Charlie's Angle

[Edcrab]

Disclaimer: I've taken liberties with what we do know about HL2, and readers are expected to have some knowledge of the HL universe, otherwise it'll sound very daft. Plot? Charlie is a "new" resistance member who repeatedly screws up. I'll post the next part if I can actually find what I did with it.... but until then go easy on me! I find it hard to try and write anything remotely serious (or coherent) :imu:



Charlie emerged from the shaft, spluttering and unsuccessfully trying to wipe grime from his face and eyes. He swore to himself that he was going to shove a crate down the throat of whoever had been in charge of this place’s repairs. He considered this, and realised that whichever technician had once tried to maintain the forlorn facility, he or she would almost certainly be long dead.
He’d been separated from the group before, but he wasn’t cut out for this; he barely knew his way around the monitored sectors. Even the near-omnipresence of the Combine and their detestable Scanners was preferable to wandering into Traptown. The improvised devices were meant to mutilate and annihilate hostile aliens, but that wouldn’t stop the horrible bladed contrivances slicing him into chunks. Worse, if he didn’t pay attention he might find himself as far as Ravenholm…
He shuddered. It was getting darker; working light-bulbs were fewer and far between. Charlie had fairly good night vision- most of the resistance did- but the increasingly dense shadows felt like wading through tar. Perhaps fifty feet in front of him there was the glow of two bulbs, a mounting rarity, and he decided to get there as fast as possible. Ironically, he didn’t fear the dark; but he’d made the mistake of consciously thinking this. What’s to fear? He’d told himself. Dark is just the lack of light. And then a treacherous, logical part of his malign brain made an atypical appearance and pointed out, rather nastily, that it meant he couldn’t see what he should fear.
Almost certain he was being pursued by monstrous toothy things, he practically ran towards the distant circle of lamplight. He was pretty sure that if he went left, up the main stairway, he’d emerge at the back of the warehouse, and Dr. Kliener was usually willing to house or at least redirect desperate members of the resistance…
A monstrous toothy thing watched him with ravenous curiosity. It was stooped, withered, and drooling. A human, even one such as Charlie, was a veritable banquet in comparison to unlucky vermin and rotting flesh.
The creature was a zombie and, like the darkness, the species was an ever growing presence in the bowels of City 17. It was about the height of a man, but its stance made it look even smaller and rather pathetic. But under its shrivelled, pallid skin there laid a creature perfectly adapted for its lifestyle; deceptively strong and fast, zombies hunted by means of surprise and idiot optimism. If hungry enough, they’d actively engage fully armoured Combine patrols. Clearly, they were as stupid as they looked.
It was faceless, sporting a parasitic Xenian headcrab rather than an actual cranium. No eyes, no ears, no mouth… at least not atop the neck. The bloodied chest bore a large maw full of masses of teeth, all of different sizes, a sickening mishmash of various canines and molars.
It let out a sound best described as “karghh”, but uttered by an asthmatic who had apparently swallowed a possessed duck. It braced itself, raising its arms, preparing for a lunge that would allow it to latch onto the human’s shoulders and begin the slow, painful process of-
The antlion leapt forward from the shadows, gripping the thing’s head between its fangs. It shook the creature in a brief but violent movement, eventually cumulating in a snapped neck and a brief, startled squeal of oddly human pitch.
Charlie whirled round to see the insect calmly chewing on a wizened and very dead zombie. It took him a little while to realise what had just occurred. The large bug seemed to be ignoring him in a vaguely affable way as it munched on the former human. Eventually, it turned round and slowly ambled off.
Whether it was a “friendly” antlion or whether it was just a wandering predator that had eaten its fill he didn’t know. The thing was… weren’t antlions and zombies- or at least headcrabs- some sort of relatives? Charlie rummaged around in his jacket for the dog-eared notebook the rookie soldier kept on his person at all times. He was pretty sure that they avoided each other and didn’t actively try to…
A compact, ridged sphere tumbled from his pocket as he produced the wad of worn, sodden paper. It had a small gash in its surface, which had leaked a dark, misty chemical into the material of his garment.
He found himself torn between elation at surviving a zombie attack and terror at having inadvertently taking one of those pheromone-filled gadgets from the lab. The group wouldn’t react well to that! They’d been saving them up for Hordan. Or someone. He was big and famous and essential, anyway. Probably wouldn’t take kindly to-
Charlie abruptly stopped worrying when something exploded near his head. Seeing the sinister shapes of uniformed Metrocops emerging from the light he’d so desperately tried to reach, he turned on his heel and ran for his life, as further bullets smacked into the surrounding concrete.

 

[Brian Damage]

Here's another example of a rather good fanfic. I especially like the dark comedy writing-style and the reference to "Hordan"...

 

[Edcrab]

God, I'm an idiot. I had nearly three thousand words of extra content and I've managed to misplace it; I'll add it when I find the damn CD/folder/whatever the hell I put it in/on. Watch this space!

And danke, Brian. Although I wonder if I should rip it off completely and refer to "Hordon"... but then again Charlie is a genuine idiot.

 

[Edcrab]

Dang. Found it too late to edit. Meh...

“Wee!”
Charlie stirred. He groaned in pain, not for the first or the last time, gripping his throbbing head. He tumbled off the old mattress and landed, face down, on the cold metal tiles. There he remained, waiting for the coloured stars to leave his vision.
“Ohh, I once knew a… guy… guy with a… thing. Yeah!”
Charlie raised his head slightly as the pain in his temple slowly faded. He blinked at the room’s other occupant and crawled back onto the mattress in obvious pain.
There was a loud hiccup, followed by another “Wee!” and the sound of someone collapsing.
“Don’t worry! I…hic… I fall over too! Hurray!”
Charlie sat up and studied the speaker. A fellow “citizen”, his distinctive uniform faded and stained, his jacket torn, inside-out and hanging from one sleeve, had pulled himself off the floor and was gleefully stumbling around the room, muttering about a guy with a clearly enormous thing. With one hand he conducted a non-existent orchestra, and the other was firmly clutching a standard-issue beverage flask. Every now and then he would elaborately raise it to his lips, although its tiny slit of clear plastic proved it to be most obviously empty. This would agitate the man, and he would mutter abuse at the flask, throw it against the wall, and fall over again. Charlie watched as he did this several times, each time retrieving the flask and continuing the sequence.
The strain of thought returned Charlie’s headache with renewed vigour. The man’s … drunk. He eventually deduced.
He recognised the room he was in. It was about the size of the storerooms back at HQ, except that it was devoid of the usual wall-mounted shelves. Instead, aged mattresses had been arranged on improvised frames of- Charlie noticed with anguish- pipes and tarnished railings, all neatly welded and bundled together with cabling. The door was dotted with tiny dents and scratches, but it was securely shut and as solid-looking as Charlie remembered others of its kind to be.
Either this was a bedroom, or a cell. Considering the circumstances of his arrival and his new companion, Charlie was inclined to go for the latter. Although it took him a while to do so.
“Where… where am I?” Charlie asked haltingly. His vision was still blurred, and he wondered just how hard he’d been hit. He remembered running, stumbling, and then something hitting him so hard he’d spiralled across the corridor.
His cellmate turned to him in surprise. His face was flushed; perhaps because it was being invaded by the joint forces of aggressive stubble and rampant nose hair. His eyes were wide in shock but his expression quickly lessened to simple manic delight as he grinned hugely. “Ayy! It’s up in arms now! We’re the great ones!”
With another “Wee!”, the man collapsed at Charlie’s feet. Charlie helped him up.
“Ayy, thanks. You’se a good type!” The amateur artiste fell back, sitting on his own bed, and begun shaking Charlie’s hand vigorously. “I’se Cerr!”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Charlie. And… uh… don’t mention it. Do you… do you know where we are?” Charlie managed to disengage himself from the man’s enthusiastic grip.
Cerr looked away and murmured something. He repeated himself a few times, and Charlie leant forward just in time to catch “…very, very sad.”
“What? What’s very sad?”
“Sad! That you’se dead!”
“What?”
“I only just met him, and now he’s dead! That’s very, very- hic- sad…!” Cerr sniffed, and then fell off the bed. “Charlie died already, you see! Strider stepped on ‘is ‘ead! I miss him…”
Charlie hauled Cerr back to a vaguely upright position. “No, Cerr- my name is also Charlie. I don’t know who the first one was but-”
Cerr looked befuddled. “Who the hell’s Cekk…cerr…ek?” He asked his flask. “I’m Rekk! The one the ladies love!” He nodded profusely, and then spent a while on his hands and knees, scrabbling for his flask. When he realised he was still holding the empty container, he tipped it to his mouth with a “Cheers!” and an appreciative belch.
“Do you know where we are?” Charlie asked quickly, before the creator of “The guy with a thing” begun his encore.
“Oh… oh. Quick.” Said the artist-formerly-known-as-Cerr solemnly. “Clocked down. Slapped in the… hic …clapper.”
“Oh.” Charlie sighed dejectedly. He’d tried to nurture the hope he’d been picked up by a hidden cell of the resistance, but it seemed likely he was in the temporary custody of the Metrocops. Temporary, because they’d either shoot him or move him. Considering it was rumoured that repeat offenders vanished into the Citadel, Charlie had reason to be so afraid.
“But it all part of MY PLAN!” Rekk roared. He raised the flask triumphantly. “The bosses...esses… guys have a plan, so mine’s even– hic- BIGGERER! I’ll get a bigger fighter! Except mine’ll be in blue instead of orange! Capable of beating any damn bastard big- hic- biozemenade! Ha!” He recalled something. “Oh, yeah. Big like the thing.”
Charlie sighed, and lay back on his bed. Rekk began the chorus of “The guy with a thing”, waving the flask at random apparitions. Nearing the third line, he interrupted himself with the beginnings of a chant; “I’se good! I’se better! I’se… hic…buggerer…”
Rekk trailed off, slid down the side of his bed, and begun snoring. Charlie remained as he was, and wondered what could possibly follow after a few patrols of explosions, Combine gunmen, aliens, pipes and drunkards. He focused his gaze on the lamp above, deliberately avoiding looking directly at Rekk. He thought of a lot of things, and worried over each of them, like the fact he wasn’t important enough to risk rescuing, and that he hadn’t the faintest idea what the hell a biozemenade was.
This solemn, thoughtful silence was broken only by a grating snore and the occasional “Wee!” interspersed with hiccups.

 

[Brian Damage]

That's just classic...

"The Guy With A Thing"... You wouldn't be a Pratchett fan, by any chance?

 

[Edcrab]

Ha! Yeah, I'm a huge, blatant Pratchett fan. I rip his work off constantly, but his style is fantastic. Anyway... I think this is the last part I've got hidden away, unless my HD has hidden depths.



“Do we have to do this?”
“Shut up.”
Charlie got a backhanded blow across his face, and wisely decided to keep quiet. Metrocops had less humour than the average bullsquid, and were just as aggressive. Except they tended to hurl orders and insults instead of acidic mucus.
They hadn’t tied him up. That made him rather angry. They thought he was so insignificant he wasn’t worth the trouble. It wouldn’t be so bad if that wasn’t actually the case; even members of the resistance didn’t like him much. Dmitri Shelov’s pet headcrab was more popular than he was.
The two guards opened the door and forcibly pushed him outside. He tumbled down a short flight of stairs, ending head first in a heap of garbage covering the length of the alleyway. The smell made him wretch, and he tried not to think about the gooey substances clinging to his clothes, but the Metrocops unsympathetically hauled him upright and shoved him in the back for the umpteenth time.
He stepped out of the alley, followed by his two captors. They led him to the centre of the cobbled street.
“Sit down.”
Charlie hesitated, and suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor after a well aimed blow from the baton of the second guard. His abuser raised his weapon meaningfully as Charlie held his knee in agony.
“Sit up, idiot.”
Mercifully, the electric-tipped rod was deactivated, but Charlie didn’t want any rod, electric or no, anywhere near his anatomy. This time he complied with the demand immediately.
The two guards stepped away from him, facing the fountain at the centre of the square. Once it may have been pure white, a column of frothing, pristine marble, but now it was nothing but a dry block of tarnished grey rock.
“We are aware of your presence. Throw down your weapons and surrender or will we eliminate this scum.”
“You have one minute to comply,” Said the other Metrocop.
For a while, the only sound was the eerie echo of the Combine lackeys’ cries, deep and corrupted by static.
Then, without warning, a single gunshot rang out. Charlie fell flat on his face, his knee pierced by a projectile.
The Metrocops looked about themselves, pistols at the ready. For a full thirty seconds nothing else could be heard but the reverberating retort of the unseen sniper’s weapon and Charlie’s whimpers.
The baton and handgun of a Metrocop clattered to the ground as the officer’s head split in a burst of red mist as another bullet rang home. The other whirled towards a window behind the fountain and let loose a few deafening shots from his sidearm. Glass tinkled a street away.
Charlie wasn’t entirely stupid; he had not survived so long in a hostile environment like City 17 from luck alone. What he did next was incredibly brave, and, as any real soldier would’ve admitted, utterly stupid.
He rolled to his left, grabbed the dead guard’s pistol, and fired repeatedly in the general direction of the remaining Metrocop.
Much to his surprise, he managed to hit the neck with his third shot. Unlike the well armed and armoured “heavies” of the Combine, standard Metrocops were outfitted only partially with padded layers of Kevlar. The throat was exposed, covered only by dark, flimsy material, so Charlie’s shot perforated the jugular, to the astonishment of both the Metrocop and Charlie.
With a corpse on each of his sides, Charlie tried to stand up. His wound was not serious; the bullet had fractured the kneecap, but it had been a glancing blow that had not penetrated the major muscle or blood vesells. It still hurt though.
“Sorry about that, Charlie,” said a gruff but pleasant voice to his right, “but I needed to ensure they thought you weren’t worth shooting.”
Charlie looked up. “Dmitri? What are you doing here?”
“Ha! I could ask you the same thing,” Charlie’s rescuer grinned. He was a tall, dark-bearded man, with the slightest hint of a Russian accent. His long hair was tied back with a threadbare band that had “WTF” written across it in faded white letters. No one ever asked him what it meant.
“I took a wrong turning and Reet obviously didn’t realise I’d gone…”
“Or she didn’t care,” Dmitri laughed. “Don’t worry, it happens to everyone. Did they torture you?”
“What? No! I think they just wanted me used as bait.”
“Well, I guess it worked,” Dmitri patted his rifle lovingly. “I thought you were Cerrekk at first, to be honest.”
“Cerrekk?”
“You’ve seen him?” Dmitri asked in surprise.
“Well, someone who couldn’t decide whether his name was Cerr or Rekk…”
“Guy from Chechnya, fairly short, with a big hairy nose?”
“That’s him,” said Charlie, although he was unsure which zone was called Chechnya. “I think he was drunk though…”
“Yes!” Dmitri punched the air. “I need to locate him. The Metrocops picked him up for being drunk and disorderly, but he’s an important man.” He looked at Charlie sternly. “Can you lead me there? Can you walk alright?”
Charlie tried his leg gingerly. It hurt, but it supported his weight far better than he’d have expected. “Sure… but… the station, it was full of cops…”
The big, hairy Russian grinned again. “That,” he said, “won’t be a problem.”

 

[Brian Damage]

This is engaging...

 

[Edcrab]

Dmitri knocked on the door.
Charlie blinked. That certainly wasn’t the usual way of doing these things.
“I suppose,” he said speculatively, “the oldest trick in the book is where you say that you’ve arrested me and that you’re escorting me to the cells.”
Dmitri Shelov rolled his eyes. “No, the oldest military trick would be where we- or rather I- kick the door down and blow the hell out of all of them. Besides, I don’t have a uniform, and no one would ever try and perform a citizen’s arrest. Ha!”
Footsteps could be heard from behind the heavy, foreboding door. Dmitri knocked again, and the gate swung open.
“Yes?” said a uniformed Metrocop.
Dmitri levelled his rifle and shot him in the head. Charlie was aghast.
“You said we weren’t storming the place!”
“No,” Dmitri said gleefully, “I just said it was the oldest trick.”
A second Metrocop ran down from the floor above, SMG raised, only to go the way of the first. Dmitri stepped over the corpses and into the building, looking around. “Cells are below, right?”
“Right,” Charlie said hesitantly. He had not expected Dmitri to literally assault the station. The kamikaze European seemed to be enjoying it, and worse, it seemed he might successfully carry out his mission.
Charlie followed Dmitri down an ill lit staircase. The Russian kicked the door at the bottom of the staircase open, and smashed the head of a nearby (but fatally unwary) guard with the butt of his rifle.
“Cerrekk!” He bellowed. “You better be in here you drunken fool!”
“Dmitri?! I’m in here!” Came a hoarse reply.
The two rebels ran to one of eight metal doors lining the corridor. Sure enough, Cerrekk, looking oddly sober, was peering through his cell’s slender viewing slot. “Get me the hell out of here! If they find out I’ve worked with Kliener they’re going to feed me to a damn Strider!”
“I don’t think Striders eat,” Charlie said timidly.
“That’ll make it all the worse!” The former drunk roared. “Just get me out!”
“We’ll have to find the key,” Dmitri muttered. “It doesn’t look like a Combine mag-seal, so that’s a small mercy.”
“We can find my stuff while we’re here,” Charlie realised suddenly. “They must put confiscated equipment somewh-”
He was interrupted by gunfire. He turned to see Dmitri calmly dispatching two more Combine hirelings. Charlie crouched behind the bulky soldier, wondering whether to offer assistance with his previously forgotten pistol. But after a brief exchange of rounds, Dmitri emerged victorious. The only signs of conflict were bullet holes on the walls and, of course, two more lead-filled cadavers.
“That door’s slightly ajar,” Dmitri said, reloading his weapon as if nothing had happened, “maybe that’s the property store.”
Charlie nodded, running over to the room his colleague had indicated. It too had started life as a storeroom, but its orderly shelves had been replaced with six battered lockers. Their padlocks were tiny and bent, clearly decorative rather than actual deterrents. Perhaps the Metrocop Dmitri had brained had been in the process of running an inventory or something; with an unlocked door, these locker banks would be a breeze to break into.
Charlie made the ultimate testament to that when he smashed them open with uncharacteristic enjoyment. Two were empty, but the others produced two pistols, four hand grenades, one mud-spattered boiler suit, an SMG scorched black by heat and, eventually, a soggy notebook and an empty pheromone grenade.
He emerged from the storeroom triumphantly, laden with the spoils of their raid. Dmitri snatched one of the grenades from his arms.
“Don’t have time to find a bloody key…” Dmitri examined the cell door critically. “Should do the trick. Stand back, Cerr.”
Seeing the man prime the explosive and place it beside his prison, Cerrekk needed no further bidding. He curled up under the far end of his bed even as Dmitri ran back up the stairs to safety, dragging Charlie with him.
The blast shook the station, but the metallic clanging directly following the explosion hinted at victory. They returned to the war torn basement to find Cerrekk scrambling out of the charred doorway, flask still in hand. “Let’s just get out of here!” The alcoholic researcher panted. “And thanks, I guess.”
“Well,” Dmitri said as they ran out the station, “I think people will be impressed.”
“Really?” Charlie said breathlessly. “Do you think this’ll make up for the time I set fire to the-”
“Probably,” the Russian said charitably. “Kliener and co. will be glad to have you back Cerr, but I’ve got to ask you one really important question.”
“What’s that?”
“Where the hell,” Dmitri said solemnly, “do you keep finding enough vodka to get drunk?”


THE END

 

[Brian Damage]

Definitely the sort of thing that deserves to be in some sort of online compendium...

 

[Edcrab]

I'm probably ill-advised to resurrect such an aging thread, but I'm actually working on something new so I might as well ask a question relevant to the HL2 universe (and the small fragment that I created) before I post up a new chapter in Charlie's pointless escapades...

For the record, no one (without the leak) knew about Lamarr the pet headcrab before the game was released, right? Because I've been arguing with a friend- it's petty but passes the time- as to whether I was strangely predictive when I alluded to Dmitri possessing a pet headcrab. Unless Gabe used his mind control ability to influence me into doing it :O

 

[Edcrab]

Blasted edit limits. Ah well.

I remember a previous speculatory thread regarding the G-man's nature, and the point someone made about his possible motives. So then I thought, what if there is some sort of ever-active dimensional and/or galactic conspiracy, it's just that the guys who are best at their job have sense enough to go undetected- but what if you were recruited by idiots?



Dimensional Oddities

Charlllieee…
The resistance member known as Charlie grunted something unintelligible and rolled onto his side.
Charrllieee…
He mumbled something about cake, and promptly fell out of bed.
Crap, did we just do that?
Shut up Kan, the Vapour system is still online, he’ll hear every word!
Charlie found himself awake and sprawled across a carpet that smelt like a rancid zombie. The dream was already fading from his mind, and as he correctly estimated the day to be in its earliest hours, he crawled back into his rock hard, freezing bed, and soon drifted off to sleep again.
Charrrlllieeeeee…
Is that really necessary Kan?
Hey, I got this thing working, I get to do it my way, all right?
Charlie mumbled something.
I think he just replied!
He just said “No! Not the legs! Stop the rabbits!”… not exactly relevant. It’s a nightmare, fool.
Charlie opened his eyes…

…and two strange-looking men were grinning at him.
“What do you know, it worked!”
“Heh, the SC won’t be calling us washouts for much longer!”
“What the hell?!” Charlie yelled in alarm.
“Ah, good, he ain’t dead either. Always a plus in this sort of situation.”
Charlie looked about himself in panic. Gone was his pokey bedroom with its broken window and the suspiciously organic rug- he was standing in a large, oval room packed full of antique furniture- although it appeared to lack either doors or windows.
“Right,” said one of the men, a shortish individual with a mass of brown hair and a hand that appeared to be plated with metal. “Let’s keep this short, right? You’re conscious mind has been projected into this demi-dimension purely so we can talk to you, you haven’t died or been abducted or anything.”
“Yeah,” said the other man, who was dressed casually, unlike his colleague who appeared to be wearing some sort of technician’s uniform- a dull grey jacket with visible shoulder and elbow pads. “This is just like a dream, ‘cept relevant.”
“Exactly. Now, all the best guys are all ready spoken for on this planet, so we decided to go out on a limb and recruit you.”
“Even though we’re not meant to,” the other guy muttered.
“Shut up!” hissed his companion.
Charlie had failed to comprehend any of the conversation, and just said “what?” in an utterly bemused manner.
“I mean, if we were poncy dimension-hoppers we could just watch from afar and be all mystic whenever we try and make you do something, but we prefer it personal,” said the metal-handed man.
“Plus it takes so much time and energy to switch dimensions you wouldn’t believe it,” said the maniac called Kan.
“You just had to mention that, didn’t you?”
“Look Ed, we want him to do our dirty work for us, it’s best to be honest.”
“You just said the dirty work part aloud, you idiot.”
Kan raised his hand, his scowl partially obscured by his reddish fringe. “Don’t make me do it!”
“Oi!”
Kan made a sudden motion, and Ed vanished in a burst of light. Charlie could just hear the words “you pulled the plug you bastard” fading into the distance. Not that this room had any real distance- despite the size, it was already starting to feel claustrophobic, and its strange heat was causing him to feel even drowsier.
“Ha. He had that coming. Right, Charles-”
“Charlie,” came the irate reply. Even though he was beginning to doubt his sanity, Charlie hated that name.
“Whatever. We need you to do something, and it’ll benefit everyone, yada yada yada.” Kan saw Charlie’s expression and sighed. “God, I hate this interdimensional crap. Always seem to end up with the guy that’s never heard of anything. Anyway, we need you to work against the Combine.”
“I do that anyway,” Charlie said automatically.
“My ass you do. You sit in here all day, and the last time you got involved in- uh, resisting you had to be saved by another guy. We ha- what the-”
Kan vanished, and Ed reappeared.
“Connection problem, not my fault,” Ed said absently. “Anyway, now that he’s gone, I’ll try to get to the point- there are worse powers than the Combine. I mean, they’re pretty bad, but don’t get me started on the Arcadimaarians or any of Primaphorior’s lot...”
“What the hell are you people talking about?!” Charlie screamed.
Kan reappeared just as the very room itself shook with the sound of a colossal bellow.
“Are you using the simulator again? Get out of there!”
“Oh, crap,” said Kan.
“All right, we have to go, but we’ll contact you again,” Ed gasped.
“Yeah,” Kan agreed, “but just to prove we’re, you know, friendly, here’s a hint- one of those Strider things is going to blow up this neighbourhood in a minute or two. Now go forth and… do whatever the hell it is you do. God, I wish we could’ve found Shepherd.”
“Last time we tried to look for him this groaning thing with a four-legged butterbean for a head tried to kill us,” Ed snapped, “give it a break.”
Charlie blinked…

…and found himself sitting up in bed.
A second later, he heard the plaintive call of a Strider in its natural habitat- a scorched suburban landscape.

Charlie, for all his faults, was a swift thinker. He could, for example, come to the wrong conclusion far faster than anyone else.
He pulled the Berretta out from under his pillow and checked its magazine. It was half empty, and he had no refills. So, a rampaging Strider was on its way, and he possessed an elderly- if reliable- pistol with less than one clip of ammunition. He doubted even the likes of Calhoun could’ve prevailed against one of the towering synths with small arms. Nevertheless, he steadied himself and barged out his quarters.
Or rather he tried to. Instead, he rebounded and almost lost his footing, because the warped steel door was stuck tight. Locked, jammed, whatever, it refused to open- no matter how many times he hit the use key (that is, the small plastic keypad next to it).
He heard distant gun fire, followed by the more reverberating bark of the Strider’s pulse cannon- the energy based machinegun that put humanity’s technology to shame. The distinctive sound of reality itself distorting split the air- at least, distinctive to a resistance member- and then the thunderous retort of the Strider’s primary weapon, a lingering blast that seemed to shake the very foundations of City 17.
Charlie’s room was damp and drafty, mostly due to the large yet broken window that dominated one wall. He pulled the wooden boards off it with ease (he had put them there in the first place and fortunately made a shoddy job of it), then used the stoutest plank to smash aside the remnants of the razor-sharp glass. He pushed his bed closer to the wall and used it to vault through the opening and into the street.
He landed clumsily, dropping his pistol, but he quickly recovered, retrieving the weapon and jumping to his feet. He could see the Strider- a biomechanical colossus ambling behind a low-roofed slum block with an almost casual gait. Charlie winced as the monstrosity’s under slung pulse gun flared into life, prompting screams and the sound of powered projectiles ricocheting from metal.
“Looks bad, doesn’t it?” said a gruff voice.
Charlie whirled round and almost fainted from relief. “Dmitri!”
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too,” the Russian said dismissively, his accent thick. “Come, I need some support. Even you would do.”
The veteran sprinted down the alleyway, and Charlie had to push himself to his limit to keep up. They emerged onto the main street, and Dmitri readied his prized Karbiner 98k, scanning for potential targets. The lovingly maintained bolt-action rifle was older than Charlie, so he couldn’t help but wonder how Dmitri seemed to have a seemingly endless supply of ammunition. Maybe Dr. Kleiner had found a way to produce bullets for it…
Finding no hostiles, Dmitri led the younger resistance member towards the Strider, which was already obscured by the partially abandoned Habitation Block 4, formerly Absolut Industries. Moving closer to the lumbering tripod wasn’t an appealing prospect, but Dmitri clearly had a plan of some sort. He tended to make one up as he went along, but they always seemed to work, simply because the old hand had little or no regard for his personal safety and would happily wrestle an Antlion for a slice of bread. He’d probably win, too.
An Overwatch officer met them as they rounded the corner of the crumbling edifice, and he pointed his USP at the pair without asking for so much as their identification code. This suited Dmitri just fine, however, and he shot the Metrocop in the head with no remorse.
Once Charlie would’ve gasped at this behaviour, but instead he just claimed the pistol, glad for a second firearm.
A trial of upturned cars and flaming wreckage led to the Strider, which was systematically pouring its full firepower into a warehouse. Charlie swallowed. Barely a week before, he’d been posted in that facility for some token guard duty…
Oblivious to the deafening gun battle, Dmitri roughly grabbed Charlie’s shoulder and brought him down behind a smoking van. The soldier snorted derisively at the scene before him.
“Huh, big men they are- letting Strider do all the dirty work.”
Charlie risked a glance from behind the immolated vehicle. About a dozen soldiers- all equipped with those sinister, angular pulse rifles that were the Combine’s standard issue assault weapon- were milling around after the synth, prepared to pick off anyone fleeing from the bullet-proof titan. The Combine’s chrome Scanners lazily circled in the air, trying to spot the dangerous insurgents their programming demanded them to locate. Charlie watched in disbelief as one troop’s head vanished in a burst of red mist.
Dmitri calmly pulled back his rifle’s slider and sent another the way of the first. “Make yourself useful,” he ordered casually, as if they were discussing office work, “there’re some Molotov cocktails in little crate beneath the drainpipe across the street, the one next to the Lamda graffiti. Go get them!”
Charlie nodded wordlessly and dashed across the war zone, hoping both to survive the trip safely and to notice the hidden cache quickly. He needn’t have worried- neither the Combine soldiers nor the high-tech Scanners noticed him, both dashing around in confusion, apparently unclear where the incoming fire heralded from.
The alley was dark and packed with refuse, but Charlie quickly located the drainpipe. It led to an unfastened grate positioned between two clearly loose cobblestones, and Charlie had little difficulty removing a moist but intact box from beneath it. He peered inside- sure enough, there were eight or so small bottles of petrol, each topped with a rag. He couldn’t help wondering why, for all their technology, it never seemed to occur to their alien oppressors to search Lambda-marked areas for secret resistance supplies.
Charlie replaced the lid and ran back towards Dmitri, who had wisely ceased his attack. The enemy had come to the conclusion that the fire had originated from an apartment block on the other side of the street- a small handful of the attack force had just kicked down the door and entered.
“I hope that place is empty, or at least full of prepared men,” Dmitri said solemnly. He snatched the crate from out of the panting Charlie’s unresisting hands. “Ah, good job. Now, take this lighter and help me set fire to inn!”
Charlie accepted the lighter, but just blinked stupidly, not understanding. “What? Doesn’t someone live there?”
“Not anymore! Just help me burn it. Scanners have thermal sensors, we need to distract them from searching base!” As if to demonstrate, Dmitri took a second lighter, set one Molotov aflame, and heaved it upward. It gracefully arced into a third storey window, producing a satisfying burst of fire.
Charlie hesitated, and Dmitri gave him a severe look. Shrugging, Charlie lit another of the improvised incendiaries and threw it at the structure. He missed the window, but the woodworm-ridden sign hanging from the entrance burst into flame.
“Hey, I think its working!” Charlie exclaimed with delight- the four scanners had stopped investigating the now collapsed warehouse and were heading for them. But his elation rapidly degenerated into stark terror. “Uh, doesn’t that mean they’ll come for us?”
“Yes, but we’re not trapped under rubble,” Dmitri snapped impatiently. “Let’s move! They’re bound to assault this end of town-”
But Dmitri was interrupted, because a large black mortar plunged from the sky and hit them.

 

[Edcrab]

Crap, is he dead?
Look, I’m seeing exactly what you’re seeing! How the hell should I know?
Well, he’s moving, that’s a start…
Charlie groaned. Not because he was in any particular pain, but because when Dmitri leant over him, coated in white dust, he was convinced he was dead.
“You okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I guess,” Charlie said, allowing Dmitri to help him back up. “What happened?”
“They started shelling the sector,” Dmitri said darkly. “But they killed a few of their own soldiers, so at least some good came of it. Let’s go.”
“Uh, wait,” Charlie said suddenly, having only just realised what was different about his companion. “You’re dressed as a cop… and you’ve got an assault rifle…”
“Oh, yeah, few things happened while you were unconscious. I mugged soldier when he ran from headcrabs.”
Charlie started, checking every shadow and every imagined noise. “’Crabs? You mean they weren’t launching explosives…?”
“Oh, don’t worry so damn much. This won’t be another Ravenholm.” Dmitri brightened up. “Although having someone like Grigori around would be big help.”
“Uh, who…?”
“Never mind. Come.”
“Oh, sure- there’s a freaking zombie over there!”
“They move slowly so they’re just fodder,” Dmitri snarled, splattered the offending mutant across the street. “Don’t worry!”
Another one of the former citizens chose that tactful moment to lumber out of the shadows of a subway tunnel. Dmitri looked shocked for just one moment before he blew the alien parasite apart with a well calculated burst of fire. “See?” he said, obviously shaken, “no problem at all.”
“What happened with the… the Strider and everything?” Charlie said, trying, without success, to remove the oily greenish-yellow blood spatters from his shirt.
“It moved on, because some resistance find tanks in old base near City 16,” Dmitri explained, reloading his pulse rifle. “They must want lot of synths there in case it’s a big uprising.”
“Fat chance of that,” Charlie sniffed. “No one ever tries anything here. Most of them just watch as others die.”
“Ah, they rally one day,” Dmitri said, more to convince himself than his pessimistic colleague. “They just need a figurehead.”
Charlie just sniffed again. Hordan this and Hordan that. Or whatever he was called. Dmitri was a small walking army and yet everyone was in awe of some legendry scientist. What was he going to do, think the Combine to death?
“At least some of us managed to get out of warehouse,” Dmitri continued. “They’re heading to the railroad outposts, they’ll be safe there. We better go there too.”
Charlie was about to say something, but Dmitri held up a hand for silence. After a moment, a telegraph wire above them began to shudder in the wind, and a strange, almost sensual keening split the air, accompanied by a whirring sound.
“Gunship! Get in tunnel now!” Dmitri bellowed.
Charlie was half-thrown, half-led down the station stairway. Once inside the dull concrete corridors of the subway, Dmitri relaxed slightly, but he insisted on moving forward until the gunship’s strange music was impossible to hear.
“The trains won’t be running,” Charlie said flatly, “so I don’t know how we could get to-”
“We’ll just walk,” Dmitri rolled his eyes. “Won’t kill us.”
“Gahaaaa, gahahaha OH GOD NOoAAaarghh!”
“The forty zombies might though,” Charlie squeaked.

 

[Vegeta897]

Very cool Edcrab.

For some reason, I really like how you put this:

"smacked into the surrounding concrete"

Smacked... It fits so well and I never thought of it!

lol I sound like a freak.

 

[Edcrab]

Thanks, but what's strange is I thought the exact opposite about the use of the word "smacked" at the time It's kind of grown on me though...

 

[Edcrab]

Well, this isn't exactly popular but I hate leaving a story unfinished. Not sure how far it'll end up going though.



Dmitri stared at the shambling horde, but didn’t panic. Charlie could only guess at how many of the creatures were limping towards them- the subway had been without electricity for as long as he could remember, and thus they were facing the monstrous creatures in almost total darkness. He prayed that his initial exaggeration wouldn’t turn out to be correct, or worse, optimistic…
Charlie winced as he was half-blinded by a flash of light- but he’d never been so glad to hear the harsh mechanism of an Overwatch rifle before. Dmitri was taking the zombies down with practised ease, aiming small bursts of fire at the headcrabs perched atop their rotting skulls, using the light cast by his weapon to his advantage.
“Help?” Dmitri asked in a tone that was part puzzled, part accusatory.
Charlie guiltily stopped his spectatorship and stepped in, firing a few token rounds at the approaching pack. To his amazement, one or two hit home, causing a creature to collapse with an agonised, disturbingly human moan. The remaining zombies seemed oblivious to their fallen comrades, lurching over the twisted corpses with no emotion, constantly groaning and grunting in semi-comprehendible pain.
For all their unnatural resilience, ‘crabbed humans lacked intelligence or any great agility, and thus Dmitri dispatched them with little difficulty. Once again, Charlie was in awe of the man’s capabilities- it was very easy to picture why he was a small legend in his own right.
Dmitri stowed his rifle in his oversized rucksack, opting instead for a small flashlight that he held alongside a .38 revolver. Why he seemed to insist on using such elderly weapons Charlie didn’t know…
Dmitri wordlessly moved on and Charlie could no nothing but follow- now that the moans of the zombies had been forever silenced, he could again hear the gunship roaming the skies above, and he was almost sure he could hear the quiet humming of scanners. He quickened his pace, and was worried to see that Dmitri did likewise.
The narrow beam from Dmitri’s torch revealed more than Charlie would’ve wanted to see- rotting corpses, abandoned luggage, greasy, yellow blood splats. He carefully avoided them all.
“See that?” Dmitri asked gruffly.
“What?”
“Yellow blood. Zombie blood. Someone was here before us.”
Charlie swallowed. “You don’t think the Overwatch have been this way…?”
“No, because they would’ve kill every zombie.” Dmitri sighed bitterly. “They only want a lot of zombies in resistance territory. Other resistance members must’ve used this route. Blood is still wet. Good sign- can’t be blocked off anymore.”
Charlie nodded. “I guess the zombies must’ve come from somewhere.”
“Pray they didn’t come from base. It zombie’s nature to wander, and they might have wandered from base if Combine shell it.”
Charlie shuddered at the thought. Dmitri’s English might have been shaky, but his resolve wasn’t. It was clear from the look on the veteran’s face that he was prepared to fight his way through hundreds of former humans or fascist soldiers. What’s more, he’d probably succeed.

 

[Edcrab]

I still don't know how I'm going to close this. It's already longer than I expected...


They’d walked for about an hour, through increasingly dark, damp passageways. Charlie didn’t complain- they hadn’t seen so much as a rat down here, and a trek through a subterranean labyrinth was preferable to a sprinting competition with zombies or whatever else could be found deep underground since the 7 Hour War…
“Ah, good,” Dmitri said brightly, “we’ve found the way out.”
And, it seemed, the source of the tunnels’ humidity. Various pipes were steadily dripping onto the floor; they’d been exposed by some massive explosion which had ripped through the roof- allowing a little sunlight to filter through- and created a colossal crater in the concrete base, which had become a pool of fetid water over time.
Charlie was just wondering how the pipes could’ve dispensed so much water in such a short time when he realised just how big the blast had been. Much of the wall had also crumbled, and beyond its mossy fissures he could see light playing on the shallows of a far larger body of water…
“Canals,” Dmitri said simply. “We’ll have to wade through them.”
Charlie didn’t think much of that proposal, and said as much. Dmitri, however, unsympathetically pushed him into the pool.
“Oh god I’m gonna die- oh, wait. It’s not very deep.” Charlie stopped his frantic thrashing and began slowly making his way out of the tunnels.
Dmitri just rolled his eyes, pocketed his torch and pistol, and followed after him.
The canal was filled with all manner of detritus- everything from the traditional shopping trolleys to burnt-out cars. Colossal gratings ran its length, but they’d long since been breached by a combination of rust and warfare. The two men had just conquered a mountainous pile of broken television sets when the ground itself shook.
“Strider,” Charlie said in terrified awe.
Dmitri shook his head and pointed upwards. “Train.”
“Scanners,” Charlie yelped, as if they were partaking in a childish word game.
Dmitri followed his companion’s shaking finger- sure enough, a horde of Scanners were flying overhead- hundreds of them. The Citadel, as black and dominating as ever, was shrouded in dense clouds of the flying reconnaissance devices, and at least four helicopters were slowly circling the alien construction.
“Citadel is on alert,” Dmitri muttered, not understanding. “What’s going on?”
Dmitri led Charlie onward, and the two couldn’t but help be disturbed by the fact that the Scanners seemed to be paying them no attention at all, intent as they were on some unknown quarry.
“Where are we going to go?” Charlie asked, his trepidation refuelled to maximum.
“Black Mesa East was my first plan, but that won’t be easy,” Dmitri admitted. “Old canals are filled with toxic waste, and not many boats about. To walk we’d have to take long route, and that not practical.”
“But where else can we go? Kleiner’s lab?”
“We’d have to pass right under Citadel’s nose,” Dmitri chided him, “too many Scanners. Railway is closest- we have plenty of bases there. Combine have never searched them properly- is our best bet. We can wait until this has blown over.”
Charlie just nodded, and they continued through the canal’s many obstacles. Much to Dmitri’s delight, however, they came across a mud-spattered medical kit, an indispensable but remarkably functional object consisting of a chemical filled cylinder set in white plastic.
“Someone must have dropped or throw away,” the Russian grinned happily.
“That’ll come in handy later,” Charlie agreed gloomily, “since one of us is bound to lose an arm.”
Dmitri pretended not to hear him, and stored it away for later. Charlie had never liked the kits much- they saved lives, but he didn’t understand them. He didn’t trust anything “improved” or even just inspired by Combine technology.
Eventually, the waterlogged men hauled themselves onto a chunk of fallen masonry, and used their increased height to reach an access ladder. Dmitri scaled it at a lightning pace, and Charlie slowly panted his way up after him. By the time he reached the balcony- it was protruding out of some old warehouse- Dmitri had kicked down the fire door and stomped haughtily inside.
“Dmitri is known to us, and Charlie has never fixed the window he broke. Redemption is found in your current bravery, perhaps.”
Charlie was taken aback, but Dmitri just beamed and shook the Vortigaunt’s hand enthusiastically.
Neat, they’ve got aliens too.
Just keep watching.

 

[Edcrab]

“The Freeman has just passed the canal checkpoint,” the alien gestured to a door, “and he goes onward to the railway.”
Dmitri nodded sagely. “That settles it- we go the same way.” He grinned, clearly excited. “Finally going to start doing something.”
Charlie prised open a crate, only to find it full of polystyrene packaging and not much else. Muttering, he moved on to the next one, using the wall bracket from a broken shelf to rip it apart.
Dmitri looked at him in alarm. “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s a warehouse,” Charlie snapped, as if this was any kind of explanation, “so I’m filling up on supplies.”
“What, without asking anyone?” Dmitri was flabbergasted. “Break crates in someone else’s HQ? Cut it out! Why did you think it acceptable?”
Charlie sheepishly replaced the container’s splintered lid. “Right. Sorry. Just seemed like the usual thing to do for some reason.” He wisely changed the subject. “So, you got a radio or something?” He asked the Vortigaunt, speaking slowly and emphasising each word.
“No. Charlie must also note that we speak your tongue fluently. Do not be annoying.”
“How do you know that this Hordon guy is about then?” Charlie quizzed.
Dmitri nudged Charlie forcibly. “They’re coterminous.”
“They’re called terminus? I thought they called themselves-”
“Just shut up.” Dmitri saluted, and the Vortigaunt responded with a nod. “We’ll make way to station and follow the canals. Thanks.”
“Dmitri is a great man in the Resistance,” the alien said solemnly, its hands clasped in respect. “We would follow you to the Freeman.”
The Russian clearly hadn’t anticipated this. “Uh, I’m flattered, but it’ll be dangerous-”
“We have been enslaved for aeons, shackled to a power we could neither question nor repel. We aid you now, in your struggle, for without help you would not succeed.”
Dmitri just shrugged uncomfortably. “Thanks. Again. I think.”
The ‘Gaunt nodded once more. “Partake of my supplies. You now have my permission, Charlie, breaker of inanimate objects.”

Dmitri was an ex-soldier- or something vaguely military- so Charlie could understand his stamina. The Vortigaunt was a hunched, elderly-looking creature, and yet it appeared to have near-unlimited endurance. Even Dmitri was panting as they passed through the dilapidated warehouse district, but the ‘Gaunt never broke a sweat. Although he didn’t even know if it could sweat.
Charlie was on the verge of collapse, and both his companions were clearly irritated at the fact that they frequently had to wait for him to catch up. In his defence, he was now laden with all sorts of useful equipment- although, admittedly, the others bore equally bulky burdens.
They stopped near a crumbling wall for no apparent reason, but Charlie hadn’t breath enough to question the decision- he just collapsed behind a chunk of charred masonry, grateful for the rest. He barely noticed the gaggle of passing Scanners, or Dmitri’s sigh of relief- he was, of course, fully aware of the intense pain in his lungs as he was dragged back to his feet and made to move on.
The warehouses- part of City 17’s once thriving industrial estates- ran the length of the disused canals. Many were intact, and most of these had been requisitioned by the Combine- turned into barracks for their insidious foot soldiers, or garages for their bizarre machines.
A depressingly large portion were no longer suitable for such conversions- they’d been ripped asunder by a variety of artillery and the collateral damage of continued warfare. Until very recently, they’d been the heart of the Resistance’s largest cell- and then they’d shelled the area into the ground. Charlie had lost count of the number of times he’d been relocated following an extensive Civil Protection assault- the raids and investigations had become common practise to him, ever since he’d been forcibly removed from City 9 for spreading seditious rumours.
City 9 was little more than a small town, yet even then it had been dominated by a Combine structure at its hub. It had been a tall spire of oppressive metal, which had terrified Charlie at the time, but nothing like the ominous Citadel, which was visible even now, towering above them and everything else in the metropolis.
Charlie shuddered. He’d been thoroughly beaten by the CP officers- but they’d presumed the sedition charge couldn’t possibly be genuine, applied as it was to a man who looked totally unthreatening. It had, however, been true- he’d been reported by a neighbour who’d taken exception to an angry tirade at the Combine presence. He was sure, now, that if he was caught execution- or worse- would be a certainty.
All the more reason, he decided, to keep up with Dmitri and the ‘Gaunt. He quickened his pace, and forced himself to think of higher values like truth and justice and freedom, rather than the heart transplant his aching body was yearning for.