J
Jerorfigan
Guest
Part 1 – Ground Zero
The fog had set in thick, engulfing the streets and enshrouding the decrepit, tin-roofed shanties that lined the block. The avenue was torn by shells; here and there, torrents of smoke fumed from enormous craters, filled with burning wreckage. Abandoned cars, sprawled out on vacant axles, lay desolate atop the pavement. Beside them rested numerous mangled bodies, strewn about haphazardly amidst streams of black gore. The streams converged into vapid pools that smelled sickly of death and decay.
It was 6:34 in the morning and the sun remained suffocated by gray clouds. The chatter of gun fire had already sprung up. Between the loud fusillades, distant cries could be heard from beyond the hollow buildings, barred off by towering piles of rubble and fallen debris.
Lying fast against a concrete barrier, Gordon peered calmly out into the darkness. He hadn’t eaten for over eighteen hours and his stomach now ached terribly. His mind, drowsy from prolonged periods of trepidation, was unfocused. Periodically, a shot would blare harshly, ricochet from afar, and zing dangerously overhead. This would arouse him briefly. Then the shooting would stop and the intermediate silence would return, making the wait all the more unbearable.
Feeling around in his pockets, he removed the last of his rations and, relinquishing his assault rifle, proceeded to devour a few remnants of stale bread. He would have to scavenge for more food during the night, when the threat of the Combine salvo was less severe. If he was at all fortunate, he could usually find supplies scattered about in crates, or left behind in some seldom apartment that had withstood the bombardment. Occasionally, during these clandestine raids, he would encounter other resistance members. Too often they were desperately weary, appearing bloodied and haggard, and on the verge of defecting. He knew he could not reside with them long, or he would risk being informed on. Despite a man’s good intentions, after a couple days in the wasteland of City 17, one is inclined to do almost anything to obtain a fitting meal.
Glancing down, Gordon noticed a red light flickering on the front dial of his hazard suit. His last power cell was almost depleted.
He stayed leaning against the barrier until, suddenly, he was alerted by a subtle clicking sound. A scanner had descended through the collapsed spire of a derelict church, opposite his position, and was zigzagging swiftly down the avenue. He thought, momentarily, that it might pass by without notice, but an abrupt change in course, at the last minute, sent the scanner gliding directly towards him. He crouched low, unfastening his crowbar from his belt. He would have to strike it since firing at it with his assault rifle would attract unwanted attention. The scanner emitted a soft whir as it oscillated about the road, swerving between the smoldering refuse. Then, finally catching sight of him, it stopped in midair and began to click rapidly.
Rushing out from behind the barrier, Gordon lunged at the scanner, which continued to hover in place. He swung his crowbar fiercely at the twirling machine, which, at the last moment, having realized the objective of its pursuer, zoomed cannily away. Gordon cursed loudly as he watched the scanner take flight, disappearing into the fog.
They knew where he was now and they would be coming for him.
Without hesitating for a moment, he grabbed his rifle and dashed back up along the avenue. It was almost 7 o’clock. In a short while, the entire area would be crawling with Combine troops. He made his way past the graveyard of rundown buildings that paralleled the street, finally veering off down a deserted alleyway, littered with heaps of trash. Vaulting over an overturned waste bin, he plunged, by accident, into a puddle of filth. This sudden lurch made him lose his balance and sent him toppling onto the ground.
Gordon looked up in time to glimpse the incandescent jets of a Combine drop ship as it made an aerial arc above the alleyway. He arose quickly, continuing frantically down the polluted passage. The craft vented a shrill screech as it swooped past, no doubt en route to the place where he was spotted by the scanner.
When he reached the end, he took off hastily down another street, being careful to stay out of sight. As he made his way through the shadows, he listened periodically for the loud radio static of his unrelenting nemesis, but heard nothing.
Part 2 – Trial and Error
The fog had cleared and the sun was now glowing calmly in the pale sky. Traces of light fell dispersed among the crumbling edifices, casting shadowy threads across the dilapidated metropolitan. Amidst the ash, pillars of concrete rose like ghosts above the barren scape. They stood precariously atop cracked bases, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. Below, the once complex byways were acutely fragmented, buried under mounds of brick and caked in sediment.
Towering darkly above this deserted expanse, the citadel, now visible through the lifting clouds, burned dismally in the morning haze. The many glistening spindles that protruded from its plated mass were now pointed vertically. When the surveillance was heightened, as would happen intermittently, the spindles would shift downward, exposing many branched apertures. Hundreds of scanners would then pour from the tiny openings, swirling synchronously in long bands before scattering out. Later in the day, as the sun made its descent, the obelisk would obscure all of the light, blanketing the entire city in gloom.
Gordon made his away along an enclosed plot. It wasn’t safe to stay on the roads since the Overwatch patrolled them constantly. He had trekked a mile, or so he thought–though it was impossible to be sure while navigating the tight slums–from where the drop ship landed. They would search the proximity and if they did not find him, they would sweep out in waves. He had to get out of there.
Crawling over fallen doors and discarded furnishings, he progressed through a dank tenement. The air inside was thick and putrid. In one room, he discovered a box tucked up against the wall, almost hidden. He chopped at it with his crowbar until it splintered. Inside, he found supplies, in particular, more rations. He ate ravenously, keeping an eye on the agape balcony. In another room he found a stack of ammunition for his rifle, as well as some shotgun slugs. He retrieved a backpack from a cadaver he found in a bunk on the upper floor. The body was of a man, pallid and stiff, with one arm dangling lifelessly over the side of his bed. Gordon placed the remaining rations and the ammunition into the pack, sealed it, and left the building.
He estimated that it would take him two days to reach Kleiner’s lab as he could not go there directly, but would have to traverse the canals. The canals were teeming with Combine and the guard alongside was formidable. With any luck, the attention brought by the scanner would have diverted most of the watch. If he could make it through before the next surveillance alert, he had a chance of sneaking by undetected.
Gordon clambered over the hood of a jaded pickup truck, which bridged the gap of a massive fault in the pavement, emerging on the edge of the sprawling district. Across the way, the road stopped. In front of him, the ground dropped off and a series of palisades stretched steeply down to the area below. Beyond that, he could see the entrance to the canal, which, on the side closest to him, was lined by a tall barbed fence. There was a wide platform beside the gate; and, standing on the platform, in a black uniform with an orange insignia, was a single patrol.
Spying a makeshift ladder along the rocky face–which he suspected was placed there by the Combine to enable quick transit between the lower zone and the upper tenements–he climbed down to the platform. There were a number of crates assembled here, allowing him to crouch out of view. Sliding behind an unusually large one, he removed his pack and seized his rifle which he had been toting on his back. The patrol still hadn’t moved. Gordon waited, watching the guard from behind the crate. The soldier was poised idly, cinching a sub-machine gun and surveying the platform indiscreetly.
The trooper glanced down momentarily. Gordon raised his weapon and took aim.
The shot was loud, resounding sharply over the platform and lingering for awhile in the depths of the aqueduct. The patrol tottered, dropping his gun, and then crumpled up against the fence. A discordant radio static signified his demise.
Gordon snapped the padlock on the gate and bounded down into the canal, landing with a splash waist-deep in the murky water. The cement divider inclined precipitously on either side; there was no going back. Scanning both directions to regain his bearings, he promptly chose a course and headed out. He waded northbound along the narrow channel, advancing toward a large conduit that jutted from the retaining wall. The acrid scent exuding from the mire was insufferable, and he tried desperately to stifle his breath.
As he neared the pipe, which–if his memory served him–would lead him to his destination, he became aware of a dozen footsteps overhead. He sank down into the water, keeping only his head above the surface. Combine radio chatter flared up directly above his position. It was too late. A frenzied voice bayed across the chasm; they had spotted him.
In an instant, five armored troops had repelled down into the canal, plunging violently into the water. Their blue laser sights danced along the walls, immediately resting on Gordon’s disheveled face.
“Disarm citizen, or be exterminated!” said a gruff voice.
Raising his hands, our unfortunate hero stood up slowly.
The fog had set in thick, engulfing the streets and enshrouding the decrepit, tin-roofed shanties that lined the block. The avenue was torn by shells; here and there, torrents of smoke fumed from enormous craters, filled with burning wreckage. Abandoned cars, sprawled out on vacant axles, lay desolate atop the pavement. Beside them rested numerous mangled bodies, strewn about haphazardly amidst streams of black gore. The streams converged into vapid pools that smelled sickly of death and decay.
It was 6:34 in the morning and the sun remained suffocated by gray clouds. The chatter of gun fire had already sprung up. Between the loud fusillades, distant cries could be heard from beyond the hollow buildings, barred off by towering piles of rubble and fallen debris.
Lying fast against a concrete barrier, Gordon peered calmly out into the darkness. He hadn’t eaten for over eighteen hours and his stomach now ached terribly. His mind, drowsy from prolonged periods of trepidation, was unfocused. Periodically, a shot would blare harshly, ricochet from afar, and zing dangerously overhead. This would arouse him briefly. Then the shooting would stop and the intermediate silence would return, making the wait all the more unbearable.
Feeling around in his pockets, he removed the last of his rations and, relinquishing his assault rifle, proceeded to devour a few remnants of stale bread. He would have to scavenge for more food during the night, when the threat of the Combine salvo was less severe. If he was at all fortunate, he could usually find supplies scattered about in crates, or left behind in some seldom apartment that had withstood the bombardment. Occasionally, during these clandestine raids, he would encounter other resistance members. Too often they were desperately weary, appearing bloodied and haggard, and on the verge of defecting. He knew he could not reside with them long, or he would risk being informed on. Despite a man’s good intentions, after a couple days in the wasteland of City 17, one is inclined to do almost anything to obtain a fitting meal.
Glancing down, Gordon noticed a red light flickering on the front dial of his hazard suit. His last power cell was almost depleted.
He stayed leaning against the barrier until, suddenly, he was alerted by a subtle clicking sound. A scanner had descended through the collapsed spire of a derelict church, opposite his position, and was zigzagging swiftly down the avenue. He thought, momentarily, that it might pass by without notice, but an abrupt change in course, at the last minute, sent the scanner gliding directly towards him. He crouched low, unfastening his crowbar from his belt. He would have to strike it since firing at it with his assault rifle would attract unwanted attention. The scanner emitted a soft whir as it oscillated about the road, swerving between the smoldering refuse. Then, finally catching sight of him, it stopped in midair and began to click rapidly.
Rushing out from behind the barrier, Gordon lunged at the scanner, which continued to hover in place. He swung his crowbar fiercely at the twirling machine, which, at the last moment, having realized the objective of its pursuer, zoomed cannily away. Gordon cursed loudly as he watched the scanner take flight, disappearing into the fog.
They knew where he was now and they would be coming for him.
Without hesitating for a moment, he grabbed his rifle and dashed back up along the avenue. It was almost 7 o’clock. In a short while, the entire area would be crawling with Combine troops. He made his way past the graveyard of rundown buildings that paralleled the street, finally veering off down a deserted alleyway, littered with heaps of trash. Vaulting over an overturned waste bin, he plunged, by accident, into a puddle of filth. This sudden lurch made him lose his balance and sent him toppling onto the ground.
Gordon looked up in time to glimpse the incandescent jets of a Combine drop ship as it made an aerial arc above the alleyway. He arose quickly, continuing frantically down the polluted passage. The craft vented a shrill screech as it swooped past, no doubt en route to the place where he was spotted by the scanner.
When he reached the end, he took off hastily down another street, being careful to stay out of sight. As he made his way through the shadows, he listened periodically for the loud radio static of his unrelenting nemesis, but heard nothing.
Part 2 – Trial and Error
The fog had cleared and the sun was now glowing calmly in the pale sky. Traces of light fell dispersed among the crumbling edifices, casting shadowy threads across the dilapidated metropolitan. Amidst the ash, pillars of concrete rose like ghosts above the barren scape. They stood precariously atop cracked bases, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. Below, the once complex byways were acutely fragmented, buried under mounds of brick and caked in sediment.
Towering darkly above this deserted expanse, the citadel, now visible through the lifting clouds, burned dismally in the morning haze. The many glistening spindles that protruded from its plated mass were now pointed vertically. When the surveillance was heightened, as would happen intermittently, the spindles would shift downward, exposing many branched apertures. Hundreds of scanners would then pour from the tiny openings, swirling synchronously in long bands before scattering out. Later in the day, as the sun made its descent, the obelisk would obscure all of the light, blanketing the entire city in gloom.
Gordon made his away along an enclosed plot. It wasn’t safe to stay on the roads since the Overwatch patrolled them constantly. He had trekked a mile, or so he thought–though it was impossible to be sure while navigating the tight slums–from where the drop ship landed. They would search the proximity and if they did not find him, they would sweep out in waves. He had to get out of there.
Crawling over fallen doors and discarded furnishings, he progressed through a dank tenement. The air inside was thick and putrid. In one room, he discovered a box tucked up against the wall, almost hidden. He chopped at it with his crowbar until it splintered. Inside, he found supplies, in particular, more rations. He ate ravenously, keeping an eye on the agape balcony. In another room he found a stack of ammunition for his rifle, as well as some shotgun slugs. He retrieved a backpack from a cadaver he found in a bunk on the upper floor. The body was of a man, pallid and stiff, with one arm dangling lifelessly over the side of his bed. Gordon placed the remaining rations and the ammunition into the pack, sealed it, and left the building.
He estimated that it would take him two days to reach Kleiner’s lab as he could not go there directly, but would have to traverse the canals. The canals were teeming with Combine and the guard alongside was formidable. With any luck, the attention brought by the scanner would have diverted most of the watch. If he could make it through before the next surveillance alert, he had a chance of sneaking by undetected.
Gordon clambered over the hood of a jaded pickup truck, which bridged the gap of a massive fault in the pavement, emerging on the edge of the sprawling district. Across the way, the road stopped. In front of him, the ground dropped off and a series of palisades stretched steeply down to the area below. Beyond that, he could see the entrance to the canal, which, on the side closest to him, was lined by a tall barbed fence. There was a wide platform beside the gate; and, standing on the platform, in a black uniform with an orange insignia, was a single patrol.
Spying a makeshift ladder along the rocky face–which he suspected was placed there by the Combine to enable quick transit between the lower zone and the upper tenements–he climbed down to the platform. There were a number of crates assembled here, allowing him to crouch out of view. Sliding behind an unusually large one, he removed his pack and seized his rifle which he had been toting on his back. The patrol still hadn’t moved. Gordon waited, watching the guard from behind the crate. The soldier was poised idly, cinching a sub-machine gun and surveying the platform indiscreetly.
The trooper glanced down momentarily. Gordon raised his weapon and took aim.
The shot was loud, resounding sharply over the platform and lingering for awhile in the depths of the aqueduct. The patrol tottered, dropping his gun, and then crumpled up against the fence. A discordant radio static signified his demise.
Gordon snapped the padlock on the gate and bounded down into the canal, landing with a splash waist-deep in the murky water. The cement divider inclined precipitously on either side; there was no going back. Scanning both directions to regain his bearings, he promptly chose a course and headed out. He waded northbound along the narrow channel, advancing toward a large conduit that jutted from the retaining wall. The acrid scent exuding from the mire was insufferable, and he tried desperately to stifle his breath.
As he neared the pipe, which–if his memory served him–would lead him to his destination, he became aware of a dozen footsteps overhead. He sank down into the water, keeping only his head above the surface. Combine radio chatter flared up directly above his position. It was too late. A frenzied voice bayed across the chasm; they had spotted him.
In an instant, five armored troops had repelled down into the canal, plunging violently into the water. Their blue laser sights danced along the walls, immediately resting on Gordon’s disheveled face.
“Disarm citizen, or be exterminated!” said a gruff voice.
Raising his hands, our unfortunate hero stood up slowly.
