifles clutched in their gloved hands. They were covered, head to toe, in a thick gray substance that might have been Kevlar, while their eyes remained hidden behind thick blue goggles. One of these soldiers, weapon dangling from a strap over his (well, it might have been her – with armor that thick and the soldiers so identical it might have been an all-female unit for all he knew) shoulder, carried a small humming device that resembled the product of an unholy union between a tuning fork and a metal detector. Gordon watched it blankly, hoping this was not some kind of Freeman detector. The soldier knelt down as he ran the object up and down the length of the train guru's body.
"You're clean. Move back." The soldier made a dismissive gesture to the train guru, who sighed and made an about face. He seemed a good deal in more of a hurry to get back in the train than he had getting out of it. "Next forward."
The blonde woman, knees still quaking, stepped forward, almost tripping as she reached the soldier. The gas-masked scanner reached out with his device.
"Hold still." The soldier swept across her face, across her arms, then down a pants leg. The device gave a shrill beep.
"Pathogen detected. Prep antiseptic."
"What?" asked the woman, voice shrill, hair whipping back and forth as she turned to see half a dozen guns trained on her. "What are you talking about, I didn't-"
Her building terror came to an abrupt end as the scanner soldier brandished his rifle. With a single violent jerk, he jammed the stock of the weapon into the back of the woman's head. With a wet thud, she went down, moaning.
"Check history and registration. Notify Prospekt dispatch for pickup."
No one in line looked at the woman. They found interest in passing clouds, the tranquil waters, the shelters flapping in the breeze. Everyone in line except Gordon. He stared at the woman's unconscious body as two soldiers carted her off, a low drone in his ears, punctuated by a single sentence.
Rescue at last, thank God you're here…
Gordon's gaze lingered on the strange guns the soldiers carried. One of the gas masks returned his gaze without apparent rancor or interest. The scanner, the butt of his rifle now coated in a small amount of dripping blood and some loose blonde strands, slung his weapon back over his shoulder before pulling his scanner from his belt. He looked back to his shiftless line of passengers.
"Next forward." The suitcase man stepped forward, sucking on both his cheeks in anxiety. But the tuning fork thing passed by his body without incident, and he practically skipped his way back to the train. That left Gordon, stepping forward in unfamiliar shoes in an unfamiliar land, faced with an unfamiliar foe.
"Arms out. Hold still." Gordon complied, but he kept his eyes on the soldier's befouled gun the whole time. No sooner had the tuning fork run across its face, it gave a shrill beep. The soldier stared at it for a moment, as if uncomprehending.
"Uh, registration error. No presence in database."
"Age parameters render that improbable," another soldier chimed in, sounding indistinguishable from the first. "Check equipment."
"Nominal wear. Equipment functional. Uh, running bypass and checking for pathogens." Gordon, sweating a little, stood there with his arms out, wondering every second if the back of his skull were about to get caved in. The tuning fork passed down his arms and chest without incident. It swept down his pants legs no problem. The soldier stood up, posture stiff, before bringing a hand to the side of his helmeted head.
"No pathogen detected. No registration found. Overwatch, we have a possible miscount. Recommend temporary detainment and interrogation of train's supervising Civil Protection officer." The soldier looked back to Gordon, then pointed with his free hand to the base of the tower. "Stand there. Wait for further instructions."
Gordon half-expected that the soldier would include an addendum like, "Run and we will shoot you," but that seemed to be an obvious unspoken guarantee. Gordon stepped over there gingerly and waited, eyes still on the rifles of his captors. The red-haired woman stepped forward, pointedly not looking at Gordon. The tuning fork thing passed over her without incident. She left without a backward glance.
Meanwhile, one of the soldiers brought out the train conductor, the "supervisor" of the passengers. His chest no longer looked quite so puffed out, and his demeanor verged on the plaintive.
"No presence on registry. Did you check all passengers?"
"Checked and double-checked," replied the conductor, his vocoder a slightly higher pitch than the soldiers. Gordon also detected something else that he possessed that the soldier's lacked – inflection: a trace of emotion, even if it was cold. "All cleared with dispatch – bound for City 17 per relocation protocol."
"Check with dispatch," said one of the soldiers, and another jogged off towards the buildings. "Incompetence is potential conspiracy. You saw all passengers board this train?" The conductor looked towards Gordon. Behind him, the thin man stepped forward, a smile playing about his pale lips. Gordon realized somehow, even through the lens of the mask, that the conductor had just come to a chilling realization: he had not seen Gordon board the train. We're both in the barrel today, buddy.
"Hold out your arms," said the scanning soldier, heedless of the ensuing drama. The conductor, still silent, finally shook his head.
"Parasite. Must have made a stealthy entry. I did not see him board."
The soldier's head snapped to Gordon. The scanner gave a shrill beep.
"No registry, pathogens-"
"Detected, yes. But by now, the coordinates are locked." The thin man looked to Gordon, still smiling. "Wait for it."
"Ready weapons, prepare antibiotics."
"I assure you," said the thin man, turning to the soldiers, "they are already on their way." Then, the man leapt straight up, about fifteen. Rifle reports went off all around Gordon, who flung himself to the ground. The shots went wide as the being landed nimbly atop the tower and ducked out of sight. Then, from the buildings, a siren sounded.
"Vital alert – Airwatch reports localized disturbance in your sector. Clamp. Inoculate. Protect."
The air above began to shimmer with heat. Then, as two soldiers kept firing on the tower and the other moved to head around the side and up the staircase, something fell from the heavens.
A heavy thing crashed into the railroad, smashing the lines into steaming bits of distorted metal. Something large and angry reared its head and roared. Above, something gave a low whistle. A circular cloud revealed itself in a glint of steel, descending like a particularly slow frisbee. Meanwhile, more beams of light shone about the tracks on either side of the tower.
"Overwatch, foreign pathogens in this zone. Requesting specialist support."
"Overwatch, MEC support requested in this zone, we have active xenobiotics."
"Ripcord, ripcord!"
The alien, a great gorilla-like beast with a pink face and heavy green armor, drew a similarly bright green gun forth and fired. Predictably green globs of what might have been plasma went steaming by overhead, making Gordon plant his head solidly in the dirt as the bullets and energy blasts whizzed by.
One of those globs caught the scanning soldier square in the chest as he readied his weapon. He gave a single electronic scream and collapsed backwards, his armor smoking. His weapon skidded close to where Gordon lay. The soldier did not rise. Gordon did not hesitate.
Gordon grabbed hold of the weapon's stock and dragged it towards him, rising in one smooth motion. With a grimace, he planted the befouled butt of the gun against his shoulder and took aim at … actually, who were the good guys here? There were plenty of aliens at Black Mesa. None of them friendly. None of the ones he could see had been at Black Mesa, but still.
Behind Gordon, the passenger train's conductor's cabin had burst into flames. The conductor lay twitching in a bloody heap in the gravel, having caught a backhanded blow by one of the brutes. People screamed from inside the train. All in all, Gordon did not feel like going that way.
In front of Gordon, the railroad stretched ahead, presumably eventually reaching civilization. Soldiers ducked behind the towers or retreated down towards the collection of buildings, but none paid him any mind. And the beach does look promising…
Gordon, weapon in his arms, began his mad sprint forward. Behind him, something whirred and then made a noise like the one in movies. You know, the unsheathing sound. Only a lot of them. Gordon glanced behind to see something with a scorpion tail begin lighting up the soldiers.
"Overwatch, air contaminant present, too small for scrubbers. Requesting immediate XCOM support."
"Outland checkpoint – you are approved for immediate clinical intervention," echoed an electronic female voice from somewhere near the buildings. "A local stabilization team has been diverted to your zone. Hold. Brace. Skydrop in thirty seconds."
"Friend! Stop!" The winner of the world's standing high jump yelled at Gordon as he dashed past the tower. Gordon paid the madman no mind. He dashed for the thundering obelisk, the one that sent up plumes of sand with each ground pound.
Up close, Gordon could see it had a button, currently set to "on" if the green light were any indication. Seeing no purpose to the device, but also no reason to mess with it, Gordon dashed onward, down the slope.
"Friend, not that way!"
Gordon's ill-fitted shoes touched sand. He heard the ground rumble, and sand flew into the air on his right. Something large pulled its way free from the earth. Bugs! Gordon scrambled back, the sand becoming a frenzy of chittering and flailing limbs. The bugs, eyeless, four legged, and a mix of light green and sandy brown on a triangle shaped carapace, chased after him. Gordon heard the mother of all humming wings behind him and realized these fuckers could fly.
One landed in front of him, a few feet from the pounding device … only to chitter and back away, staring at the device as if it had been physically struck by the pounding. It's like … an anti-thumper? Gordon began fervently hoping that he had not attracted a Shai-Hulud, since apparently anything was possible these days.
Gordon dove for the anti-thumper and slid against it, his back to the fighting behind him. To his right, back to the towers, stopped train, and the madness. To his left … wait. The highway he had seen earlier. It had used to run over the track, but apparently had collapsed. In the distance, however, amid the fallen concrete, a small tunnel led … well, God knew, God and the G-Man, but it was away from the worst of it. Gordon clutched his rifle tighter, knuckles whitening.
"Friend!" called out the thin man from atop the tower. "Friend, run!" Now he wants me to run? Gordon stood and turned around, angling his body to expose as little as possible. The thin man waved from atop the tower. The soldiers, having been pushed back, now took up position among the buildings, firing intermittently at the big guys hunkered down behind the towers. The disc, once again simply a harmless disc, floated seemingly harmlessly between the towers, slowly heading towards the hamlet. As Gordon watched, sparks flew from its chassis as the soldiers' rounds pinged off of it. Only, up above, something hummed and then roared, like a jet turbine winding up.
"Skydrop away."
From over the cliff, something massive and blue lunged into the sky. Gordon's jaw dropped. It looked like some kind of crab crossed with a human hand, only with turbines glowing blue-hot instead of fingernails. The "hand," gripped a white cube, maybe four feet across. The flying thing flew by the tower and released its grip before speeding on, demonstrating the kind of nimbleness Gordon knew would not have been capable in a helicopter or fighter jet. But then what is it? First the manta rays, and now this?
The cube struck the earth and sent up a plume of dirt. Then, like clockwork, arms protruded out. The rough shape of a helmet, sunken into the stark white torso, in which a single red orb shone out. Its arms, thick metal and wire bound together and suffused in a golden glow, gripped a strangely familiar weapon. The robocop faced the aliens with a stiff back and a readied weapon. A plasma bolt struck it full in the chest. For a moment, the chest plate glowed bright green, then cherry red, then just a faint orange. The robot did not so much as flinch.
"Overwatch, active xenobiotics in this zone," boomed the robot, voice so deep as to be almost indecipherable. "Overwatch, this is an active infestation zone."
"Exogen breach," called out another soldier. Suddenly, the sand around Gordon puffed with stray rounds. The sand creatures chirped and skittered back as bullets punched into them, spraying yellow ichor from the wounds. Then, with a sudden hellish buzz, they took off into the air, jumping towards the fight. "Overwatch, Sector 10 is now an infestation zone."
Gordon glanced at the obelisk, then back to the soldiers as the aliens closed in with tooth and claw. It's a long way to the tunnel. Hoping that, if any of them were left, his fellow train passengers kept the doors locked, Gordon hit the button on the anti-thumper. Then, as it whirred and ceased all movement, he ran like hell.
"Get that restrictor back online! We risk a full sector overrun!"
Something electric sounded off behind Gordon, and he suddenly realized why the robot's gun had looked familiar. Gauss gun. Like in Black Mesa. Guess they made it to mass production. What kind of future had he stumbled into?
Gordon's feet burned as he pumped stiff legs across the train tracks and over a thin layer of grass. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see the disc, a hole burned freshly through it, falling to earth in a pile of red-hot metal. A muffled bang as he turned his head again announced its spontaneous combustion.
"Scythe 2. Receiving." The robot again, voice deep. "Confirmed. New target parameters established." Gordon looked behind him. The robot looked back. For a moment, Gordon felt something weird, like making eye contact with someone at a party and realizing that you both knew each other. Then it turned to a shiver of fear. "Scythe 2 pursuing. Secondary skydrop in progress. Harden this position."
Another crab thing materialized over the hill, a crate of some kind in its grip. But Gordon saw it only for a moment. The tunnel looked tantalizingly close now. He scrambled down a hill of broken concrete and exposed rebar, minding his feet and legs on the way down. The ground shook from behind him. With a final skid of his feet, he ran for the fallen ramp that would take him up to the tunnel. Please don't be blocked.
The shaking from behind turned to thunder. Gordon took one last look behind him, only to see a hand obscure his vision. He fell backwards just in time for the robot's grasp to miss him. Then he scooted backwards on his ass, pushing against the ground with one hand while the other tried to prop up the rifle. He let off a sharp burst, and two of the rounds smacked the robot on either side of its "eye." It paid this attack no mind.
"Friend!" The jumping man stood at the top of the hill, by the rails. A big guy waited by his side. "Friend, I am coming!" He gave a stiff wave of his arm, and the big guy fired, plasma smacking into the robot's back. A chunk of charred and smoking metal fell from the robot's rear chassis. It turned in place. The thin man dove out of the way with alarming alacrity, then did a deft hand spring off the hill, landing about seven feet down. He bolted towards Gordon, who sucked in a deep breath, stood, and charged the rest of the way up the ramp. The air chilled quickly, and the light dimmed into near blackness.
"Friend!" The thin man followed inside. He turned towards the light and hissed something, something that did not sound possible coming out of a human throat and lungs. Something green and glinting flashed at the entrance of the tunnel. The thin man pelted towards Gordon, arms waving. "Friend, down!"
Gordon flung himself down. Something exploded in a flash of emerald. With a sudden tumble of rock an dust, the tunnel entrance came down, the bright light of the sun shutting off almost completely, leaving Gordon in near darkness. As the dust settled, Gordon could hear only his heartbeat, his heavy breath. Gordon stood, facing the thin cracks of light through which the sun shone through.
"Friend." He looked down. The thin man, pinned at the legs by a fallen slab of rock. As Gordon watched, the man bent all the way around, impossibly far, torso and all, trying to pry the rock loose, looking more like a worm than a man. Then he fell back, yellow eyes pinched with exhaustion. "Friend, you need only loosen it. Please, I can help you."
Gordon looked down at the thin man, then further down the tunnel. It smelled awful, he could see hardly anything, and it had obviously not seen use in a long time. But the way looked clear. And this … thing. Well, the G-Man was obviously not human. This thing has just as little of an excuse. And part of me has had it with these guys. Gordon took a half-step away.
The thin man slumped. "I understand. You are important. You must survive. I am not important. I know this. It is the way of things." He didn't even sound sad. Just … logical. Like this course of action made sense, it was just disappointing. Would I have walked away from there – well, ran – if he had not called in his friends?
Gordon stopped. There is a first time for everything. Even friendly aliens, it seems. Gordon spun on his heel, dropped his rifle to the ground. With a grunt, he leaned down and pulled up against the rock. It shifted up just an inch before Gordon had to set it down again. But an inch was all it took.
The thin man slipped from the underside of the rock like an arm from a sleeve. He stood without ever bending his knees, his torso simply bending upward like he was a slinky. He smiled at Gordon, yellow eyes glinting.
"Friend, I thank you." He gestured down the tunnel. "You will not regret this. I see well enough in the dark. Even if I know not where this leads, we will not be taken unawares."
Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but something ground against the rocks outside. Some more light sneaked in.
"They dig their way through," murmured the thin man. He gestured down the tunnel. "Let us see where this winding road takes us, hmm? And perhaps shed some light on a few matters. I think we have much to teach each other."
The thin man set off, and Gordon, scooping his rifle off the floor, followed.
"My name is … Adam, if you need one," called back the thin man. "Don't worry. Follow me, and you will soon once more feel the sunlight on your face."