J
JJiggssaw
Guest
Yuri woke with sand in his hair. He grunted slowly, his calloused hand trying to rub the dust and redness out of his eyes. Vision returned, painfully itchy, encrusted in blood and tears. Yuri felt around for his pistol, and then remembered that he had no ammunition, and, hey, after last night, he was lucky to have his life relatively intact.
Blinking, he took an exploratory glance out the shattered window of his seaside hut. Harsh sun met his burning eyes, causing a sharp, excruciating pang somewhere behind his retinas.
It was time to face the day.
Yuri walked outside, hand held protectively over his face, his tattered blue uniform hanging off him in rags. The saline tang in the air was revitalizing, and his eyes had adjusted to the burning glare. The Combine ant-lion beacon pounded the earth a few meters away from him, his fishing rod leaning against the control panel. Breakfast time? His stomach rumbled the answer.
The Xen fish that inhabited the Black Sea were ferocious, surviving off what was left of the natural ecosystem, any prospective swimmer, and each other. For Yuri, however, they were a square meal, and were wonderfully easy to catch.
The fishing line dipped into the water, hooked with a grenade pin and bated with the remains of Yuri’s last meal. One bite. Two. Three. Then suddenly the entire school of fish rushed the bait and several were caught. With a practiced motion, Yuri yanked the line out of the water before any other Xenfish could chomp down on those already hooked. He left the hanging carnivores–three of them, all around twenty centimeters long– desperately wriggling, halfway up the cliff that was Yuri’s barrier between him and the piranha. He gave the little chompers ample time to die, and then reeled them in.
Taking out his rusted knife–a few old shaving razors tied to a stick– he carefully cleaned each of the fish, taking out the poisonous organs that some nameless Vortigaunt once showed him. Then, from a sacred corner of his tiny abode, he took his prized possession: an old survival cookset, complete with a copper pot and a crank-generator electric hotplate. His stomach rumbled again. Just as he was laying the fish in the pot, his heart stopped. The faint sounds of a helicopter echoed from over the hill behind him.
He ran inside and picked up the ancient radio that lay beside his mattress.
“Station 24, this is Yuri, do you copy?”
“Yuri…hold on… we…Mesa East–”
“I can’t read you! Station 24, Come in! I have a chopper on eastern approach! Repeat, this is Yuri, helicopter on eastern approach!”
Static answered Yuri’s final statement. With a cry, he threw away the radio and crouched in a corner of his hut, tears pooling in his bloodshot eyes. He prayed with his soul to the god he no longer believed in, beseeching him with mumbled words and hoarse curses.
The helicopter passed overhead, but the sound didn’t fade away. Yuri looked outside, amazed and frightened in the same moment. Hundreds of helicopters roared past, each one looking full of Combines.
He watched with horror as one helicopter suddenly slowed and descended from the flock of its peers. The noise drowned out Yuri’s desperate whimper as the chopper hovered a few feet above the ground outside his hut. He raised his empty pistol at the airborne intruder, but then thought better of it and put his hands on his head, the Combine-enforced symbol of submission.
The hatch opened on the helicopter, and a fully-suited Elite overwatch officer jumped to the ground. The combine’s electric voice crackled.
“Citizen submission obligatory. Citizen respect of Right 57 obligatory. Compliance obligatory.”
The officer reached into the hut and yanked out Yuri’s trembling body with amazing force. He threw the lowly citizen into the helicopter and climbed up himself. The hatch closed.
Blinking, he took an exploratory glance out the shattered window of his seaside hut. Harsh sun met his burning eyes, causing a sharp, excruciating pang somewhere behind his retinas.
It was time to face the day.
Yuri walked outside, hand held protectively over his face, his tattered blue uniform hanging off him in rags. The saline tang in the air was revitalizing, and his eyes had adjusted to the burning glare. The Combine ant-lion beacon pounded the earth a few meters away from him, his fishing rod leaning against the control panel. Breakfast time? His stomach rumbled the answer.
The Xen fish that inhabited the Black Sea were ferocious, surviving off what was left of the natural ecosystem, any prospective swimmer, and each other. For Yuri, however, they were a square meal, and were wonderfully easy to catch.
The fishing line dipped into the water, hooked with a grenade pin and bated with the remains of Yuri’s last meal. One bite. Two. Three. Then suddenly the entire school of fish rushed the bait and several were caught. With a practiced motion, Yuri yanked the line out of the water before any other Xenfish could chomp down on those already hooked. He left the hanging carnivores–three of them, all around twenty centimeters long– desperately wriggling, halfway up the cliff that was Yuri’s barrier between him and the piranha. He gave the little chompers ample time to die, and then reeled them in.
Taking out his rusted knife–a few old shaving razors tied to a stick– he carefully cleaned each of the fish, taking out the poisonous organs that some nameless Vortigaunt once showed him. Then, from a sacred corner of his tiny abode, he took his prized possession: an old survival cookset, complete with a copper pot and a crank-generator electric hotplate. His stomach rumbled again. Just as he was laying the fish in the pot, his heart stopped. The faint sounds of a helicopter echoed from over the hill behind him.
He ran inside and picked up the ancient radio that lay beside his mattress.
“Station 24, this is Yuri, do you copy?”
“Yuri…hold on… we…Mesa East–”
“I can’t read you! Station 24, Come in! I have a chopper on eastern approach! Repeat, this is Yuri, helicopter on eastern approach!”
Static answered Yuri’s final statement. With a cry, he threw away the radio and crouched in a corner of his hut, tears pooling in his bloodshot eyes. He prayed with his soul to the god he no longer believed in, beseeching him with mumbled words and hoarse curses.
The helicopter passed overhead, but the sound didn’t fade away. Yuri looked outside, amazed and frightened in the same moment. Hundreds of helicopters roared past, each one looking full of Combines.
He watched with horror as one helicopter suddenly slowed and descended from the flock of its peers. The noise drowned out Yuri’s desperate whimper as the chopper hovered a few feet above the ground outside his hut. He raised his empty pistol at the airborne intruder, but then thought better of it and put his hands on his head, the Combine-enforced symbol of submission.
The hatch opened on the helicopter, and a fully-suited Elite overwatch officer jumped to the ground. The combine’s electric voice crackled.
“Citizen submission obligatory. Citizen respect of Right 57 obligatory. Compliance obligatory.”
The officer reached into the hut and yanked out Yuri’s trembling body with amazing force. He threw the lowly citizen into the helicopter and climbed up himself. The hatch closed.
