Chapter Text
You will live to see horrors beyond your comprehension, so train for it. That is what Captain Walker used to say. Shephard's CO, commander of the Recon Company. The man knew what he was talking about, a MARSOC officer assigned to the Hazardous Environment Combat Unit, a rank and position in that unit was earned, Walker had been involved in a mission gone wrong during Desert Storm, with Walker averting a doomsday event. The man had other platitudes, Train hard, fight easy.
Shephard did that, and more, but it wasn't worth a damn.
He knew it when he saw the gear his unit was given. Marines make do but... Sometimes you just need better equipment. Barely any of the guys were wearing modern fatigues, instead, they were wearing old BDUs, barely anyone was wearing ILBE packs or webbing, instead, they were wearing ALICE stuff, not to mention the body armor, some guys were wearing PASGT helmets and flak jackets. It was a mismatch of gear some old and tired, some new and untested. Suddenly, the 'primary sidearm' was designated as the Desert Eagle, most of the greener guys jumped with joy at the chance to carry one, it had been in all those Hollywood movies, after all. More experienced guys who’d had the chance to train with the thing knew it was a gimmick, it was heavy, nearly 4lbs unloaded, and unreliable in anything other than perfect conditions. The hefty handgun was chambered in a powerful magnum round, .357 - which no one else in the US armed forces used, so actually getting the ammo for it was a nightmare. It was more like some pencil-pusher status symbol for the unit rather than an actual asset.
But they did get some good stuff, as well, he couldn’t ignore that, the Powered Combat Vest Mk. 3, granted the HECU didn’t use it first, it was approved by the Corps, MPs used it, its protective capabilities, and its onboard medical systems had kept Shephard and a few of his guys alive as well as tell them shit they needed to know like what ammo their guns use. Grunt-proofed AI is what some called it.
But Captain Walker didn’t trust like that, he didn’t want his company going in with ALICE packs and BDUs, he got them MARPAT MCUUs fatigues, in an experimental urban pattern, digital squares of grey, brown, black, and white.
As for load-carrying, the good captain was able to get them ILBE webbing and packs to go over the PCV. It was a quality piece of equipment, even when drained of power the ceramic plates inside it remained rigid, giving protection equivalent to a high-end ballistic plate found in most MARSOC unit vests. Still wasn't good enough.
May 16th rolled around, the guys were excited, showtime, so they thought, but it was a day where something that had never occurred to humanity would occur, and Shephard and his guys were deployed to Black Mesa, on unarmed and unescorted Ospreys. They thought it was a training op or Search-and-Rescue, Shepherd hoped it was live fire, he got his wish, and he hated himself for wishing it. He felt betrayed, most of them did, they'd been training for an Op in Black Mesa but they hadn't trained for what they faced.
There were 24 guys on the Osprey, not including the crew, and there were 2 Ospreys for his company. It all started out normally, flying along, his buddies chatting shit and chewing the fat, and Shephard just trying to get some shut-eye.
First Contact, that’s what happened next, it’s a blur burnt into his brain, whatever it was took out the Captain’s Osprey. He froze the moment he saw it, a massive living flying thing, it almost resembled a Manta ray, it went for the Osprey like a dragonfly snatching its prey from mid-air, latching onto it as it tore through the armor plate like it was tissue paper as it dug teeth or claws into the hull, then its belly lit up with something he couldn’t even begin to describe, somewhere between a belched out liquid flame and arcing electricity or plasma in a ball. It incinerated the transport, breaking it apart before the fuel tanks went up. He hoped that fireball would kill it too, but it didn’t, it seemed unscathed as over 20 souls, many of them friends were burnt alive in the fireball of its doing. As it flew away, he could’ve sworn it laughed as the mangled Osprey was released from its grasp, falling to pieces, some man-shaped blackened husks, others chunks of metal, all burning and belching black smoke as it plummeted toward the Earth.
The guys were panicking now, flyboys and infantry alike, roaring to life about enemy air and that they had casualties. But he was still buckled in with the unfamiliar buckles and grasped awkwardly for the release and an MP5 just out of reach.
The gunnery sergeant took up a firing position at the side door, firing at it with his M16 bellowing at the pilots to get them some air superiority. Either it was the same thing or something else, their Osprey was next, something massive latched onto it, but no fireball came, instead the engines died suddenly, and they were all going down, the LT yelling, his voice breaking in fear that they were going down as the ground rushed up to meet them. The gunny was about to say something as he tried to hold onto something, but he was ejected from the Osprey out the side door he'd been firing from. He seemed angrier than scared of dying, furious he hadn't avenged the Captain and leaving the Corps before he was ready.
The LT yelled for the men to brace, he was a good guy, and passed up a cushy career with his college education for the Corps. They spun as they hurtled toward the ground, he didn’t remember the impact, just everything going dark and silent after a thunderous crash and pain. He never saw the LT again.
Corporal Shephard awoke on the ground, at Black Mesa, being dragged out of the wreckage by a Corpsman from another squad. It was chaos, marines fighting hard, some of them in hand-to-hand combat against monsters, that was the only way to describe them. He learned they were called Vortigaunts later.
His head was hazy, but he still had his Beretta, firing it at the things that appeared in electrical storms, they didn’t have guns as humanity did, they had their own bodies, flinging bolts of energy at his buddies, direct hits blew his friends apart into the charred bone and burnt meat. The PCV proved to be a double-edged sword, stabilizing guys with wounds that would make death preferable.
It was a blur, full of adrenaline, fear, and rage, he and a ragtag squad fought their way toward the facility - Black Mesa. Air support had arrived, but they were just as overwhelmed as the guys on the ground as flying monstrosities plucked them from the air like birds of prey. They had trained to fight against ground targets, and aircraft, not flying monsters, he could hear them panicking over comms, everyone could hear other units panicking over comms, making them panic more, self-fulfilling something, he forgot the whole saying.
Danger close strikes turned into friendly fire, bombs landing too close to friendly units, not just typical high-explosive, but nasty shit, cluster munitions… Willy Pete, all on top of the Marines they were meant to be covering. Something detonated too close to him and he was in and out again in a blur. He knew that strategy would work if they were dug in, but they had barely touched down.
He finally came to, groggy, consciousness returning alongside the pain, in a makeshift infirmary, his improvised squad gone, surrounded by dying and dead marines tended to by a scientist in his late 50s who was growing tired of seeing mostly men not even a quarter of a century old die under his care.
But that wasn’t the cruelest thing he saw that day. They weren’t there to save people, they were there to silence them. Killing civilians? Executing them for knowing too much? He never signed up for that, and neither did anyone he knew. But guys did do that, they killed anyone who wasn’t HECU in the facility, it wasn't right, but he got it, he understood why. They'd been training for Black Mesa for weeks, they knew this could happen and did it anyway. He had been unconscious for 3 hours, and the unit was routed, pulling out, and failing the Corps by leaving Marines behind - Shephard included. Some of the unit and Black Mesa staff were going on about a Freeman, his guys said he killed Marines or started it all deliberately, but it didn't make sense for the latter, he found out it wasn't true later on. The administrator had been poking at the borders of other dimensions, bringing things back to be vivisected. As for killing Marines, his comrades, his friends, it was self-defense, they were killing civvies, and as much as he hated to say, they had it coming.
Whoever was in charge was too focused on keeping it all hushed, not enough on un-fucking the situation. After HECU pulled out, the brass sent in Black-ops to shut everyone up, Marines included. Because that worked so well the first time, right? Someone was covering their asses, they didn’t care that there was an existential threat to humanity, hell, turned out to be 2 of them, 2 different alien powers, 2 existential threats. It turned into a bitter 5-way war, and three of the sides were human, how about that? It should’ve been the time for humanity to set aside their differences and fight alongside one another, he and the marines who weren't war criminals tried their best to work with the Black Mesa staff, but too fucking little, too goddamn late, and the damage was done, scientists and security didn’t trust the Marines and the feeling was mutual, but they had bigger fish to fry.
The Brass should’ve called in NATO, regulars, hell, the national guard, cops, FEMA, anyone would’ve helped, more manpower and firepower to the area, and actually getting a sitrep from the people who worked at that horrible place.
Shephard repelled one alien race while that Freeman guy repelled another, but Black Mesa got nuked to keep it all quiet, and Shephard didn’t think anyone else but him made it out… He thought about that a lot, he had the time to, too much time, in fact.
Now he was here - in this Osprey, this empty Osprey, that should’ve had his platoon in, but it was just him now, he was all that was left of them. There had been someone else, a thing pretending to be a man in a blue suit that followed him around, he saw him at Santiago base days before the Black Mesa Incident, then all around Black Mesa, saving his life, stopping him from evacuating, re-arming the nuke, then detaining him here. “To do no more possible harm,” He explained in his strange, jilted accent, and to do no possible good, Shephard thought to himself. That guy, whoever he was, he didn’t seem quite human, like he was something trying to act and talk like a human, but didn’t quite manage to nail it, instinct telling him to run, fight, hide, but he couldn’t, here he was like a mouse transfixed by the gaze of a snake looking into those impossibly pale blue eyes of that man.
The eldritch sky visible through the side doors was still visible, shimmering with greens, blues, and blacks like a kaleidoscope, it looked sick, like the world he was flying over was dying. He hoped to God this wasn’t Earth. He told himself that Black Mesa being destroyed was necessary, that they stopped the invasion, it made all that death sting just a little bit less. Maybe he was lying to himself? Pretending he was a hero just to get through… this?
Time had almost no meaning here, had it been minutes, hours, days, or more? He didn’t know. When he closed his eyes he wasn’t sure how long he slept, that’s what he did the most here, sleeping, he did bodyweight exercises as well to pass the time, but he never got hungry nor thirsty, and he hadn’t needed to use the bathroom in a long while. Suicide had crossed his mind, but who would tell anyone about what he saw? What his friends saw? How they died? He had to live, so that whoever caused this, whoever gave him and his unit this bullshit op, would pay. They had to, there had to be justice, there had to be.
He was thinking about beating the Unit’s commanding officer to death again, LtCol Mosely when he realized he wasn’t alone anymore. He got a coppery taste in his mouth, he knew what that meant. He was here, his body got tense, skin covered in gooseflesh as he felt the electricity in the air, and suddenly, he could barely move. He was here, standing as a silhouette against the alien sky, approaching in a gait that reminded Shephard of a predatory animal, blue suit and the briefcase, icy blue eyes piercing into is soul. Suddenly, Adrian was scared, his eyes tearing up in fear as the so-called man stared into his soul, and smiled in a way he couldn’t glean the meaning of. He understood what it was to be a prey animal now.
"Ah... Corporal Shephard.” He said in that strange way of speaking that told Shephard on an animalistic level it was not how humans spoke. “It seems your time has come... again- My... superiors have seen fit to re-deploy you... instead of conveying you to somewhere where you can do no possible harm." Re-deploy, he was going to fight again. He hoped he could save someone this time. "It seems we have certain... loose ends needing your... talents of survival and… exemplary ability to… adapt - improvise- and overcome the… opposition.” He said in a smug tone, exhaling through his nose in a sort of noise of amusement, his version of a laugh, the Marine hoped.
"Ordinarily... my superiors would not allow such a... variable into the equation... but these are not ordinary times. I have the utmost confidence you can... complete your assignment... post-haste. Prepare for your sortie, Corporal... It has been… a long time. But- survivors need… rest too. So… wake up. Reveille, Corporal Shephard. Rise… and do your duty.” The world seemed to fade as Shephard’s body jerked, vision fading and blurring into colour as he left his hauntingly familiar Osprey behind once again.
Awakening, that was even harder than being put to sleep by The Man, G-man, everyone who saw him at base swore he was some kind of governmental official, CIA, Secret Service, something shady and way above their paygrades.
If only they knew how bad he really was. Suddenly he was present like he’d woken up from being unconscious, hearing came first, it was almost silent save for his ragged breathing and something distant being played through loudspeakers, as well as a faint noise he couldn't remember after a moment, it sounded like singing...
Then came touch, like he was covered in a sensation of warm pins-and-needles he realized he was sitting awkwardly on a chair, rocking back and forth, drooling and gasping for breath which he thankfully caught, then finally sight and smell, where he was smelt clinical, sterile, the odourlessness almost an odor in of itself. Then sight, he was present now, he was unarmed and alarmed, it looked like Black Mesa! His breathing quickened, fists balled as he stood in a fighting stance, his vision tunneling from the adrenaline head darting around, then he realized he was alone, this wasn’t Black Mesa, Black Mesa was gone, it had to be… He still had his fatigues and boots on, sleeves rolled up just under his elbows, but he didn’t have his equipment, vest, webbing, plate carrier, pack, mask, and helmet… he almost felt naked… He ran his ungloved fingertips through his blonde hair it was soft and hadn’t grown from the number 1 guard buzz he’d given it, he expected to wince at touching the bump at the bag of his head, and the gash on his forehead, but they were gone. He glanced around frantically… some kind of security room with the Michigan flag on the wall? Security meant supplies, Michigan meant… he didn’t know, he’d never been to Michigan before, big lakes, he guessed, so hunting and fishing he assumes.
But first, his gear, it was all around him, and he was soon decked out as he checked all his shit was in his pack and webbing, he had his own magazines for his Beretta and M4, he was able to find the former too, his sidearm, but first - the vest.
He zipped the thin black flak jacket onto his torso, then waited for it to boot up, it also spoke, which was interesting.
It spoke, a masculine, mildly mechanical, with an American accent, and mildly authoritarian, like a warrior-poet, or the robo-Jingoist as Corpsman Lambert in his company called it.
"Welcome to the Powered Combat Vest System Mk3, Military Designation M96A3, for use in authorized military service. Vital sign monitoring activated. Automatic medical systems engaged. Reactive Armor System online. Environmental Sensor System Activated. Communications System Online. Defensive implement information system engaged. WARNING: Heads-up-display system incomplete, you will not be able to use your Heads-Up-Display without a compatible system, please consult your Commanding-Officer. Have a safe and pleasant day.” It informed him, it was like reuniting with an old friend and like reuniting with an old friend, there needed to be banter. So he opened and closed his hand like it were a talking hand-puppet as the vest went on, then donned his mask, the ballistic materials cooling and comforting against his face, then came the lightweight helmet, a lot of marines in his unit had old PASGT helmets for use with PCV system. He never saw the purpose of that, why upgrade something already outdated and less protective rather than something lighter and more protective? Man, the logistics guys were weird. His HUD powered up, it showed his vital signs, suit power, time, and basically anything a devil-dog needs to know in the field.
His drop leg holster had his Beretta, equipped with a flashlight/laser-sight combo, he also had his issued knife, a Ka-Bar on his other hip, and under his shoulder with the undeniable weight and bulk, his Hollywood Desert Eagle, some weirdo in the brass had seen too many Arnie and Stallone movies.
He drew his Beretta, and while he checked the mag and chamber, the vest spoke again, informing him what he already knew about the gun.
“Sidearm detected, semi-automatic pistol. Beretta M9A1, 9x19mm NATO calibre.” It stated with that air of pride in its mechanically jingoistic voice.
He held it at the ready as he searched the room, hoping there was a gun locker, he rounded the corner, an office of some kind, and to reveal he wasn’t in a normal place, he was still in hell. Sat at the desk had been a person - once. The first thing he noticed was the primal snarl or scream the mouth was held in forever, skin leathery and grey, mummified, eye sockets wide and hollow like his eyes had bulged out of his head while he was dying, skeletal fingers digging and clutching at his throat as he died. Poor bastard suffocated. But how? The corporal felt grateful for the respirator now. The corpse wore a shirt, under a black chest piece of body armor with a symbol in orange he didn’t recognize, the buttons of the shirt popped as if he tore his shirt open to breathe easier, he’d been security. Not paid enough to die down here.
“Better you than me, brother.” He thought loudly then scanned the room, his sorrow forgotten for the moment. Jackpot! Gun locker, mesh doors, showing the goodies inside, which included a pump-action with a sling-bandoleer contraption strapped to it and a side-saddle shell holder full of green shells which were probably slugs, Shephard assumed. There was something better than the Glocks in Black Mesa inside, Browning 9mms, rare nowadays, and quite valuable. He’d keep 2 at least so he can shoot 2 at once, that would be cool. Then he’d take a few as well, maybe sell a few when he had some leave, they didn’t pay him enough not to take souvenirs or spoils of war.
He checked the grate, it was locked, if he still had his wrench he could bash it open, but it could be alarmed and he didn’t know what the neighborhood was like. So he decided to do the least pleasant check first, pat down the desiccated corpse. He patted him down, it wasn’t as bad as when he had to do it in Black Mesa, the corpses were fresher there, died more gruesomely or all of the above and they were men he had served with.
He found the key on his belt, it had the same logo on the bow of the key as the gun locker, a pack of unopened cigarettes - Camels, and a wallet. He didn’t touch the wallet, he didn’t want to know about this man, his uniform said Cooper, but no more than that, he didn’t want to know if this dead man had a wife, kids, an old mama he worked extra hours to pay for the best possible care for her - he didn’t want to know.
He took the key and the smokes, approached the locker, opened it, and took the guns like they were gifts from the divine.
It was as he thought, 3 Browning Hi-Powers, 9mm like his Beretta, a couple of mags for them, and a Remington 870 with a lovely reddish wooden stock and foregrip, he slung the shotgun over his shoulder as he unloaded and put the pistols in his pack. His vest told him as much as they were variants made in the 60s, older than him, in good condition, and highly prized... Decent Spoils of War.
He was about to leave when he turned back to the dead man, he couldn't leave the poor bastard like that. He tore down the flag on the wall, draping it over the body, and picked him up and placed his body on a couch, finally putting him to rest. He spoke to the body, head bowed respectfully, “Cooper, thank you. I never knew you, but thank you for staying at your post. What you had here might mean I can save myself, and maybe other people too. I’m gonna try and save other people. I’m sorry you died the way you did, you deserved better… much better. I hope you can rest easy. Goodbye, and take care up there.” He stood there for a moment of silence, in Mesa he could never afford one, not even for fellow Marines, he regretted that. He wish he could’ve, he knew a lot of them and nobody laid them to rest.
The room held nothing else of value for him, so he left, taking cover by the doorframe and opening the stylized door carefully, quietly, shotgun muzzle first thing out the door, and then he followed, sweeping left to right. He was met with labyrinthian corridors and closed doors. The whole place seemed like it had been designed to be something akin to a cross between brutalist, and industrial, it all seemed modular and functional as the highest priority, but it didn't seem very functional now. Any writing that told him who those rooms belonged to or what they were faded beyond recognition, they had once been sterile-looking and clinical but had faded, white and grey tiled walls cracked, some fallen to the floor, and with mold and peeling at the grout, carpet stained with suspicious colors and uncomfortably squelchy under his boots.
Despite the supposed calm, he felt watched, or at least on edge, he was getting used to being ambushed by black ops, aliens, and paranoid security guards or scientists. Not to mention all the times the poorly-maintained den of mad scientists got slam-fucked by a mad scientist experiment that opened a portal to alien hell blowing up in his face, trying to electrocute him, burn him to death, pour toxic waste on him, or just cost him more time than it should just trying to get to Point B from A by going through Points C-L, then back again because the most straightforward way was FUBAR.
The music wouldn’t stop, the same track over and over and over. It took him a while to get there, but he got somewhere at the least, some kind of observation deck, big glass panels overlooking cells. Cells upon cells, Jesus, they were detaining people here? Then he looked closer at the cells, from his vantage point he could see clearly what they had done and then fucked up.
The cells had people in them, supposed to be lying in beds with a glass canopy over them, they had been frozen, cryogenically, and the walls were lined with coffin-like pods. But then something failed, and they started to thaw and suffocate. A few had died peacefully in their stasis, never the wiser to their fate. But they were a minority. Most had started to wake up, covered in cryogenic burns, and various other forms of cell damage, leaving massive open sores some so deep he could see bone, all the while they were suffocating in their pods, beating against the glass of the pods, thrashing wildly, all the while leaving chunks of their semi-frozen flesh on the beds and glass, an entire chamber full of burn victims. Some managed to get out of their pods, the lucky ones were in the coffins and fell to their deaths, unlucky ones were only to thrash on the floor, blind, eyes reduced to useless jelly by the rapid thawing, and going into shock, all those people died terrified and in agony.
He stood there for a few long moments, in abject horror, eyes wide and staring deep into the chamber he couldn’t even see the end of, unable to comprehend the sheer amount of human suffering that went on there. He sat down in one of the office chairs and exhaled deeply, mask making his breath sound mechanical and ragged. Why the hell was he here? Just to witness this and then carry it to his grave?
He looked to his side, away from the chamber, after a long moment, leaning back in his chair there was a large computer screen showing all the red flatlined vitals of those numbered ‘test subjects’ the poor bastards didn’t even have names here. Shephard stood and approached the keyboard, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder. He had an idea, a bad one. Someone had to be alive, right? He had to get them out before they suffer the same fate. It was pretty easy, as well. There was a filter like you’d get on some programs, to filter out some answers, one of them was whether the prisoners were alive or dead. Why in God's name is that a casual feature? He looked at how many were dead first. His eyes widened again, his jaw clenched at the number presented to him.
11476 - That’s how many this place killed in their cryo pods, and this was just one. How many were still alive? 1, just one. A sole survivor, like him. The resuscitation operation was locked, and he needed admin clearance. He was in two minds about it, part of him, the cynical part that had seen too much told him he shouldn’t bother, they’d die, and he’d get them killed like everyone else. Another part, the part that listened to his grandpa tell him about his time in the Corps when he was little, that made him enlist in the first place, that knew he’d saved people or given them the best chance at it told him to do it, that it was the right thing to do. He breathed slowly, counting to ten slowly and thinking. Then he had an idea, a bad one, he had a cyberwarfare spike - CWS, he could hack this and then hope the simple AI inside could give him admin privileges and he could activate the operation, hoping it was automated.
He knelt by the console, finding something that looked like a port, the small tablet he had was shipped with various connectors, he plugged it in, typed in what he needed, and bang, he was in, he did this sweating, life was on the line. He stood up, admin privileges granted, he grinned under his mask as he activated the procedure.
It started with mechanical hisses and whirring filled the chamber below, warning lights blared, he was worried it had messed up, but the process involved something else, it brought the subject, pod, and all to the bay he occupied, it made sense when he thought about it. Fuckers who ran this place were probably sadists and perverts, they’d want to see the person they’d put through hell first.
The pod approached, he wasn’t sure who he was expecting as he gazed at the pod through the glass of the bay, but he wasn’t expecting what he saw. A woman, about the same age as him, if he was going to guess, her hair was a dark brown, almost black, and held in a messy ponytail. Think she had some bed hair from being in stasis. Her skin was darker than his, a light brown, he was no good at describing skin color, with no sign of freezer burn, thank God. Her eyes, slightly heavy-hooded were shut in a peaceful slumber, her full lips slightly parted in her rest. She wore the same uniform everyone else below did, an orange jumpsuit, but she had undone it, tying it around her waist revealing a white tank top with the logo he saw before and the name of the company - Aperture Laboratories. He stared at the tank top a bit too long, taking in not just the writing but the swell of her chest, her body in general, she looked good. Damn good. Guess she was a sleeping beauty. Damn, he felt creepy ogling an unconscious woman in a fucking mass-grave. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he averted his gaze, silently chastising himself for being a pervert.
The Corporal looked at the pod, there was some writing on the pod and a note, he leaned forward, letting his gas mask visor zoom in on what the writing said - ‘Test Subject #1 Abnormally Stubborn’ it read in typed lettering, it felt like some kind of sick joke. Then he looked down at something else, a sticky note, words were written on it - ‘Chell’ - in the largest of text, but beneath it a small inscription. Save her, please. Was Chell her name? It was the best lead he had on her name until she woke up.
Suddenly, the pod started moving again, he swore, as he looked at the screen to see where, as the pod traveled away from him suspended from a monorail. Aperture Science Extended Relaxation Center was where it was headed, it showed him on a map, and he was good with those, he recognized the hallways he’d just been in on the map and there was a red star where the console was so he was orientated, he nodded and head off. He still didn’t know the neighborhood.
He moved as quickly and cautiously as he could, shotgun at the ready, as he moved through the complex he saw something that made his heart sink but reassured him he made the right choice, more bodies, mummified and worryingly chewed at, all like Cooper the guard, lab coats, security uniforms, custodian jumpsuits, civilian clothes, all snarling in death. Then he rounded a corner, and he almost froze, there was something he never hoped to see in a place like this. It was “Bring your daughter to work day” judging by the bunting and banners, abandoned and moribund children's science projects displays lined the walls of the common room he found himself in, usually with corpses lying beneath or atop the tables. But it got worse.
There were kids, little girls - all of them dead. All died in as much terror and pain as the adults around them, most of the girls were being shielded by their parents who also perished, holding clothes over their mouths or holding them close one last time. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t help. He couldn’t. So he kept going, his throat had an uncomfortable lump in it.
But in his haste, he hadn’t noticed important details. One, what had gnawed on the corpses, two, there were some missing, there was dried blood and signs of something having moved bodies. He really hadn’t checked the neighborhood. He was out of the common area, down a service corridor, he just needed to get down a level and he was there. One more flight of stairs and a doorway.
Then time seemed to slow down, he wasn’t alone, he barely saw it in his peripheral vision but that glance told him what it was. It charged him, too fast for him to get his shotgun up in the cramped stairwell, it screamed as it did. A freakish yowl from the depths of hell, but it still sounded human-like they always did. It tackled him in less than a second and they both tumbled down the stairs, in an awkward heap at the bottom, it was still screaming, his shotgun held across him in two hands pressing into it as it tried to go in for the kill. The body that was reaching for him was a half-dead puppet, what was latched to its skull was what the real threat was. Its head was encompassed by an eyeless visage that had swallowed the head, clawed legs, and toothy lips of its maw dug deep into its victim's head. A headcrab. It controlled the body, he’d only ever seen it done to humans, they screamed for help, that it hurt and they couldn’t see, ones that had been Marines usually cried for God and their mothers while their PCV stabilized them over and over, counteracting the neurotoxin that it injected into the victim’s hindbrain and spinal cord. The forebrain was mostly unaffected, they were locked in.
It wasn’t like what he had seen before, it was skinny, too skinny to be alive, but it was. It had no skin, fat, or organs, just ropey muscle that had dried and caked itself with shades of eschar from blood red, dried browns, and necrotic blacks, the human body trying to heal itself as the parasite ate away at it. It screamed at him, it was trying to say something but it was all garbled. Trying to push it away was so incredibly hard, they were strong, stronger than a normal person. All the shit in your head that tells you not to break an arm throwing a punch, was shut off by the parasite. It didn’t care if the body broke, it could always get another one.
He finally got a kick in, slamming his boot full-force into its belly with a yell, shoving it away for a moment, it grabbed his foot and twisted his ankle in the process until something inside his foot broke, he yelled again, this time full of rage and pain as he aimed his shotgun, pressing the barrel straight into the flabby headcrab and pulled the trigger. The report was loud in the hallway, his ears rang as the thing dropped like deadweight, yellows, oranges, and reds splattering the wall behind the zombie and forming a pool of mixed blood as it lay on the ground.
“Non-displaced fracture detected, right ankle.” He heard his vest say loudly in his ear, more urgent than before as he racked his shotgun and leaned back, gritting his teeth.
“Morphine deployed. Nanobots deployed. Please remain calm.” His vest instructed, pain melting away, as did the stiffness in his foot, he stayed there for a few minutes vest power drained by 9%, down to 32%. But he didn't care right now.
It was all for nothing, everyone who died at Black Mesa died for nothing. They failed, the aliens were here, probably everywhere now. He failed, Freeman failed, that woman he saw dead in that alien world, Dr. Cross, she failed and died for nothing. At least she was dead and didn’t live to see it. Freeman could be too. He stood, breathing heavily, readying himself to continue when - it overcame him, rage. He yelled again, garbled obscenities as he stomped on the headcrab, crushing it beneath his foot. Then he stopped as suddenly as he started, he breathed, counted to ten, and continued on. Stick to the plan, Adi, gotta keep going, got a damsel in distress to save.
His ankle was still a little sore, walking with a slight limp as he finally came to the rooms, a long hallway of them. All but one were either unoccupied or showing that red flatline. Shephard finally hobbled to the occupied room with the sole survivor of the facility, Chell. He stood there for a moment, thinking about what to say or do. Then he knocked and all of a sudden the floor was rushing up to meet him. As the world went dark he heard his Vest let out a warning beep aloud so, in theory, a Corpsman should hear him, in practice all the monsters knew precisely where the tasty incapacitated devil dog was and that he was on the menu. They were coming now, he could hear them howling for their next meal, they heard the report of his shotgun and smelt the blood and burnt gunpowder.
"WARNING - Chemical Substance Overdose Detected. Medical Emergency - Opioid Overdose. Medical Emergency. WARNING. WARNING." It repeated over and over as he lay helplessly against the door as his hearing faded, he grasped for breath, it was hard to breathe, his throat was wet and he gurgled inhaling, and then snorted to exhale. The worst thing about having the kind of medical training Shephard had was knowing what was going to kill you and your buddies. It was funny, in a way, that he survived all this time and things that had killed so many other people, and now he was going to die because his vest wasn't configured to recognize Opioid tolerances. He would never see the woman he tried to save.