Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gordon Freeman had been alone on the tram that day. He’d barely even caught the damn thing, having slept past all seven alarms he’d set. In hindsight, he probably should’ve set more, but on most days six alarms did the trick. It probably didn’t help that he’d pulled another near all-nighter just to finalize a report for a test he’d missed the majority of on account of having to be at an entirely different test.

There hadn’t been anyone else on the tram, though, because no one else was usually as late as him. At the time, it’d been peaceful. A moment to prepare himself for the day ahead. He’d had a big test coming up, one which he actually got to take the lead in! That had been exciting.

A part of him suspected that had been Kleiner’s doing, though. The man was very quickly working his way up in the hierarchy that was Black Mesa, and his mentor seemed determined to pull Freeman along for the ride.

That in itself had been a wonder: How quickly Kleiner was climbing. Most of their coworkers would have a hard time believing the same man that was paving the way for technology capable of actually teleporting things, was the same man who would perpetually lose his keys in increasingly ludicrous places to the point it would incite a competition between Gordon and Barney, the two racing to let him back into his office first.

Just as the thought of Barney had crossed his mind that day, he’d seen none other than his favorite security guard and best friend. The poor guy had been banging on the door for some restricted area, a security checkpoint maybe, evidently locked out.

He hadn’t noticed Gordon, at least not before the tram had driven around the corner and out of sight. Even at the moment, Freeman hadn’t been sure why it was important.

Maybe some part of him had always known what was coming. How unavoidable it was.

Gordon Freeman wasn’t alone on the train. There were a few other people scattered about in the rather small car, each wearing the same dusty blue jumpsuit that he mysteriously was.

He certainly felt alone around all these people. Freeman wasn’t really all that sociable, and he’s been well aware of that. People can be unpredictable, loud, too much. He prefers to keep to himself.

Barney used to joke that not even the end of the world could change that. After everything that happened back in Black Mesa, he felt inclined to agree. Were Barney here, he may have even cracked some joke about how he knew it, that he was always right.

The people on the train all avoid eye contact, and the silence he’s always preferred has never felt so lonely.

With a sudden jolt, they come to a stop. Doors slide open and the other passengers get off without a word, although he does hear one mutter about not seeing someone ever get on. Freeman’s not sure if it’s luck that put him in the car with a visibly broken camera, or if the strange man in the suit planned it.

Up on the wall a ways away sat a large screen, proudly displaying none other than Wallace Breen, making some speech about what Freeman could only assume to be the name of the city they were in: City 17. Not that he cared all that much, it was clearly just overly cheery jargon praising the dystopian city the few people arriving found themselves in. Propaganda at its finest.

What he did care about, however, was the fact that it was Wallace Breen. The very same Site Administrator who’d pushed so hard for results that while Freeman was on his way to the test, well over an hour late, his colleagues were finally pressured into turning the anti-mass spectrometer to a higher frequency than they’d originally prepared for.

Of course, out of everyone who could’ve survived, Wallace Breen just had to be one of them. One of two. Then again, if he could’ve survived, who knows who else could’ve.

Freeman receives a rather rough push to his shoulder, and although the culprit is MIA, he decides it was the right idea anyway. No one pays him much mind as he quietly follows the crowd.

Well, no one pays him any mind besides some sort of drone, which hovers around his head for a few seconds before letting out a blinding flash, followed by a slight click.

The drone doesn’t fly away after taking his picture, so Freeman continues on his way instead.

While there aren’t too many other… civilians? While there aren’t too many civilians around, there are a lot of armed guards, bathed in various blacks and grays, armed like they expect an uprising any second, and robbed of any sort of identity with the gas masks they wear. The longer he stares at any of them, the more he feels like their eyes, hidden behind a voidless glowing blue, actually are staring straight at him.

It’s not until he’s passing through some sort of checkpoint all of the other people who’d been on his train did that he realizes that might not have just been the paranoia talking. One guard stops him in his tracks, although he can hardly make out any of what they’re saying due to how heavily the mask distorts their voice. The most he can make out is their vaguely masculine voice, which matches up with their general build. He’s unarmed, but assuming this guard is only taking him away for some sort of interrogation, he could probably take them in a fight. What matters more is what his plan of action may be afterwards. He’s unfamiliar with the building he’s in, in fact even the architecture seems—

A second guard appears from behind a door and gestures for him to come— no, to be led this way. The gate they’d previously been herding him towards slams shut, and the deep pit that had been forming in his stomach dissipates a little, though he’s not entirely sure why.

The walk down the hallway is quiet, although Freeman can make out the sounds of various conversations happening behind closed doors. Each have a slot built in, allowing someone to pull it open and peek out.

On one such door, he can see another civilian restrained in a chair as one of the guards questions them. So it really will be an interrogation, then. He just has to make sure he doesn’t get in the chair.

The hallway feels both too short and too long, which is rather paradoxical, and likely the type of description Barney would use about something. He used to share a lot with Freeman, including all of the stress and anxiety weighing on him. It always made him feel a little closer each time, happy to lend an ear to a friend.

He wonders if Barney ever felt the reverse of that, a gap between them devoid of any of Freeman’s own insecurities. He wonders if he ever saw Barney again, would he even be able to change that?

Another slot opens, this one at the end of the hallway. The two guards have an unintelligible exchange before the door opens and Freeman is ushered inside. There’s another exchange, although this time Freeman can make out the word “help” from one, and a firm denial from the other. The guard that had just been in the room leaves, and Freeman is alone with the guard that led him here. He offers only a glare as they stare him down for a minute.

Mumbling something about privacy, the guard heads to some sort of computer terminal and types away at it before what looks to be a camera slides away, hidden away by the ceiling.

“Now then,” They say, or at least that’s what Freeman hears. Their hands find purchase around the mask obscuring their face, and he finds himself wondering just how lucky he is right now. Only one guard, no cameras, and they're actively exposing the weakest— “About that beer I owe ya.”

Freeman didn’t need to see his face. It probably wouldn’t even have been as recognizable, considering a supposed 20 years have passed. His deep southern drawl, an inviting, strong bear hug personified, though now tinged with age, was undeniably the same. Familiar. Missed.

Barney sets the mask down on the terminal, his eyes locked on Freeman. The sheer amount of emotion just barely contained beyond his sea blue eyes say more than words ever could.

Gordon Freeman could probably count the number of times he’s ever hugged someone, or even been hugged, on just one hand. He’s not an especially affectionate person.

But he’ll make an exception, just this once, because Barney is his best friend and while Freeman hasn’t seen him since the Black Mesa Incident, Barney hasn’t seen him since before then, plus 20 years.

It’s a nearly bone breaking hug, although something tells him his grip is equally as strong. Surprisingly enough, Barney is the one to break away, immediately busying himself with wiping the tears out of his eyes. A few breathy laughs escape him, and it all just feels so perfect—

Too perfect.

Freeman has always considered himself a fairly rational person. He can also acknowledge that maybe, maybe grabbing Barney’s face and holding him gently, carefully, like if he doesn’t he’ll shatter the very illusion he’s living, and just analyzing every little detail, from the scare on his right cheekbone to the mole under his left eye for any discrepancies and just general memorization, may not be all that rational of an action.

But it drags a shaky, genuine laugh out of him, so maybe it’s more rational than he imagined.

“Ya’know, I’d been a bit worried ya wouldn’t’ve recognized me. Had a whole reintroduction planned out’n everything.” Barney’s hands slowly lift up towards Freeman’s own. His grin reaches from ear to ear. “Ya really know how to ruin a guy’s plans.”

Freeman pulls his hands away to save Barney the effort. It’s only been a few hours for him, but for Barney it’s been 20 years. There’s no telling what’s changed about him. About them.

‘I missed you too,’ He signs instead, and he means it. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s been able to properly have a conversation with anyone.

Barney takes a little longer than he used to to interpret his sign, but that same gleam of pride, mixed in with understanding appears in his eyes. Then some hair falls in his eyes and it seems to break him out of whatever thought he got lost in. In one fluid move, Barney smoothed his hair back into place and turned back to the terminal, typing away once more. It’s painfully reminiscent of his time behind a desk at Black Mesa, the unofficial receptionist based solely on just how long he spent trying to fix that computer for their actual receptionist.

“I’ve been working undercover in Civil Protection. You’re lucky I saw ya when I did, Gordon,” Barney peaks over his shoulder at him “They were trying to send ya off to Nova Prospekt.”

He’s… not entirely sure what that is, but clearly Barney expects him to. It must be well-known. A prison, maybe?

The computer screen flickers to static before slowly showing… a window? A bird flies by, confirming they are in fact watching a recording of a window. “Kleiner!” Barney calls out, and Freeman feels his shoulders tense up as he watches the screen in anticipation.

“Oh, what is it now Barney? I’m busy!” Kleiner, ever the man incapable of truly being mad, only sounds mildly inconvenienced in spite of his words. Despite having already heard his voice, it’s not until he steps into the view of the camera that Freeman breathes out a sigh of relief.

His eyes widen comically as he lands eyes on Freeman, even going as far as to rip his own glasses off and use his shirt to clean them off, as though it was the dirt that could've tricked his eyes into ever seeing Freeman when he wasn’t truly there. “Doc! You’ll never guess who I found.”

Even though he can’t see Barney’s face, he can definitely hear the cheeky grin in his voice. “Well I’ll be! Gordon Freeman, back from the dead! Er— Not that we believed you to be dead, Gordon! But, well, you have been gone for quite a while. Why, no one knew what happened to you after you went through that portal! And then there was that HECU—“

”Hey, Doc, think the two of ya could have this conversation at your lab? Have a nice cup of tea along with it too! Just, not, ya know, here? We’re taking enough risks as is,” Barney interrupts, holding up a hand as though he could physically stop Kleiner from talking through the screen.

“Right, yes! Gordon, you need to get out of there! Alyx is somewhere in the area, I’ll get in contact with her and direct her to you. All you need to do is get out of sight of Civil Protection and wait!” Kleiner’s every word is punctuated with various hand gestures that convey a nearly infectious amount of excitement.

And with that, Freeman was pushed towards a nearby door that he hadn’t initially noticed. He’s getting sloppy.

Barney looks like he has more to say, but before he can, there’s a sudden banging on the door behind them.

“Ya gotta get out of here before ya blow my cover Gordon!” He whispers as he pushes Freeman the rest of the way out the door, leading into some sort of unfinished backroom, its only decorations being a few crates and pallets. Barney seems to hesitate on actually sending him on his way, but eventually gives him one last push. “I’ll find ya first chance I get, but ya gotta get going now or we’ll both get caught!”

It’s an obvious reassurance, weak one at that. He wonders which of them it’s for.

The Door slams shut behind him with a deafening click, a lonely finality to the whole ordeal. There’s the faintest breeze blowing in from somewhere above, if the sunlight is anything to go off of. A ladder conveniently leads up to a platform where that window likely is.

Gordon Freeman is alone. Just like he always has been.

Like he always will be.

Faint talking can be heard through the door, although nothing Freeman can make out. Nothing he’d try to, either. Every second he’s still here is another second Barney could get caught, another second his best friend is in danger. He has to get going.

.
.
.

Consciousness came suddenly, painfully, and inconveniently, thanks to his head knocking against the floor abruptly. The arms stuck uncomfortably under his shoulders retract with a muttered curse, and Freeman finds himself being set down a bit more gently.

When he’s finally able to open his eyes, a struggle he’s relatively sure felt longer than it actually took, he finds himself face to face with a woman that’s almost familiar.

“Doctor Freeman, I presume?” She grins down at him, standing back up and offering a hand out to him.

Definitely Eli’s girl. They have the same gentle, teasing smile, punctuated by two dimples on either side of her mouth. He easily accepts her help.

A siren begins blaring in the distance, accompanied by some voice calling out a warning of some sort. The grin is gone as quickly as it came as she looks around cautiously. ”We better hurry. The Combine can be slow to wake but once they’re up you don’t wanna get in their way.”

Glancing around as well, Freeman finds a few Civil Protection soldiers knocked out on the ground. Just a ways away is a hallway he remembers entering, before immediately getting cornered.

“Doctor Kleiner said you’d be heading this way. I don’t think it occurred to him that you might not have a map.”

Right. He left Barney to enter the city, not really given any directions beyond finding someone named Alyx and reuniting with Kleiner.

Finding an actual path hadn’t actually been all that hard, come to think of it. He’d felt herded in a specific direction every step of the way, whether it was the environment around him, the people in it, or an inexplicable pull dragging him closer and closer to something unknown.

So this must be—

“I’m Alyx Vance. My father worked with you back in Black Mesa? I’m sure you don’t remember me though,” She ushers him into an elevator. The ride down is short, over as soon as it began. It just makes him feel rushed. “Man of few words, aren’t you?”

Alyx doesn’t wait, sliding through the elevator doors before they can finish creakily opening. She’s quick to dart around a corner, too.

“Remember him from Black Mesa? Your old administrator.” Right on queue, Freeman turns the corner and spies a large poster of none other than Wallace Breen. Despite everything that’s happened since Black Mesa, he doesn’t consider himself to be a violent man.

Breen, however, has a very punchable face. He’d like a word or two with his old boss. The man won’t need to know sign to understand him.

A breathy laugh. “Don’t get my dad started on Dr. Breen.”

She reaches a hand towards the electrical panel just next to the portrait, pressing an unseen button and revealing a secret door hidden by the wall, which slowly but surely slides out of their way.

“Through here,” Alyx instructs, holding the door open behind herself as she steps through. The hallway it leads into is narrow and long, not offering much else besides a second door, a lone panel resting on the wall beside it. “Funny, you showing up on this day in particular,” She muses as she types a code into the panel. He’s just far enough back that he can’t quite make it out.

Nothing of note lies in the room just behind this door, either. Freeman finds himself appreciating the simplicity of the area. He could use some more mundane things reentering his life.

Alyx walks further ahead, vaulting over a railing and saving a few measly seconds the stairs just a ways away would’ve taken. Freeman himself takes those stairs. “We’ve been helping people escape the city on foot,” She explains as they make their way through the building. “It’s a dangerous route to my father’s lab, through the old canals. Today, we’re finally on the verge of having a better way.”

She makes her way towards a vending machine with Breen’s name plastered in its top corner. A memory pops into his head of someone telling him not to drink the water, something about it “making you forget.”

“Here, let me buy you a drink.” Without waiting for a response, she slips a coin into the machine and presses several of its options in rapid succession, completing the whole routine with a few hits to the side of it. She then steps away just as the front of the machine swings open, revealing yet another secret door. “Oh, and by the way? Nice to finally meet you.”

An ambient, painfully familiar sound of clicking, beeping, whirring, and other general machinery greets him on the other side, the clacking of his own shoes against the tile accompanying all the other noises. The lab, because that’s the only thing it could be, is a lot more spacious than he would’ve pictured. But, then again, Kleiner had always had the neatest lab out of everyone.
Speaking of, he easily spots his old mentor rifling through a crate off to the side.

“Blast that little—! Where did she get off to?” Kleiner slams the crate shut with visible frustration, moving to peek into the dog kennel right next to it. “Lamarr? Come out of there!”

“Uh oh, everything alright Dr. Kleiner?” Alyx steps forward and peeks into the kennel as well. All Freeman can see is a dark, empty dog crate splattered with blood.

“Oh, hello Alyx! Things are, well, almost alright; Lamarr has gotten out of her crate again. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect Barney of trapping and—” He takes a step back from the crates and begins scanning the rest of the lab for Lamarr, although he stops short the moment his eyes land on Freeman. “My goodness, Gordon Freeman! It really is you, isn’t it!”

Kleiner closes the distance between them in two swift steps, immediately grabbing for Freeman’s face and turning it every which way as if he had its exact look memorized and would know in an instant if he was a fake.

His grip loosens as he comes to the conclusion that he is real. That this is real. His hands fall away from Freeman’s face, landing instead on his shoulders. In an instant, he’s pulled in for a hug, the second one of today.

Freeman decides that’s okay. After everything that happened in Black Mesa, he could use a hug or two.

“I found him wandering around outside. Bit of a troublemaker, isn’t he?” Alyx says cheekily, and with that Kleiner pulls away, crossing his arms the way a parent might after catching a child reaching into the cookie jar.

“We owe a great deal to Dr. Freeman, even if trouble does tend to follow in his wake.” Ah, he is scolding her. Although, there is a noticeable lack of bite to his words.

If anything, the side eye Kleiner sends his way at the end of his sentence is the true scolding. Freeman hasn’t even done anything yet! He chooses to wisely keep that thought to himself, however. No doubt Kleiner would either find some detail in there to pick apart, or he’d just simply, kindly remind him of a particularly stupid moment of Freeman’s from however long ago.

No, he keeps his thoughts to himself and simply offers a slow headshake. The safe option. He definitely hears a snicker from the doctor as Kleiner passes him by, headed for the computer nestled safely on a desk just behind him. “I must say, Gordon,” He explains as he begins typing away at the computer. “You’ve come at a very opportune time. Alyx has just installed the final piece for our resurrected teleport!”

“I can’t take any credit for the breakthrough Doctor!” She holds her hands up placatingly, silently making a face at Freeman as she nods her head towards the doctor in question. It’s a gesture that easily conveys just how much she truly looks up to Kleiner.

“Nonsense, your talents surpass your loveliness.” Kleiner slides his glasses down his nose, seemingly trying to convey with just one look how highly he himself thinks of Alyx.

He’s not sure if the message comes across as clearly as Alyx’s had, but it’s the thought that counts. Alyx drops her hands. “Let’s just see if this thing works, okay?”

“Well is he here?!” Barney seems to scan every nook and cranny of the lab before realizing he’s very nearly run into Freeman already. He quickly turns away and scurries over to a nearby panel, clearly trying to look busy so he doesn't have to acknowledge his blunder. He completely misses the amused smile that worms its way onto Freeman’s own face. Probably for the best. Eventually, Barney does peek over his shoulder and back at him. “Man Gordon, you sure stirred up the hive.”

“Then there’s no time like the present to get the hell out of dodge,” Alyx speaks up, crossing her arms and leaning back against one of the many tables decorating the room.

“...right,” Barney agrees, although hesitation heavily laces his tone.

“That’s right!” Kleiner chimes in, seemingly having just tuned back into the conversation. “This is a Red Letter Day, Barney. We’ll inaugurate the new teleport with a double transmission!”

This does the trick, finally pulling Barney away from the terminal he was working away at. Instead, he heads over to Kleiner’s desk and rests his hands on them, leaning most of his weight onto it as well. “You mean it’s working? For real this time? Because, I still have nightmares about that cat.”

“Now now, there’s nothing to be nervous about!” Kleiner is quick to placate.

“What cat?” Alyx tries to ask, although she goes largely unnoticed. Freeman would also like to know about the cat.

“We’ve made major strides since then! Major strides,” Kleiner mumbles the last part, and suddenly Freeman decides maybe some questions are better left unanswered.

“What cat?” Alyx tries again. Kleiner shifts his attention to somewhere under the desk, an expert maneuver Freeman himself is familiar with using to escape uncomfortable conversations. Barney has no such trick, instead very obviously avoiding eye contact, or even looking in Alyx’s general direction. He avoids looking in Freeman’s, too.

After a few minutes of Alyx trying to glare an answer of out Barney, the man seems to have an epiphany. He slams his hands back onto the table and nearly leans over it to look down at Kleiner. “Wait, since he’s not– So if he’s not taking the streets– We should get him out of his civies!”

Kleiner attempts to stand back up to his full height, although he clearly hadn’t been aware of just where Barney was. The two collide slowly yet painfully, the former rubbing at his head while the latter cradles his chin.

It’s all Freeman can do to stifle a laugh.

“What?” Kleiner’s hand eventually falls away from his head, instead finding purchase on his chin as he attempts to parse out what Barney had meant. “Oh dear, you’re right! I had almost forgotten. Barney, I’ll give you the honor.”

Barney’s grin nearly stretches from ear to ear, and if fighting off that laugh had been hard, keeping this overly infectious smile off his face was nigh impossible.

With a pep in his step that Freeman hasn’t seen for forever, the man all but skips over to a garage door and types in some code to the panel by it. Without even waiting for the door to open, Barney ducks into the closet and loudly taps away at yet another panel. “Here we go…!”

Suddenly, light floods the closet, all focused on the centerpiece; an HEV suit. Before Freeman can properly acknowledge that, however, he notices a headcrab just above it.

It leaps down towards Barney, who’s quick to wrestle it off his face with a scream of a few expletives. Freeman finds himself reaching for a weapon that’s no longer there.

“Lamarr, there you are!” Kleiner calls out from elsewhere in the lab, clearly relieved.

“I thought you got rid of that pest!” Barney peeks out from the storage closet, eyeing the headcrab— Lamarr— wearily.

“Certainly not!” Kleiner chastises, easily striding up to Lamarr, who has since perched on top of some lockers right next to the garage door. “Never fear Gordon, she’s debeaked and completely harmless. The worst she might do is attempt to… couple, with your head,” He attempts to reassure, turning just over his shoulder to find the weary look still cleanly plastered onto Freeman’s face.

Lamarr makes a move towards Barney again, getting low the way a cat might before pouncing. “Get that thing away from me!” His friend wisely calls, although he steps further out of the closet and takes a steady fighting stance instead.

Freeman himself steps closer to Barney. Kleiner steps towards the far side of the locker and pats his head. “Here my pet! Up up.”

And up Lamarr goes. Up to the balcony just behind Kleiner, where she knocks into every crate, bucket, machine, and any other loose item laying around.

“No, not up there! No– NO! Careful Lamarr! Those are– QUITE FRAGILE!!” Lamarr, being a headcrab that likely lacks not only sentience, but the gland most mammals have that allow them to grow attachments to other creatures, continues hopping around until she finds the ventilation shaft, which she doesn’t hesitate to enter. “Oh fie! It’ll be another week before I can coax her out of there!”

“Yeah. Longer if we’re lucky!” Barney mutters under his breath, sending a smirk Freeman’s way. He offers up an overly serious straight faced nod of his own in return.

“Barney! You’re not an animal person?” Alyx sounds betrayed by the mere notion, and it manages to break past the ever weakening façade of seriousness and steal another breathless laugh from him. It’s a scientific wonder he doesn’t lose it entirely when Barney lets out an obnoxious gag in response.

He missed this.

“Well Gordon, go ahead,” Kleiner calls from his place by the computer once more, seemingly over what just happened. “Slip into your suit now.”

Barney about faces directly towards Freeman, gives a very stiff salute with what he assumes is meant to be his friend’s impression of Freeman’s signature ‘straight face’, then marches like a toy soldier towards the panel from earlier. Hopefully this time around he won’t be so viciously attacked.

With a simple button press, the glass doors surrounding the suit slide out of the way. As Freeman steps in, Barney steps out. The garage door slides shut behind him, allowing for a moment of privacy. Back into the suit he goes, not that he was out of it for long.

This version of it feels incredibly different. It’s far more comfortable for one, feeling less like it’s clinging to his limbs and more so like it’s hugging them. The suit doesn’t feel like it’s fighting against any bend to his limbs he tries out, nor does the armor try and weigh him down.

While still orange, the plating of the suit is clearly spray painted over, little flecks here and there not quite covering everything up. The gloves are better made for improving his grip, and he even finds a hood at the back that hangs rather loosely when he wears it.

By far what has the most care of the whole suit is the lambda symbol proudly displayed front and center, carefully carved into the plating and painted on with more care than the rest of the suit.

His hand hovers just over it, nearly grazing the surface but never truly touching it.

“Gordon? Ya alright in there?” Banging on the door, it’s a wonder Freeman’s able to hear him at all. Finding the handle is easy enough, and after a few gentle tugs he’s able to pull the thing open. “Oh! There you are! Lookin’ good doc.”

Barney takes a minute to admire the suit, his eyes gliding over it with rapt attention. He then seems to have a moment of clarity and quickly marches off to the other side of the lab without another word.

He takes a few steps out himself, but decides to let Barney have his space. He’s not even entirely sure what spawned that reaction.

Kleiner looks up from his desk just in time to watch Barney barrel past, although he easily shifts his attention to Freeman without a second thought. “Ah, I see your old suit still fits you! Or, at least the glove part does,” Kleiner mutters as he returns his attention to his computer.

His… old suit? That can’t be what it is. When he was put— After Xen— He left Xen with the suit still on. They couldn't have gotten it. Not to mention, after having worn the suit for so long, he’s sure he could recreate a perfect replica from memory. This isn’t it.

Although, that does mean Kleiner built an entirely new suit, presumably from scratch. But why? It seems fully functional as a standard HEV suit, but this one is perfectly fitted for Freeman himself, and he’s rather tall. Not to mention, the improvements he’s noted so far are all things he distinctly recalls complaining to Kleiner about.

Did he… make this just for him? Even after they’d thought he died? Had they thought he died?

“I’ve made a few modifications, but I’ll just acquaint you with the essentials,” Kleiner continues, none the wiser to his own internal debate. “Now, let's see. The Mark V Hazardous Environment Suit has been redesigned for comfort and utility.”

Kleiner isn’t able to get any farther in his acquainting than that, a sudden alarm blaring out across the entire city ominously.

“Oh dear…!” Kleiner looks towards a window a ways away, searching for any signs of immediate danger if he had to guess.

“Doc, we don’t have time for this! At least get that suit juiced up Gordon,” Barney huffs, taking initiative by crossing the room and all but dragging Freeman back the way he came.

“Good idea, there’s a charger on the wall,” Kleiner agrees at the same time, although Freeman is sure he hears the man snicker as he’s pulled towards said charger. How kind. “I’ve modified your suit to draw power from Combine Energy Outlets, which are plentiful wherever they patrol.”

Safely deposited by the aforementioned outlet, Barney leans his weight on one leg as he does an ‘after you’ gesture, obnoxiously punctuated by an overly smug grin.

Freeman, the far more mature of the two, sticks his tongue out at him as he draws as much power as he can from the charger.

As he does, the sounds of two footsteps approach from behind. “Meanwhile, let’s get this show on the road,” Alyx says as he leans into the space between the two and cocks a brow in what can only be described as disappointment.

Kleiner is just behind Barney, a pillar separating the two. Rather than take part in their buffoonery, he grabs a portrait on the wall, horrifically off center, and rights it. It’s followed by a slight click, which prompts Kleiner to turn towards the pillar and begin tapping at it, leaning in close. It’s probably safe to assume there is yet another hidden panel that will reveal some secret door. There’s been a theme of that lately.

Sure enough, the wall right by him slides back, revealing a second part of the lab. There’s that same click from a minute ago, and he’s just quick enough to see the panel sliding back into its hiding place.

He’s the one to lead the charge into the latter half of the lab, followed closely by Kleiner and Alyx, and less closely by Barney. He seems to linger in the doorway.

Walking past him, Kleiner scurries up a ladder and onto some balcony housing a large computer setup. Alyx, meanwhile, deposits herself on a circular platform that gets closed off behind her, its gate sliding into place without missing a beat.

“Gordon! Why don’t you position yourself right by the panel over there and wait for my word?” Kleiner instructs, hastily typing away at his computers.

“Isaac, are you there?” A familiar voice calls out. He’d had a hunch he’d survived, but it was another thing to have it confirmed.

On a monitor just across the room from him, Eli Vance peered through the screen. “Yes, yes Eli,” Kleiner answers absentmindedly. “Bit of a hold up on this end. You’ll never guess who found his way into our lab this morning.”

A throaty laugh that sounds the same as it always has, despite the years. “That’s not who I think it is, is it?”

“Indeed it is! And it’s our intention to send him packing straight away, in the company of your lovely daughter,” Kleiner explains, moving a mile a minute as he gets the machine ready.

“Are you ready for us dad?” Alyx sets a hand on the gate and peers through it towards the monitor. He’s sure the angle feels as awkward as it looks.

“We’re all set on this end,” Eli confirms, taking a step back and turning away from the camera. A woman he doesn’t recognize steps into frame just behind him, and they share an exchange that doesn’t carry over to their end.

Alyx stands back at attention. “Then let’s do it.”

“Let’s see, the Massless Field-Flux should self-limit and I’ve clamped the Manifold Parameters to CY base and LG orbifold, Hilbert inclusive,” Kleiner mutters. Barney finally steps into the lab and stands in front of the monitor Eli is on, but not before turning to Freeman and doing his best Kleiner impression, mouthing the words and mockingly pushing nonexistent glasses up his nose all the while.

All he earns for his hard work is an amused eye roll.

“Conditions could hardly be more ideal,” Kleiner continues on, blissfully unaware of the mockery being made of him just below.

“That’s what you said last time,” Barney complains, crossing his arms and leaning haphazardly against the machinery. He’d assume the man was trying to do an impression of an angsty teenager, since he’s so keen on those even after all this time, but the conversation (or lack thereof) about the cat has him second guessing that line of thought.

“Hey uh yeah, about that cat?” Alyx rightfully calls out. She’s ignored yet again.

“Initializing in three… two…” Barney takes several steps away from the machine, resting a hand on Freeman’s arm. His grip is loose but tense, ready to pull him back at a moment's notice too. That certainly doesn’t bolster his confidence, and judging by the horrified expression on Alyx’s face, it doesn’t help hers either. “One!”

The loud whirring of the machine fades to a stop very suddenly, and Barney’s hold on him feels far calmer. He doesn’t remove his hand, though.

“Oh fiddlesticks!” Kleiner curses, or the closest he’ll ever get to one. “What now?”

“Uh, Doctor? The plug!” Alyx very helpfully gestures to said plug, one of three and the only one not plugged in.

“Oh dear me, you’re right! Gordon, would you mind… plugging us in?” Kleiner peeks over the railing, waiting patiently but intently for Freeman to do as instructed.

Barney rests a hand on his hip and gestures towards the plug with his other, raising one eyebrow slowly, patronizingly. ‘I’m waiting’ is written all over his face.

With an eyeroll he makes sure doesn’t go unnoticed by any present, he marches over and sticks the plug back where it belongs. The machine whirrs back to life in an instant, and while he’s still reeling from the sudden, loud sound, Barney pulls him back.

“Excellent,” Kleiner thanks, readjusting his glasses. The light reflecting off of them made it impossible to see his eyes.

“Ya gonna let Gordon throw the switch?” Alyx asks, bringing her hands up to help project her voice. He can’t imagine how much louder the machine must be for her.

“Yes! Go on Gordon, throw the switch!” Kleiner makes a shoeing motion, his hand flapping excitedly. The actual act of ‘throwing’ the switch is incredibly simple and probably not worth all the fanfare, but at least Kleiner is happy. “Very good. Final sequence… commencing… now!”

”I can’t look!” Barney turns away, his grip on Freeman tightening in preparation.

Alyx laughs nervously from the platform, which has since raised into the air. Her nervous laughter continues, slowly getting distorted. She shrinks in on herself as the bars around her begin spinning, increasing in velocity by the second. With a flash of light, she’s gone. The echo of her scream remains.

“Well…? Did it work? ” Kleiner asks, peering into his monitor from atop the balcony as though he could stick his head through and find Alyx with the others on the other side.

“See for yourself,” Eli leans into the camera smugly, before stepping away entirely to reveal Alyx, who also leans in smugly.

“Hey Doc!” She places a chaste kiss on her father’s cheek before moving back out of frame.

”Oh, thank goodness! My relief is almost palpable.” The Doctor rests a hand above his heart, letting out a deep sigh as the tension leaves him.

”Fantastic work Izzy,” Eli praises, nodding in approval.

“Well I can’t take all the credit! Dr. Freeman proved an able-assistant,” Kleiner teases, beaming down at him with a faux-prideful expression.

“Let’s go ahead and bring Gordon through now,” Eli laughs along, offering only a small mercy in the form of helping him escape this situation. And to think, his own mentor! He’d expect a joke like that from Barney, sure—

“Good job Gordon, throwing that switch ‘nd all! I can see your MIT education really pays for itself.” Speak of the devil and he shall appear. To crush all your dreams. And remind you of your student debt. At least there’s one upside to the apocalypse; he won’t have to pay them now.

“Alright Barney, your turn!” Kleiner calls out enthusiastically. And with that, Kleiner has redeemed himself.

“Gee, thanks,” Like the flip of a switch, Barney’s mood has plummeted dramatically. Something tells Freeman it’s not part of any bit.

“Gordon, as soon as you’re in position, we’ll send you to Eli’s.” Kleiner nods down to him, seemingly also sobered up. He feels like he’s missing something.

The gate slides into place behind him the moment he steps on, and he finds the machine was just as imposing to be in as it looked from the outside.

“Excellent. Initializing in three, two, one,” He counts down.

”Good luck out there Gordon,” Barney calls out somberly, staring up at him like it’ll be the last time. After Black Mesa, Freeman doesn’t exactly blame him.

“Yes, indeed,” Kleiner agrees, also very somber. “We’re ready to project you, Gordon. Bon voyage, and best of luck in your future endeavors,” The goodbye feels too final for his liking, but there’s no changing what's already been set in motion. He knows that.

He knows that better than anyone.

“Final sequence…” He doesn’t so much hear as he sees the Doctor mouth it to himself. What he does hear is the loud clang as a vent cover slips off the vent, bouncing off a cabinet and falling to the floor. It just barely misses Barney, and takes a large black cable connected to the machine with it. Sparks fly. ”Now what is it?”

“It’s your pet, the freakin' HEADHUMPER!”

“Lamarr? Betty, no!” All his focus is dragged towards the headcrab, and permanently stuck there as it leaps for him. In a flash of light, he’s suddenly on a lonely desert highway, the road buried under mounds of sand and cars littering the way. Somehow, the teleport disoriented the stupid thing enough it got turned around.

Another flash of light steals him away before it can attempt to attach itself to his face again. Now he’s back at the lab, or at least he thinks he is. He can hear Barney, and Kleiner, just barely over his own, suddenly labored breathing.

His fingers tingle, and feel stiff. They grip uselessly at the undersuit on his arms, struggling to find any sort of purchase on the rubbery material.

Alyx is in front of him, just past the bright blue light encasing him. He hears more talking, but it’s all gibberish to him. Mumbling utterances of silence.

He’s only got himself for company, like always.

If it weren’t for the fact he was gulping up air like he’d just breached the water’s surface, he likely wouldn’t have noticed the way the air suddenly thinned around him, further stifling him.

There are black spots in his vision that look almost white if he focuses on them too long, but even still he can make out the features of Wallace Breen, looking as confused as he feels and as angry as—

“I’m getting him out of there!” Barney calls, loud and clear. He can’t see him though. He tries reaching a hand up to check that his glasses are still there, but he can’t even feel his arms. He can’t feel anything.

Air thinning and thickening suddenly stops being a problem, because he finds himself underwater, dirty water. Some sort of creature he almost recognizes appears through the haze, mouth torn wide open and razor sharp teeth jutting out. A flash.

Flash after flash, a migraine slowly builds behind his eyes and drains what little energy still had him going after all of this time. He’s so tired. When was the last time he slept?

Why can’t he remember?

Why can’t he remember?

The ringing in his head is getting worse, the only sounds breaking it up his own breathing, and he’s getting tired of that too.

He doesn’t realize he’s curled up until his head falls against sand, the awful texture sticking to his forehead as water droplets fall to the ground below.

A pair of boots, covered in that same dark brown sand stop just short of him, and it’s a miracle he’s able to drag his head to the side a little. The word tilt would be more accurate, really.

There’s a lot of greens and blacks and grays making up the thing above him. He’s not really sure what it is.

But then there’s the unmistakable feeling of cold steel against his forehead, the barrel of a gun displacing the sandy dirt.

Oh.

Maybe now he’ll get some rest. Someone else can come along and take over. Anyone could’ve done what he did. He just happened to be the one to do it.

His eyes flutter shut, and he waits for what never comes.

For seconds. For minutes. Hours. Days, months, years.

He waits.

His time is over now.

Startlingly, the piercing blue that was achingly familiar is replaced by a radioactive green. It helps bring back some clarity, at the very least.

The light encasing him has localized itself, running across his body as electricity. It almost hurts. But he can feel it.

He can’t feel the ground, or anything around him. There wasn’t anything to feel, anyway. He’s floating in a black void, his only company some vaguely humanoid shape, blinding to look at. The same green that circulates around his body.

It tilts its head at him.

Another flash, still that new, odd green, and the void is still there, but less empty. There are stars now. He feels compelled to reach out for one, just to see if he can touch it, although he’s stopped short by something.

By a wall, he realizes. A window. He turns to find himself in a box— The tram. Red, velvety seats are painted across its sides. That’s not right.

Maybe it’s the train he rode this morning.

Seven others also stand in the tram, three on either side as well as one on the opposite end of the tram and each staring out past the seats, past the window, out into the void. The details are blurry, but he can make out colors for each; red, yellow, green, blue, indigo, purple, and pink.

At least— He’s not alone anymore. He won’t have only himself to keep him company.

The electricity is crackling violently around him, nearly striking the other passengers in the tram— Train?

“Go—n…?” Something calls.

Someone.

Somewhere.

“G—rd—n!” Again.

”Fr—m—!” And again.

”Gor— …man!” And—

”GORDON FREEMAN!” Until it all ends, if it all ends.

They call for him.

Chapter Text

There’s a constant, screeching sort of ringing in his ear that had to be the reason blood drips down his chin. It doesn’t stop there, the ringing. It twists and turns and stabs itself into his head, piercing his brain in a way bullets and knives, claws and teeth all had tried, succeeding where they failed. Unforgivingly. Unfalteringly.

He comes to gasping for air, although with every breath he heaves in more oxygen seems to escape his lungs, leaving him choking for more. It doesn’t help that he’s pressed against the ground, gravity itself content to crush the last remnants of life out of him. The HEV suit, designed to save him, to protect him, constrains him now. He can feel it caving in on his ribs, his chest, his soul.

More blood runs down his face, through his hair, down his suit, dripping and dropping in rivulets that splatter against the ground that may as well get this the hell over with and swallow him up already, let him rejoin the earth and be free of this nightmare.

It does no such thing.

There’s a disconnect between his mind and body. The former tries with all its might to convince the latter to get up and run, for his legs to kick up from the ground or his arms to push him upright. Even his hands refuse to listen, to offer the barest of comforts holding himself or even curling up and holding onto something.

He may as well be a ghost haunting his own body. Maybe he is, and this is what death feels like. Coming up for air and yet drowning above the waves. Being attacked by your own body, your own mind, as much as you are by the world. Trapped within the remains of yourself.

After what feels like years, something happens. Nothing big, nothing world changing. Virtually insignificant in comparison to what he’s faced, the horrors he’s seen, and the things he’s done.

But noticeable, compared to the agonizing nothingness of before; his hand twitches. He missed the initial motion, but did witness the world around him react. It was hard not to, in truth; Something— A rock, maybe— got moved, just enough to hit him in the face. To tap him, really, and his cheek stings where it landed— Burns, even.

It’s nothing compared to the burning in his lungs, but simultaneously everything too because it’s real and it’s grounding.

He clings onto the feeling, and slowly manages to grab a whole fistful of whatever he’s on— Sand, maybe, or gravel, the terrain’s uneven and shifts to fill the hole he creates. It doesn’t provide the most stable surface, but in a very short span of time he’s been learning to take what he can get; no point in wasting time throwing a fit.

On shaking arms that threaten to let him crumble to the ground if he isn’t as careful and slow as possible, yet quicker than gravity can try to claim him, Freeman pushes himself up onto his knees. The world spins violently around him, nearly forcing him back down with the intense vertigo. At least if he curled up, he’d be able to protect what little may remain in his stomach. If there even was anything still.

He’s once again reminded that he can’t remember the last time he’d taken care of himself in any way beyond basic medicinal care he’d quite literally have died without.

He can remember a time where that’d been normal for him, late nights studying for a test or working on his thesis distracting him from eating or sleeping. It’d never worried him then, not when he had so many other, bigger things to worry about.

Saving the lives of thousands, maybe even the world, that was something bigger to worry about he supposed. Maybe it’s okay that he can’t remember then.

Gray stares up at him from the ground— Gravel, and easily recognizable too. It’s not painted red like he’d thought it’d be, just darkened by the water it’s slowly absorbing. The same water that drips lazily from his suit, seeming not at all concerned with where it’s going or how it’s getting there.

There’s no blood. He can see that there’s no blood.

None visible, at least. The blood on his hands…

That’ll always be there. Always real. Always reminding him of what he’s done.

A coughing fit takes him out unexpectedly— He still couldn’t breathe— Clawing at the HEV suit doesn’t work, so his hands look for purchase in his neck instead—

Water shoots out, splatting violently against the gravel and slowly disappearing under the hot sun. There’s finally room for air in his lungs again, and he takes the opportunity for all its worth, greedily gulping up as much as he can. Compared to the rollercoaster of the last few minutes, this was bliss.

“Hey— Hello? Hey! Are you…?” A voice trails off, and immediately all his earlier fatigue— His weakness— is forgotten in favor of whipping his head up because—

Because he’s supposed to know that voice— No, he DOES know that voice— something in him is sure of that. It’s painfully familiar, scratching at his brain with recognition.

He can’t put a face or name to it, though. Not with his memory, and he doesn’t get any sort of look at them because the world doesn’t stop moving when his head does, spinning and spinning in a way that brings back horrible memories of a test chamber, lights flashing, the walls themselves exploding, and Hell coming in through a doorway they just opened. That he just opened.

He doesn’t bring his head down to rest on the gravel for a third time, but he does lower it so less of the sun can stab into his eyes and burn his already shitty retinas. A hand uselessly comes to rub at the bridge of his nose, a fruitless effort to fend off the oncoming migraine.

There were no footsteps, at least, none that he heard. It’s a sobering realization, like stepping into the shower before it’s warmed up. A shiver runs down his spine, and a cold resolve settles within him.

He could’ve died, if whoever it was hadn’t alerted him to their presence. There’s no guarantee they still aren’t out to get him, and he can’t count on luck for a second time.

Carefully, he lifts his head again. Slow and cautious. They haven’t taken any of the many opportunities he’s given them to strike, so they either don’t know who he is yet, aren’t with Civil Protection, are an ally, or simply don’t know what to do with him yet. Regardless, any of those options allow him a little bit of leniency, and he’ll use that to— He’ll—

His own eyes stare back at him, impossibly green and hidden away behind a familiar pair of square glasses and yellowed lenses. There’s even the same rubber band wrapped around the middle to stop it from sliding down his nose, stained with dirt and grime because he’d never had the chance to replace it. Not after everything happened. Not after that doomed test.

The air leaves his lungs in a whole different gut punch as he stares down his doppelgänger. There are a thousand theories he can come up with for what’s going on, and none of them are especially pleasant.

Luckily, it’s not hard to cross out over half of them.

If they’re a clone, well… Long hair cascades down from a high ponytail and curls every which way, black and gray streaks scattered about and implying either age or stress. Given how wild and untamed their— His?— frizzy hair was, it was likely the latter. Their skin was a shade darker, likely having spent more time out in the sun than he ever had. They look stockier, too. Barney used to joke that a light breeze might carry him away one day, so it was probably for the best that he was cooped up underground all the time.

Beyond that, there wasn’t much difference. His double wears a matching HEV suit, but now that his attention is focused on it, it's easy to notice that it’s a shade too light to be considered orange. Back in Black Mesa, there had been other suits that varied in color. It was just to help make them easily identifiable without having to put names on them.

After all, if anything were to happen to the wearer, it wouldn’t be a good look to whoever the suit went to next if there was a name already on there. You don’t want evidence that the hazardous environments the suit was meant for had won out, and you especially don’t want it on display.

That being said, he doesn’t remember any of the other suits ever being yellow, or gold. He’s not sure which to classify the suit as, what with the bright orange sunlight shining down on them, painting everything around them.

If they are a clone, he doubts they were made to replace him, at least in the sense that they would literally assume his life. Anyone that knew him would easily identify the double as an imposter.

The differences also seem a little too glaring for this to be some time traveled version of him, past or future.

Of course, there’s always the third, most outrageous of all the possibilities left over…

His train of thought is abruptly halted by a loud CLANG, followed by a BOOM or maybe a BANG. BAM is a safe middle ground, right?

A red blur slams down onto the roof of a train behind his double, sliding off and straight towards them. It’s a person, who rather impressively manages to turn the clear ragdoll fall into a roll that lands them on their feet instead of their face.

He’d clap, except… when their head whips up at breakneck speeds to glare at them, his own face is there again, a scowl he’s not sure he could ever replicate even if he tried plastered across it briefly. It falls at the sight of, well, two lookalikes, before hardening into a slightly less hostile, definitely more cautious stare. Their hand also hovers behind them, as if reaching for a weapon, though nothing is there. Nothing he can see, anyways.

This new duplicate is paler than him, in fact he probably looks even paler than he is thanks to the dark eyepatch taking up nearly half his face. He too wears glasses relying on a withering band to keep them in place, although his lenses have an almost red tint to them. That might just be the lighting though. In contrast to the first double, this one’s hair is significantly shorter, although it’s a bit longer than his own. It’s a mullet haphazardly pulled into a low ponytail, although how anyone could willingly touch hair that greasy is a mystery. Perhaps the HEV suit he was wearing was to thank for that.

Speaking of, this new one was red. The symbol in the center, the lambda, that was different too. It was like there was a V in the center, turning the bottom half of the lambda into two X’s, or maybe an M. Now that he’s paying more attention to it, he notices there’s something different about the first double’s lambda as well, much less noticeable than the new one’s. Something that looks a bit like a lowercase i rests in the top corner of the circle surrounding the lambda, not touching it at all. He’s not sure what to make of these symbols. In fact, there’s actually something else that’s a bit odd about the first one’s suit, one that went unnoticed because of—

“WHAT THE FUCK—!” It’s phrased like a question, but it doesn’t sound like one. It was the new one that spoke up— Red? He really needs to establish a way to refer to them— the silence from before felt tense, but actually addressing whatever’s happening right now has put him into a whole new level of stressed out that he’s never felt before, which is considerably impressive considering the stress of literally everything since the Resonance Cascade.

“Yeah— This is— So fucked…!” The first one— Yellow— chokes out. A hand faintly grasps at the collar of his HEV suit, the fingers twitching towards the neck, but unlike Freeman himself, his double raises their hands to their face and holds onto that instead. Much more gentle in their approach as well. So similar, so different.

Red, shifty eyes, can’t seem to decide which of the two of them to keep his eyes on. His hand continues to reach behind him, but with how slow he’s going, Freeman’s sure it’s to make himself feel like he has a little more control of the situation than he really does. It’s what he would do.

Yellow’s hands slide up into his hair, gliding through it and down into the ponytail, where his fingers tangle into the locks in a soothing gesture. It brings a self-conscious hand of his own up to the back of his head, gently tracing where he too once had a ponytail, though his was more like Red’s. What he wouldn’t have given for hair like that. “Okay,” He mutters, his own eyes darting between Freeman and Red.

“Okay? The hell is that supposed to mean!” Red shifts back, not that that does anything for him. The train he fell off of earlier blocks any sort of quick escape he could’ve had.

Against his own better judgment, Freeman steps forward, hands raised in surrender. If they really are all the same person, well… ‘We’ve all come to the same conclusion, right?’

For a moment, he sees that all too familiar blank look enter their eyes. It makes sense. They can talk, they can be heard. Why would they need to know a silent language when they’re so loud?

It’s when his hands fall uselessly to his sides that they snap out of whatever trance they were in, and a new look replaced the blank one. Understanding.

“Well yeah,” Red huffs, crossing his arms. Freeman swears he hears a “duh” thrown in for extra effect, but that might just be in his head. “You’re both either clones sent to kill me or alternate versions of me, also sent to kill me.”

He punctuates it with a shrug, accompanied by a challenging look. Yellow in fact challenges it, with an impressively disappointed facepalm that sounds like it hurt as much to do as it was to witness. He can feel his parents guilting him for going across the country for college all over again. “Okay! Okay. Why are— Why do all the options include your murder, exactly?”

Freeman nods along with that completely valid question, pretending that the thought of his own murder had not been the first thing to cross his mind when meeting the duplicates. Red sends him a dirty glare, like he knows the truth. Whether or not it’s just some sort of inherent instinct that comes with being the same person, or if he’s randomly got the ability to read minds is anyone’s guess.

Imagine that, versions of him with superpowers.

A loud, foreboding siren silenced any further conversation. There was a tall structure a long ways away, towering over the city oppressively. It opens up and spews what must be ships out, like bees exiting a hive. The building itself and the way it moves reminds him a bit of a ribcage, disgustingly so.

There’s no need for words, not with a looming threat so obviously approaching. With just a glance, they all agree to a truce of sorts. They can figure out this situation later, but not if they’re dead.

It’s only now that it matters that Freeman realizes he has no idea where he is, where they are. He doesn’t remember much of either Kleiner or Eli’s labs, but he’s pretty sure there was a lack of trains. Which, well… they are in a train yard.

Three sets of green eyes drag their gaze across the barren tracks, a stark contrast from the darting of earlier, though the caution remains all the same. Each sets their shoulders back, although where one takes a stance that seems to challenge everything, down to the gravel they stand on, another’s stance is more defensive, like getting hit too many times simply isn’t— Won’t be an option.

Freeman’s own stance feels like a healthy middle ground of the two; He can certainly take the blows, and he’s not backing down from anything. But he isn’t looking for trouble, either. It gets easier with each passing minute to accept that these doubles are… well, him. If he really had a minute to think about it, he’d probably be freaking out over the implications of this. There are too many differences for the clone theory, which has him leaning towards the final one. The outrageous theory that has always had little standing in the scientific world, or at the very least in Black Mesa. Too many of the old scientists there had always refused to debate him on it, though if that was for contempt for new things in terms of him or the actual science was equally likely. But that’s not important right now.

The Multiverse is real.

The Multiverse is real, and he’s just met himself twice.

Creaky, withered old wooden floorboards shift under his boots, and for a moment he has to marvel at how long they must’ve lasted. Only for a moment though, before he’s greeted by crunching gravel. It too shifts with his every step, although in a very different way. Where the floorboards bent with the threat of breaking and the promise of an injury, the gravel cradles him the more it moves, almost playfully pretending like it was ever truly going somewhere. Like a parent pretending like they’re about to drop their child, only to spring the both of them back up at the last minute.

He wonders if the quiet, faded laughter he hears at the thought is in his head or not. A memory or reality?

Two gentle but firm CLACKS sound out behind him, nearly in unison and reminding him he’s not alone at the moment. They each keep their footsteps as quiet as they can without losing much speed, a feat made all the more impossible by the HEV suits, which are as loud as they are clunky. It seems even with time to work to improve it, Kleiner couldn’t work out that kink in particular.

He hears it before he sees it: that indistinct radio chatter he’s never quite able to make out, frustratingly. Judging by the quiet pitter patter of footsteps accompanying them, they likely are just as aware of him as he is of them. The Combine.

Without a second thought, he dives behind a box nearby, perfectly placed to hide him for an ambush. Belatedly, he remembers that he isn’t alone this time. He doesn’t have time to check on or warn them, and instead finds himself doing something he hasn’t in a long time; hope. He finds himself hoping they make it out okay, that they figured out what he did too.

Steeling his resolve, his hands find a quick, strong grip on the sides of the box and he kicks into a sprint with it as his shield and weapon. In that same moment, he hears gunfire, lots of it in quick succession. Like an assault rifle, or maybe even a mini gun.

None of the bullets so much as tink off his suit, so he ignores it in favor of slamming the box into where he knows one of the soldiers to be. Hours upon hours of endless hallways with enemies always just around the corner, unseen but easily heard, has a way of training you to predict where they’ll be.

The crate smashes to pieces on impact, sending splinters everywhere. By some luck, everywhere does not include his face. Well, luck and the fact that the part of the crate he was holding onto held together somewhat. Enough to act as a shield, anyway. He uses said shield to bash into the already dazed soldier, knocking it up into their chin. If he’s lucky, it’s made them bite their tongue clean off, and they’ll bleed out. It’s a slow, painful way to go, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time or mercy right now.

A gun drops from their grasp as they drop to the ground, and without missing a beat he swipes it up and shoots, sights aimed at the head. Abyssal, black pits stare up at him, hiding eyes that likely look as dead as the grass peeking up through the gravel. What sounds like the flatline of a heartbeat monitor accompanies the empty gaze.

Two more nearly harmonize with it, and a glance around reveals… an interesting scene: One Civil Protection Officer lays slouched against a train car limply, seemingly innocuous if not for the many, many bullet holes littered throughout the corpse. Another gets dropped from a headlock the moment he looks at Red, their head spun back around their neck. The sight alone brings a hand to his own neck, as if to make sure his head is still on right. It is, obviously.

A gun he doesn’t recall seeing Red grab is already in his hands, and with the flick of his wrist he checks the clip inside. He sneers, but seems otherwise satisfied with however much he finds is left.

Even more confusingly, he doesn’t see a gun around Yellow at all. The alternate stares vacantly at the corpse he just made.

Maybe… that weird part of his suit has something to do with it.

A siren reminds them all of the ever present threat, getting closer by the minute.

The grays and reds of the train yard blur into the whites and reds of Black Mesa, train cars and blood splattered walls becoming one and the same. Interchangeable.

Gunshots and screams bounce off the endless halls as they do the valley where the tracks lay, the sounds as questionably real as the childish laughter that accompanies the quiet moments after any violence ceases.

Only the gun, heavy in his hands, felt like it was actually real. It was terrifying to think about; how quickly and easily the weight of cold steel had become a comfort in his hand.

He had never been particularly squeamish at the sight of blood, but with how quickly he’d accepted that too… it felt wrong. Like he needed some excuse, but was coming up empty.

Then again, what did it matter? From the second he stepped off that train— Woke up from— Entered the chamber— Put on the suit— No. Farther back, long ago. A time, an exact moment, easily pinpoint-able but horribly existential at the same time, there’s been someone— Something— Some oppressive force watching his every step, forcing his every move. Like a pawn in a game of chess.

Even now, he already knows how this all will end, and it won’t be happy. Not for him.

“Leave us alone! We haven’t done anything!” Their voice echoes down the hallway and bounces around his head. He doesn’t even remember walking into wherever here is. He doesn’t feel the presence of his previous companions.

Nothing he isn’t used to, though.

Two Metrocops had two civilians nearly pinned to the wall. One citizen lie beaten and likely unconscious, while the other one tries to hover despite the baton being poised and ready to strike, aimed straight for them.

It’s quiet, save for the crying, the whimpering. The slight drip of blood onto the floor, though he might’ve imagined that one. Then again, he might not’ve.

The jerk of the pistol as it spews bullets into the bodies of the two Metrocops is less grounding this time. More hollow, like now he’s beating a poor couple senseless, with no way for them to fight back.

“Hey,” Gentler someone calls, quieter than the cries of before. He doesn’t need to see the golden yellow HEV suit, not that he does, but the long, somewhat grayed strands of hair falling off their shoulders and onto his are enough of an identifier.

As useless as it feels, he offers a slight nod back.

“We should get going.” A hand he didn’t see even land on his arm flexes slightly, and Freeman assumes his double was trying to squeeze it in comfort. It doesn’t get past the suit, no sensation really does, but… he appreciates the gesture.

For a moment, he turns back to the couple and entertains the idea of bringing them along, at least until they can get help. It’s a shoddy idea riddled with more holes than the corpses surrounding them though. Neither have the same armor he and his alternates do, nor the weapons. They’re more likely to be meat shields or target practice than anything, and that doesn’t even account for one being unconscious. No, it’d be a pointless endeavor that’d endanger them more than it would help them. But…

“They can’t come with,” Huffs Red, his aggressive tone easily discernible, although his voice does sound a bit different from Yellow’s. Their voices are a strange mix of being definitively not the same person, and at the same time like it’s one person doing slightly different voices. If they tried hard enough, they could probably fool someone. So long as they weren’t seen, of course. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for either of them after saying that, the fluorescent lights dancing along his crimson suit with each step as he brushes past everyone in the cramped, narrow hallway. In truth, there’s only one way to go besides the way they came; A door on the other end of the hall.

Seeing as backtracking would likely be a waste of time, he follows after. Yellow trails behind him, and together they form the first half of the rainbow. The ROY in ROYGBIV. It’s such a random thought, occurring out of nowhere and yet dragging an airy, unheard laugh out of him. More of a light, amused breath, really. But, the levity is a welcome change from the existentialism and horror being alone with his thoughts usually brings.

Red, leading their charge maybe a bit too impatiently, smacks the bar of the push door inwards with a clattering click. With his attitude so clearly hostile and angry, it’s a bit of a surprise to see him slow to a stop and hold the door open. He might not even realize he’s doing it, considering how his attention is caught on something above him. The top of the staircase lying ahead of them, if Freeman had to hazard a guess.

The stairs spiral up maybe three stories before stopping, leading up to only one singular door. At least the path ahead is clear. Come to think of it, he hadn’t actually thought about where they were going once, just that they had to get away from where they were.

Before the teleport had gone wrong… Kleiner had been trying to send him off to Eli’s lab. While he doesn’t remember much of either of his mentor’s labs, he’s absolutely certain he didn’t end up at either. However, he’s definitely got to still be in the city, unless there’s some other giant, dystopian, possibly European city with a tower dead center to remind the inhabitants that they aren’t free. Unlikely.

So, he’s still in City 17, and if he recalls correctly, Alyx had mentioned helping refugees escape to Eli’s lab via the canals that run throughout the city.

It’s by no means a perfect plan, but it’s better than the panicked fleeing further into the unknown he’d been doing— That they’d been doing, rather. He’s not alone anymore.

“Hey,” A voice calls, challenging in tone but with the same inflection Yellow had used just minutes ago. Freeman turns from staring up at the top of the stairs, only just barely noticing Yellow already up a few steps and resting on the railing. Over by the door, past a few barrels covered in rust that eats away at the symbol warning of its flammability, Red leans against the door with his arms crossed. The usually overly hostile sneer smeared across Red’s is replaced by an overly smug grin. Like he knows something they don’t. “Check this out.”

With barely even a running start, the one eyed version of himself vaults onto the railing before jumping off it entirely, back the direction he came. With an impressive, if a little jerky spin, he’s just barely facing the right direction to grab the bottom of the railing of the floor above. The moment his hands make contact, he kicks his legs up in a swing and slots them onto the new floor as well, allowing him to easily stand at full height and slide his hands up as well.

He carries on all the way up exactly like that, his speed increasing now that he isn’t concerned with making sure they see all the little complexities of this stunt.

Each move is confident, yet clunky. Almost like he taught himself to do all of this, and that brings forth an amusing mental image; Red, crumbling and cursing as he tries and fails to figure out some sort of flip across a gap, determined to learn acrobatics while fighting for his life as if the aliens and soldiers bombarding him weren’t enough of a challenge.

Yellow catches his attention, staring up at Red’s ascent with wide eyes before he turns to Freeman and rolls his eyes so exaggeratedly he actually worries for a second they’d fall out.

They don’t, of course. But with the way Yellow sets their hands on their— His??— hips, jutted out to the side as they shake their head disapprovingly, like this is a regular occurrence they’re all used to— Like it happens all the time and it’s…

Bizarre. In the best way possible, this whole situation is just so bizarre.

Three clanks, gentle but firm, draw their attention back to the top of the stairs where Red sits on the edge of the railing, the grin stretched across his face beyond smug.

“Well,” his voice drips with challenge as he calls down to them. “I’m waiting.”

“Wh— You’re the one who—“ Freeman doesn’t catch the rest of the complaint as it’s drowned out by the clanging of his bulky metal boots against the concrete stairs. He knows a race when he sees one, and he’ll be damned if he loses. “What the hell you guys!”

Yellow’s pounding metallic footsteps join his, a symphony in its own right, but he’s no match for Freeman. He can tell by his slow start alone the double had never raced his own Barney through the vents of Black Mesa. Yellow lacks the competitive spirit needed to beat him.

While he can’t do any of the insane acrobatics Red can, he’s able to save time by skipping corners, vaulting over the railing with little effort for a very high reward; Increasing the distance between him and last place.

“THIS IS VERY UNFAIR!” Yellow whines from somewhere far, far behind.

Freeman skids to a stop at the top of the stairs and casually rests his arms on the railing beside Red, who remains seated, cool and uncaring of if he were to fall. He lazily brings both hands to his face and balls them up, mockingly “drying his tears.” A rock flies past his head, too far to the left to even justify dodging, and Red lowers his hands.

“Next time don’t be slow and stupid. You can be slow or stupid, but not both,” Red sagely says, nodding along with his own point like it’s something profound and unheard of.

“You guys are assholes,” Yellow huffs as he reaches the top, bending over to rest his arms on his legs. He glares as he stands back up, but there’s an easily recognizable amused glint in his eye that greatly negates the effect.

“Well, we are you,” Red says with a mildly unhinged grin.

With an “annoyed” roll of his eyes, he passes the both of them and goes to open the door, grumbling the whole way about vengeance and violence…

…only to immediately pull it shut, just in time for the bullets aimed for his skull to dent the metal door instead, the sound a constant pitter-patter like rain on an old tin roof, although with a notable sharpness to it.

“WELL— shit…” He bites out, the panic tamped out fast. He slides a little down the door before pushing himself back up, and finally his eyes focus on them as he seemingly remembers he’s not alone. At least Freeman isn’t the only one struggling with that.

For just a moment, his mind is made up to turn around. None of them even got a clear idea of what was out there beyond the bullets riddled in the door.

But turning around risks leading the Combine right to the two people just a floor below. It’s simply not an option.

There has to be something else then. Maybe another way around— Something they missed.

Red leans back on the railing, though he doesn’t fall. He’s mumbling to himself, has been since the door became target practice for the threat outside, though whatever he’s saying Freeman can’t make out.

“We’re not going back down there,” Yellow argues petulantly. Too much so. Like he’s trying to mask the real reason he doesn’t want to go down, whining about the stairs to distract from something else. Is there something he’s avoiding, and if so, is it an unseen enemy or the people? The latter seems more likely, but why not outright bring them up? Why hide their safety behind the guise of convenience?

“Afraid you won’t be able to make it back up?” Red snarks, and that prompts Yellow to rush to the railing. Freeman follows his and Red’s gaze, and finds that he hadn’t missed something. He’d overlooked it: the barrels resting innocently by the door they’d just come through. The dangerously volatile barrels innocently waiting to be used as the makeshift grenades they were always destined to be.

Yellow’s already gone, a quick “be right back” thrown their way as he slides down the railing, the HEV suit complaining the whole way with a long, drawn out schrii-iick that grates on his ears a little.

Tempted to follow, Freeman decides to stay put. He can better use his time looking for anything else that could help them. The barrel may ultimately just end up as a momentary distraction. What they need is a way out, be it a clear path or even just a few seconds to act.

In the corner by the door are a pile of boxes with some loose debris scattered about— Literally. Sunlight shines down through it. If they can keep all focus on the door… one of them could climb out and provide proper cover.

And one of them in particular just so happened to show off what exactly he could do when it came to scaling heights.

He turned half over his shoulder and gestured to the hole before turning back to the boxes. Besides providing a boost, they could make for shields. Close enough to an enemy and they become weapons too, although he’s not sure how reliable that particular trick will be in this situation. There’s no guarantee he’ll be able to get that close in time. Might just be best to stick with his pistol.

Red, apparently, doesn’t even need the boxes for a boost. He kicks the one Freeman had been eying out of the way, the crate sliding towards him and nearly knocking the concrete of the ceiling off itself.

At that moment, Yellow appears at the top of the stairs, an explosive barrel held high over his head and a proud, mildly exhausted look on his reddened face. Maybe Freeman should instigate more races. It would be helpful if they were all a little faster, had more endurance. Not to mention, competitions are simply fun. A nice reprieve from the bleak situation he’s facing.

That they’re all facing, really. They’re in this together now, aren’t they?

Before he can move for the door and kick off this ill-fated journey, Red runs at the wall, jumps at it, kicks off of it, and just barely makes enough distance to grab onto the cracked open roof. In retaliation, more cracks dance outwards from where Red has grabbed on, threatening to drop him.

For a moment, he disappears completely as he climbs up, disappearing into the shadows of whatever is providing ample enough cover that they don’t hear gunshots tearing into his strangely acrobatic double.

And then, very suddenly, his face appears in the rather large opening, a manic grin on his face (though that doesn’t seem all that abnormal for him) as he thrusts a hand down towards Freeman, presumably to… help him up?

Tentatively, he reaches up, sparing a quick glance to Yellow. He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for– reassurance, maybe, or just a check-in to make sure he’s fine.

Not that the reason matters, because not only would he not find whatever he was looking for, he would instead be treated to a nice, healthy heart attack as he watches Yellow kick the door open very forcefully before he quickly throws the barrel out, also very forcefully. All the way up the stairs just past the door. It explodes midair and that's about all he sees before he’s pulled up through the opening in the roof by Red, whose attention is drawn away somewhere past the roof. Probably towards the explosion, if he had to guess.

Not for the first time but perhaps more so consciously, he wonders what’s posing more of a threat to him and his life at this point; the alien conquerors from another world or two psychotic versions of himself from another world?

Actually, that does beg a rather important question…

One that he’ll have to explore at a later time, seeing as while he can no longer see his companions, he can certainly hear them screaming. At least, he can until a train horn sounds off in the distance, steadily getting louder as it presumably gets closer. If he really listens for it, he can hear the train chugging along the tracks.

He wonders if it’s like the train he came in on, and innocent civilians are on there right now, or if it’s more like that train he nearly boarded before Barney stepped in, heavily armed and clearly dangerous.

Stepping off the roof just to the right of the staircase that's now covered in ashes and gore (both of which he resolutely tries not to think too hard about), he’s treated to the sight of bodies littered around his companions. Red’s stooped down to their level, rooting through their body armor for whatever he can scavenge. Yellow, meanwhile, is staring blankly at a gap between here and the clearest path forward. It stands to reason, what with how much closer the train sounds as well as the direction it seems to be coming from that the tracks lie just below.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices something flying towards his face. Not particularly fast, and he catches it easily. He has to uncurl his fingers around it to actually get a look at it, finding that he’s holding a new magazine. While it’s able to be loaded up to 20 rounds, it’s got a few missing. He slips it into one of the new ‘pockets’ Kleiner installed.

Red also pockets his own, but Freeman doesn’t see him pass one to Yellow. In fact, Red looks angry. Angrier, anyway. He wonders what that might be about.

“Hey gang, what are our thoughts on stealing a train?” Yellow taps a finger on his chin, still staring out at the train tracks, apparently not blankly but… schemily, feels like an accurate description. “It’d be a quick–”

“No way in hell you just referred to us as ‘gang’. You sound like a divorced dad,” Red critiques rather judgmentally, although in Freeman’s opinion that was not the part to focus on.

‘You want to hijack a train?’ He signs, getting the attention of both with a quick stomp. It’s… not exactly unsound, and it would certainly get them around faster, but there’s no telling where the train is headed. They need to find and follow the canals.

“Good luck with that, there’s no way you’ll be able to break in before you’re knocked off with that tunnel, left to die a horrible, painful death.” Red shrugs, walking backwards towards the tracks. Freeman follows, already seeing the plan to get across.

“Wh– it was just a suggestion! Sorry for trying to get us out of here faster?” Yellow trails behind them, rubbing his temples like every short-lived conversation they have is dealing psychic damage to him and his sanity. That makes two of them, at least.

“You should be. I doubt you could even steal a train, or anything for that matter.” The train comes into view, rushing by them as they stand on the edge of the platform. Running across feels a bit like what he imagines stones experience when they’re tossed across a lake.

“I’ll have you know I’ve robbed a bank before. Several, actually, alongside a casino. Shows what you know,” Yellow says with a sneer, crossing his arms.

Freeman shoots him his best ‘What the fuck’ expression before diving behind a wall to avoid getting a bullet to the head. As he aims his sights and guns down a few Metrocops himself, he hears that same gun from before, rapidly firing at the Combine as well.

He’s disappointed in how shocked he is to find Yellow has a machine gun on their arm, mowing down the Combine fairly efficiently. Just past Yellow, he finds Red glaring at the very powerful weapon. That’s likely the only explanation he’ll get for earlier then, isn’t it.

“Oh you have, have you now?” Honestly, Freeman hopes the answer is no.

“Yes!” He sounds exasperated. Freeman isn’t happy with how much he relates.

‘Please tell me you’re joking.’ Yellow glares at him.

“Why is it so hard to believe I robbed a bank! I survived Black Mesa didn’t I?” He throws his hands out as if to emphasize his point.

“You’re not special, so did I.” Both spare him enough of a glance to see him nod in agreement, although he was nowhere near as enthusiastic to share that fact as they were. A bullet whizzes past Red’s head, and Freeman quickly snipes the offender in question. He gathers the impression that Red didn’t appreciate that. “But sure, alright. I’ll be nice. You did rob a bank, in fact I’m sure you were a very good getaway driver.”

“God I wish we’d actually planned that far ahead. Usually the driver was just whoever got into the van first. Or last. Really it depended on who specifically got to the car.”

Freeman’s not sure if he’s thankful or not that they’re now indoors, still by the train tracks but in a poorly lit building that’s far too dark for him to sign anything. He certainly has questions, a whole pile of them forming with each new thing either alternate says. He’s afraid of any answers he’ll get, however.

“Pardon my French but ‘We’?” Both him and Yellow quietly snort, although they’re mostly drowned out by the resounding gunshots fired directly after. Red continues. “Who the hell was robbing a bank with you? I don’t know anyone I trust enough for that. I mean, Eddie maybe, but only if I can actually get him to show up. Or Barney, but he has the attention span of a goldfish so no, actually, not Barney.”

It’s the first time any name he knows has come up, and now he has his answer; he is upset to be left out of the conversation. He’d really like to ask about Barney, if only to pretend he knows that his own Barney is okay right now.

“The Science Team, which I’m starting to question if either of you would know,” Yellow replies, skepticism steadily creeping into his tone.

“You robbed a bank with your coworkers? What do you not have real friends to rob banks with?” He sounds both judgey and amused, although Freeman doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with being close to the people you work with–

Why is he defending any of this, actually? Even if only in his own head.

“I– Why am I getting ganged up on?” They remerge to the light, though Freeman doubts he’ll be able to shift the conversation to anything actually substantial just yet.

“Well what am I supposed to make fun of him for?” Red gestures to Freeman. “Being quiet? Don’t be an asshole.”

‘What have I done to you?’ He questions. For all he can tell, he hasn’t contributed much to the conversation, and certainly not to make fun of his alternate. They are literally the same person. If anything, the constant insults reflect more so on Red than anything.

“Your silence is complacent and your morals are bent.” Freeman guns down a soldier running up behind him, to show off how bent his morals are, of course.

‘You literally admitted to multiple robberies two minutes ago.’ He argues back. While he was never a fan of the holier-than-thou mentalities of the other scientists of Black Mesa, it was ultimately about mundane, unimportant things. These two are just insane.

“In my defense, the government literally tried to kill me and virtually everyone else I knew because of a test they fucked up.” Yellow steps over the body and they continue on their way down the tracks.

“A reasonable defense,” Red agrees.

Freeman offers a shrug because, well… he gets it. He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to go rob a bank himself, even after all of this, but he can understand why Yellow might disregard the law and whatnot after it failed him so horrifically. If anything, now he’s just perplexed by the fact that Red wasn’t the one to rob a bank yet. Just seems like something he’d do.

Wait… the way Yellow said it, ‘survived Black Mesa’ implied that the Resonance Cascade happened prior to his law-breaking streak, which of course is what Freeman assumed.

But if that was the case however, does that mean the Combine didn’t come? Freeman himself isn’t sure when they arrived, but given what he knows, he assumed it hadn’t been all that long after the Black Mesa Incident. It’s not like Yellow started his robberies directly after Black Mesa right? And– what about the G-man? Did he not…?

The train tunnel breaks way into the open air again, and one of the walls is replaced with a chain link fence clearly guarding a water way of some sort.

The canal.

Over the course of the entire walk here, he hadn’t thought much about the carnage and death they were causing, too busy with quite possibly the most insane conversation he’s ever been a part of. It was distracting, but not debilitating. He could get through this, if that was what the rest of their path had in store.

So, for now, he takes all the questions taking far too much space in his brain and sets them aside for later, a time where he can really focus on answers rather than survival.

He’d rather get used to these guys, anyway.

And with that thought, he steps off the walkway and into the canal. Two more twin splashes signal that he’s still not alone. Not anymore.

Not with these two maniacs.

______________________________________________________________________

I’ve never seen the Citadel lit up like that before. It’s the only thought that can really run through his brain right now, on loop.

Barney is terrified of what that could mean, because it can’t be a coincidence that his comms started blasting out high alerts and warning of an anticitizen one right after Kleiner’s stupid machine went haywire and Gordon went missing.

Right after they’d gotten him back…

A cold breeze blows through, a stark contrast to the sun peaking out just above the lab behind him. The railing creaks and groans as it struggles to support his weight, but then it’s always done that. A train is passing through the city, some ways off, just barely louder than Kleiner and all the racket he’s making back in the lab.

Idly, he taps out a quiet rhythm against the railing, a metallic ting ringing out with each beat as the crowbar bounces off. It’s an old habit of Gordon’s, to turn any loose object near him into a drumstick. Sometimes he’d do other instruments; a tissue box plus a few rubber bands made a guitar, albeit not a very good one, an old ornament from some holiday function, resealed with various small items from his desk to make one of those… whatever they’re called. Maracas.

Once, on a rare outing where they left Black Mesa, he’d shown him how to play a blade of grass, a bit like it was a flute. A lousy, flimsy old flute.

What he wouldn’t give to have that back.

It was a habit he’d built for himself, just one more way to keep Gordon in his life. At first, it’d been sort of like a way to summon him. Like he’d come running if he heard the melody he used to play. After a few years and a lot of silence, it was just to keep his memory alive.

But he is alive, so maybe Barney’s back to square one. Even has his crowbar this time, to help lure him back.

The tapping stops, and his frown deepens.

No.

He’s already wasted 20 years waiting, hasn’t he? He’ll be damned if he waits 20 more.

Gordon already did come to them. And they sat by while he left. Barney just sat by, while he left. Just like he sat by while Gordon saved the world.

“Well Barney,” Kleiner begins, the door he’d just shoved open banging against the wall. “I’m packed and ready to get going.”

He grins nervously. “Ready to go… where, doc?”

“Why, to go find Freeman, of course!” He says it so easily, like there simply wasn’t another option to consider. And really, there wasn’t, was there? “You were planning on leaving soon, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” His grin grows confident, and he tightens his grip on the crowbar to make sure it doesn’t slip away again. “I think I’m ready to go, too.”

Chapter Text

Water laps at his boots as he suddenly stumbles, unable to think past the sheer noise surrounding him. He can hear the ground shaking with heavy footsteps, though he can’t feel it. Voices flood in and out of his brain, conversations he can only hear half of. Gunshots and screaming, waves of the ocean crashing against a rocky shore, and a whole other slew of sounds too drowned out by everything else to stand out amongst the symphony of chaos that’s invading his brain.

He can’t make sense of any of it, but then, he doesn’t have to, either. It stops, as abruptly as it started. All he’s left with is a headache, and a dull one at that, easily fading into the background as he rights himself.

Just up ahead, his doubles are stacking boxes– or more accurately, Yellow is stacking boxes while Red stares on at Freeman with a weird expression, looking away when he finally notices. In what he can only assume is an act to save face, Red lazily kicks the stack down, to which Yellow throws his arms into the air in defeat.

Freeman quietly stifles a laugh, lest Yellow get on their cases for ‘ganging up on him’ again.

There's a large old boxcar blocking the only way forward, which Yellow had previously been trying to build a way on top of. Fortunately, Freeman sees another way up.

Each step down in the canal is uneven, the mud hidden just beneath the water shifting and sticking to his boots, trying to trap him. It feels that way, anyhow. Everything about this new world he’s woken up in feels hostile, from the loud thrumming of the Citadel in the center of the city to the heavy footsteps of the soldiers patrolling, even the ground beneath him can feel like it’s working against him.

Needless to say, it won’t exactly be easy to run through here like it was above the canal, but it shouldn’t be impossible.

With that final thought as encouragement, he takes a running start at the boxcar, jumping when he’s close enough and grabbing the ledge. The mud on his boots helps his feet stick to the side a little, at the cost of traction, unfortunately.

Boots nearly identical to his own, minus the color being red, stop in front of him. He’s not exactly surprised to find Red was faster than him, but the hand offered to help him up feels more taunting than kind. He’s already well over halfway up anyway.

Finally up, he turns just in time to catch Yellow jump, no running necessary as he’s apparently tall enough to reach the edge just like that. Freeman didn’t think it was that big of a difference. Then again, maybe it isn’t, and Yellow had just jumped higher than he thought.

Before the other two can jump off, as they immediately try to do, he points out an opening in the roof of the old train car. There could be supplies inside, or at the very least the container could provide cover should more Combine show up.

And they will. If there’s at least one thing he’s sure of, it’s that.

Having sufficiently corralled them, Freeman jumps down first.

“Good god!” He looks up just in time to see someone approaching, yet another citizen if the blue get-up is anything to go by. Freeman finds his attention drawn more so to their companion, however.

There’s a vortigaunt by some tv, powering it, if he had to guess. He can almost make out a face on the screen, with piercing, cold blue eyes he’d rather never see again.

Everything about that scene feels hostile. He knows… he’s aware the vortigaunts weren’t necessarily acting out of their own free will back in Black Mesa, that they were under the control of the Nihilanth (the name still sends shivers down his spine, whispers ghosting his ears–), hell he’d even run into a few docile ones when he reached Xen!

But he also just as clearly remembers the anger in their eyes, barely visible past the electric energy they shot at him. He remembers the sting and the burn, the slight paralysis and numbness each time he didn’t dodge fast enough, didn’t react fast enough, didn’t–

“Guess those sirens are for you, huh?” The man in blue jokes, moving to pull open the door. Freeman both envies and fears the way he can so easily turn his back to such a dangerous threat. “Good thing you found us, you’re not the first to come through here–”

“This is the Free Man!” In comparison to the clunky, loud footsteps of the rebel(?), the vortigaunt’s hooves are silent as they pad across metal and carpet. They clasp their hands as they watch Freeman, expression something he doesn’t know how to read on a face so alien. “The Combine’s reckoning has come.”

It’s said with such finality that for a second he almost believes it, without question.
Almost.

But–

Much like when he first met him, Red quite literally falls off the train car, this time landing inside the train, though without any fancy moves to keep him from falling face first into the ground. He winces in sympathy, keeping his back to the wall to make sure he can still see everyone in the room, just in case.

Red’s quick to push himself up, coincidentally moving back out of the way just in time for Yellow to land down with them, standing directly where Red’s head sat.

All this time fearing for his own safety, he didn’t stop to consider they might kill each other first.

“You fucking THREW me??” Freeman’s belatedly realizing that while the extra company might make the journey easier, it might not make it faster. They need to walk and talk, not walk or talk.

“YOU were trying to take my arm off! I think that’s a LIGHT reaction if anything!!” Both the vortigaunt and the rebel watch this entire scene unfold with their jaws to the floor– or at least he assumes the vortigaunt is surprised. It’s not incredibly clear, and all he’s really going off of is how wide their eye is right now.

Freeman himself decides none of this is worth it, and gestures to the door in a vain attempt to get back on track. He doesn’t even have the rebel’s attention…

But he does have the vort’s…

“The Free Men…,” They mumble, presumably dragging their gaze across the three. Suddenly, Freeman is wondering just how much these guys know. They are a hivemind, right? Not only that, but from another world.

Curiouser and curiouser…

“This was not seen. This was not to be,” The vortigaunt continues, finally drawing Red and Yellow’s attention. To his relief, both are just as tense and ready for a fight as he is. “And yet it is…! The path ahead is anew. He did not plan for so many of you.”

At the very least, the rebel looks just as confused as to what any of that could mean as Freeman feels. “Look, we’re just a lookout for the underground railroad,” He turns back to them and gestures to the door again. “Main stations right around the corner, they’ll getcha started on the right foot.”

A moment of hesitation. No one makes a move to go anywhere.

“I’d… offer for my vortigaunt friend here to give your suit a jolt but–” the two words side by side feel wrong.

“There is enough for all,” The vortigaunt friend in question interrupts.

He flinches back as they raise their hands, and has to consciously stop himself from gunning them down when that ever familiar green energy forms from their center hand, crackling like lightning as it struggles to stay in one place.

Despite knowing what to expect, or at least having an idea of what’s about to happen, he still panics when the vortigaunt shoots all that energy straight at him– them–

The change is instantly noticeable, the suit feeling lighter, the joints easier to move as the whole system finally has more to run on. For a second, he actually thinks everything is okay.

But then the energy stops seeping into the suit, instead dancing along the outside like it suddenly can’t find a way in, the path it travels immortalized as it’s carved into the suit, a few smaller cracks darting out here and there. Each crevice carries that same glowing green inside of it, flickering in and out of existence at uneven intervals.

Just a slight glance behind him makes whatever this is far more worrying, because the same thing is not happening to Red or Yellow. As far as he can see, their suits are still just getting powered.

“Be careful now,” The rebel quietly calls out, still peering out the open door, checking if the coast is clear and missing all of what just happened. “We really can’t afford to get noticed. Civil Protection catches you down here and it’s bad news for the whole railroad.”

He all but rushes out of the traincar, bobbing and weaving his way past the debris littering the way. Sunbeams trace the open canals just ahead, but at least for now, in the shadows, he has cover.

“Get going now,” Comes the voice of the rebel, back in the train car somewhere. He doesn’t stop to look, nor does he check if Red and Yellow are following. It’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine. He’s fine. The world is fine. Barney– “Good luck out there!”

“We serve the same… history,” He swears he hears as the door slides closed. He’s not sure what to make of the whole vortigaunt situation.

Yet another issue for later, it seems.

Boards barricade the only path ahead, and his fingers curl around a weapon he no longer has. Freeman isn’t really clear on why he always felt so attached to that crowbar, but having it in his hands just felt right. Like a piece of some puzzle he didn’t know he was missing.

Is he alone in that feeling? Or do Red and Yellow also miss that odd connection?

Now that the realization they’re him has had time to properly sink in, he’s more curious than ever to learn more about his alternates, their similarities and differences.

Do they–

Red boots break through the boards like they aren’t even there, and he watches his more… volatile of alternates land on the other side, skidding along the water and mud a little. He’s not entirely sure if he wants to try and step through the hole he’d made though. It’s a bit high up, with splinters and other broken bits sticking and poking out here and there.

Yellow, of course, kicks through the boards and makes the Red shaped hole big enough for them to safely go through. He gestures for Freeman to go through first, bowing both politely and obnoxiously.

‘Why thank you,’ He signs, offering his own bow. ‘What a gentleman.’

“Oh please. Did you miss the part where he THREW me earlier? Into the train car? It was a very narrow opening. He’s lucky I don’t have a bad back like he does.” Red flips Yellow the bird.

Yellow flips him off right back, notably with the arm that has an odd change to the suit– which he now knows is for the machine gun. Who built that into the suit? “YOU were trying to take my ARM off! Excuse me for trying to protect myself!!”

‘What exactly was that all about, anyway?’ A few twists and turns here and he spots a crow up ahead. Red very suddenly takes the lead, crouching down so he can approach the bird, quiet and cautious. Freeman would also like to know what this is about, but he has a feeling that question will be answered without ever being asked.

“Hell if I know what goes on in that maniac's head,” Yellow rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he looks back at Freeman with some sort of look.

Freeman snorts, more so at the irony of Yellow of all people saying that than at what he meant, but he doesn’t have to tell him that. To let his bank robbing counterpart have this, if nothing else.

Their attention is brought back up ahead when they hear a caw, although it takes them (or at least Freeman) a second to realize it wasn’t coming from the crow; Red, apparently, could do a very good impression of a bird. To be completely honest, that seemed less crazy than everything else he was capable of.

At least, he thought that until the bird hopped closer to Red, returning the call with one of its own. He genuinely cannot tell if he’s actually talking to the damn bird or not, nor why he’s trying to talk to the damn bird.

Yellow, for his part, only looks mildly perturbed, like he can’t really believe this either, only with his focus more so on the latter, less important question.

And here he was thinking he was getting used to them. Well, he’s still certain he is. Just not their antics, apparently.

“There’s about five or six Combine up ahead,” Red suddenly declares, standing up to full height. The crow lands on a crate right next to him, and Freeman is about three wrong words away from also throwing him down a hole. Yellow did it to defend his arm, and Freeman will be doing it to defend his sanity. Might be therapeutic, even

“No fucking way the bird told you that.” The sheer indignation in his voice at least restores some of his sanity back, or at the very least faith in that he’s not the crazy one here.

“Wh– You’re joking, right? OF COURSE A BIRD DIDN’T TELL ME THAT!! BIRDS CAN’T TELL ME SHIT! And that’s assuming I’d even listen to them in the first place. Fuckers don’t even pay taxes,” He mutters the end like it’s the most important part, and simply could not be left out. Freeman is much more concerned about him yelling with the Combine apparently near. “I just saw them through that car mirror, dipshit.”

Yellow has his head in his hands by the end of the outburst, very loudly taking a deep breath in and slowly releasing it. He pushes his hands up, brushing them through his hair as he takes yet another cleansing breath. He then proceeds to stroll past them without another word.

Red watches him pass, half raising a hand as if to shield the bird. Before he’s fully out of sight, he stops, points his arm up, the right one, and aims it straight at a barnacle he hadn’t noticed until now. Finally, Freeman gets to see the gun form, although the actual process looks like it might be uncomfortable for Yellow’s hand. He himself doesn’t seem phased by it, but then he doesn’t seem to be feeling much of anything. Which is fair.

“Hey,” Red turns to him, “What do you think would happen if we got him really mad? Like with that gun arm and a whole lotta rage, how much murder– Hey! Stop walking away! This is a serious question!” Freeman, in fact, does not stop walking away.

If anything, he speeds up. Red, he begrudgingly admits to himself, does have a point; what would happen if Yellow got too mad, beyond a point he could calm himself down?

The issue is that Freeman isn’t interested in seeing that carnage. He’s not sure if he’d be present enough mentally to know allies vs. enemies, if they could calm him down themselves, and ultimately he just doesn’t want to play any part in causing that kind of stress on another person, let alone himself.

So, with all of that in mind, he rushes forward to reach this new fight first.

Water sloshing along with each rushed step, he’s just in time to see an execution, a bunch of rebels– or perhaps just citizens– standing in a firing line for just a moment before they fall to the ground, dead. There’s a tunnel, just a ways away on his right, where a man runs to the grate and yells for help. All he can do is hold onto the bars as he too is gunned down.

This, Freeman grimly thinks to himself as he guns down these monsters, is likely the station they were supposed to find. Too late to help, but just in time to know that.

Without the constant gunfire crowding his brain, he’s stuck with the lonely silence of failure. He quickly turns down another tunnel, or pipe, or whatever it is. This one, at least, isn’t closed off. In fact, it connects to the tunnel that guy had just gone down. He turns away from the corpse, shooting the soldier that’d made it directly in the head.

The tunnel gives way to a bigger room, with ammo and medical supplies littered here and there. At the far end, there’s a ladder next to a table, a radio resting on top of the ladder. Something tells him to turn it on, and the thought to refuse never really crosses his mind.

“Hey!” Red calls, and Freemans ears finally stop ringing. He didn’t even know when they’d started to, but now he can more clearly hear a lot more gunfire, somewhere outside of the main station. Rapid fire, for the most part. That answers where Yellow is–

For the second time today, he’s barely fast enough to catch whatever Red’s thrown at him, this too aimed for his face.

It looks to be the vial part of a syringe, missing only the needle necessary for actually injecting the medicine into– Ah, that’s right. HEV suit, he doesn’t need anything but the barrel. Now he’s just curious as to… why Red gave him this. He says as much with just a look, seeing as one hand is busy right now anyway.

“What? I don’t need you pleading out on me, asshole.” He gestures to Freeman’s arm, and it’s only now that he notices blood on it– or maybe he had seen it before, and just assumed it wasn’t his own.

He didn’t feel a thing, is the issue. And it’s not that he isn’t feeling pain in that arm, it’s that he isn’t feeling anything. Morphine is a hell of a drug, though he knew that.

It only takes a moment of fumbling around trying to find the proper place to put the vial before he apparently wears Red’s patience out. Quickly and angrily, he presses a button on his upper arm, just below his shoulder, and a compartment opens up, roughly large enough to fit the medicine.

Then, there was static. “–Station 12, do you read? Station 12, come in!”

Behind them, on the table, the radio is on, a voice on the other side frantically searching for an answer that’ll never come. At least, not the one they want, although Freeman doesn’t think he has the heart to call in and tell them what happened to the people at Station 12.

It’s one thing to see death, and he’s certainly seen it. In Black Mesa, in Xen. Here, in City 17.

But what’s always been a more horrifying thing to witness, at least in his experience, is what comes after; the hole a person leaves behind. An empty desk at work, the name of the deceased resting on the tip of the living’s tongue. To watch the world adjust, to grow around where someone used to live. A scar that’ll never fully heal, a memory that will paradoxically never fade and fade too quickly all at once.

Death is scary, but surviving can be so much worse.

“This is Station 8!” A new voice takes over, and Freeman moves towards the ladder. The less of this he has to hear, the better. “We heard 12 go down and out. Surgical strike units are targeting railway stations. Repeat, Civil Protection is coming down on underground stations. We’re already getting refugees from 9 and outlying! Looks like we’re–”

Silence, brokenly only by intermittent static. And then– “Station 8, do you copy? Station 8, are you there? We have confirmed reports of Manhacks. Repeat: they’re filling the underground with Manhacks.” The first voice returns, sounding much more haunted.

“Yeah, FUCK this. Lets–” Red pushes him closer to the ladder.

“Passport.” An entirely new voice, one that… sounds too robotic to be human. He swears he’s heard it before. “Now… Passport… Now… Use–”

Red shoots the radio, and Freeman is only left wondering what that was for a second before he’s back up top, facing the Combine again. It’s moments like these where he remembers why it became so easy to take a life, several, in fact. Because the people he’s killing, they’re monsters, they have blood on his hands, and they’ll keep hurting people unless someone does something, and he just happened to be there.

To be that someone.

“There you assholes are!” He turns around just in time to catch something flying through the air at him– He’s getting real tired of these people throwing things at him instead of just handing things to him. He’d understand if they were actively under fire, but they aren’t. The extra second it’ll take isn’t–

Oh. This is a gun. A bigger gun than what he has– an SMG, if he had to guess? He was never exactly all that into guns, so he doesn’t really know anything beyond what Barney would sometimes ramble about.

“OH HELL YEAH! Where’d you find this baby?” The baby in question, Freeman finds, is a shotgun.

While they talk about that, Freeman searches for somewhere to holster his pistol.

“On the… ground? Next to one of these fucking… soldiers or whatever? You know you can just steal their guns? I saw you looting for ammo earlier, how did taking the gun not occur to you??” Throughout that whole speech, Yellow went from rubbing his temples in a mixture of pain and confusion to just throwing his hands out. That, on its own isn’t notable, he very clearly is the type to talk with his hands, which Freeman certainly relates to, if for different reasons.

What is notable, is that his right hand is still a machine gun, the whole time. The apparent lack of trigger discipline is as funny as it is concerning. Wait– NO! It is JUST concerning. Not Funny! His brain is getting rewired around these two in a bad way.

Several Combine show up at that moment, on the ledges above them, which is both very convenient timing, because it curbstomps this whole internal crisis, and gives him a chance to try out the new gun.

He’ll also keep in mind that he can pick up more weapons along the way. He did that all the time in Black Mesa, so he’s not exactly sure why he never thought to here.

Red holds his own pistol near his calf, and the suit adjusts itself to hold it in place.

Freeman finds his own suit can do the same.

Up ahead, there’s another tunnel, much larger, continuing the canal. It’s blocked by a ton of debris, but from up here there’s a path leading just close enough they could jump it.

Since the other two aren’t moving, too busy gunning down the seemingly never ending spew of Civil Protection, Freeman once again leads the path forwards. Only his clanging footsteps and occasional gunfire signal his movement, but Red and Yellow follow behind all the same.

It’s weird, going from not understanding either of them one bit, to instantly being on the same page together. They’re the same person, all three of them, but so different too.

While he does find himself wishing once again that this had happened in a much more controlled setting, where he could properly explore this discovery and what all it means, he’s… not sure it would go half as well. Sure, maybe if these two weren’t in a life or death situation, they would be completely normal, perfectly well-adjusted members of society… but he kind of doubts that. Utterly and entirely.

It’s like trying to attach an off switch to a roaring waterfall, one found out in nature. You absolutely could, but using that off switch would stop the waterfall from really being what it is. There’s also the choice to make an artificial waterfall, one that is supposed to work well with… god this is a weird rant to go on.

At least it helped him learn one thing about these two; he prefers them like this, as they are, just… them.

For all the stress they cause, they turn right on around and take different, more important stresses away. He doesn’t have to keep eyes in the back of his head anymore for danger (though he should keep an eye out for them and anything they might do…), doesn’t have to worry about every missed shot, or–

“Okay, with all these barrels everywhere, explosive or otherwise, we all gotta be thinking it, right? The Ultimate Game of Tetris!!” Nevermind. He takes it all back. He doesn’t even know which of them said it, but he hates both of them for it. Screw sentimentality, they’re still just insane.

“Over here!” Someone who is decidedly more sane than either of the people he’s traveling with calls out, the culprit being a woman hidden away in a broken pipe. She waves them over, careful to stay out of sight of any spying eyes from above. “Keep going friends, that station was raided, but there’s others up ahead–”

“First of all, we are NOT friends, so–” Red is quickly and quietly silenced with a gut punch, which he’s sure must hurt a lot because Yellow’s gut punching arm is still encased in that machine gun thing. Yellow is back in his good graces, for now.

The rebel looks between the two nervously before returning her gaze to Freeman. He offers the most sympathetic look he can muster, and she nods in understanding.

“I’m gonna stay here,” She continues, and Red wisely chooses not to interrupt again. “Gotta keep the railway alive, y’know?”

With a nervous smile and a timid wave, she gestures to another pipe just next to her, bars just broken enough they could probably get through. Carefully.

It leads to a slight drop, and above them a sewer grate reveals the Combine above, though he still can’t really make out what they’re saying. Red attempts (and succeeds) in shooting them from below, and the few he wasn’t fast enough to get rush to move away from the opening.

Down another tunnel and they suddenly drop into water, the bottom deep enough for them to stand and still be completely submerged. There’s another ledge leading to yet another tunnel and at this rate he’s going to develop claustrophobia, isn’t he? The vents in Black Mesa sure tried, with a headcrab hiding around every corner. It was the only time those little monsters ever managed to be so quiet, which frustrates him to no end.

Barrels drop into the room, and it’s only now he sees that the ceiling, another sewer grate, is open. One barrel is actually on fire, and the water does nothing to put it out.

He can’t go forward to escape this, the sewer grate leading down the next tunnel being completely intact this time, and locked. This is–

A blur of Red and Yellow are the last thing he sees before he’s tackled, all three of them sinking to the depths below just as the barrels explode. While extremely muffled, he can hear the sounds of something tinking against their suits, likely debris, but… that seems to be the extent of the damage done.

Pushing out of someone’s grasp (he still isn’t sure who grabbed and tackled him), he kicks back up to the surface. Red follows first, with Yellow being the last to reemerge.

“WOO HOO!! Just like Minecraft!” Yellow cheers, which leads him to believe he was the one to take them all below the water. He’s not actually sure what he’s cheering about, however.

“Just like what?” Red, at least, is equally confused by what a ‘mine craft’ is.

Bullets whizz by them, and Freeman decides now is a great time to test if this gun is like the ones back in Black Mesa. Sure enough, he finds the same button from before, opposite the trigger, and a grenade launches from the gun, just barely making it up to the sewer grate. He then swims like hell towards the ledge. Pulling himself up is a lot more difficult as water pours out of every nook and cranny of the suit it possibly can.

He’ll probably be dealing with that for a while. The only thing worse than getting water in this thing, is sand. Or glitter, but he can literally only see that happening if someone’s actually trying to drive him to the brink of insanity.

A bullet bounces off his suit, rather painfully too, right as he’s about to pass through the sewer grate. He turns back around and sure enough, there’s one more lone soldier standing above them, armed with nothing but a pistol aimed straight for him. Whether that was supposed to be a warning shot or he was actually aiming for Freeman’s head is anyone’s guess.

Before he, or Yellow for that matter, can react, Red begins cooing and cawing, and the next thing any of them know a bird, a crow flies at the Combine’s face with scary speed.

The Civil Protection Officer must also agree that it’s scary, because he sees them flail around, maybe even scream but it’s so hard to tell with those masks on, before they fall into the water. The crow then flies ahead of them, down the tunnel he feels like he’s been trying to go down for hours.

Red only smirks, smugly gesturing for him to continue on, complete with a bow that is entirely obnoxious and devoid of any politeness.

Walking down it feels like admitting some sort of defeat, but walk down it Freeman does.

It’s dark for only a second, before a flashlight somewhere on his shoulder, presumably built into this suit much the same as the last one, lights the area up. Two more flashlights follow in its wake, two quiet little dings that make him quietly laugh, for whatever reason. It's just such a silly noise.

This tunnel, however, is different from the rest. You see, it introduces a whole new concept that honestly may revolutionize tunnels as a whole; it turns a whole 90 degrees to the left. Very groundbreaking. Tunnels everywhere are in awe of this one and its many, many achievements as a tunnel.

Never before has he been so happy to see a light at the end of a tunnel. Get him out of here.

More Combine wait for them just outside, guns blazing when they do, but Freeman is more focused on the lack of tunnels very clearly illustrating where to go next. While he didn’t exactly like it in there, at least there was no stress about going the right way; there was only one path. Both a blessing and a curse, mostly a blessing, is the ruling he settles on.

There’s a lot of noise out here, of gun shots, of Combine radio chatter, and most notably a voice, robotic but slightly feminine, that seems to very clearly be calling the shots. It’s speaking much more clearly than the Combine, but he can still barely hear it over the rest of the chaos of this deathtrap of a canal.

Ships fly by overhead, easily overheard in comparison to everything else and oddly enough zooming past their group. They could be circling around, getting a good look at the situation before deploying yet another barrage of soldiers, but…

If they’re not doing that, then what else could be drawing their attention? For all the stress the hoards of Combine are causing him, it was at least assuring to know that the soldiers pursuing him weren’t after anyone else. With how persistent and aggressive they’ve been with taking the three of them down, any sort of significant focus on something else is… worrying.

Very worrying.

Up ahead are two paths this time, one blocked by cars, crates, and a whole ton of concrete. All in all, definitely climbable, but it’s debatable about how safe actually climbing it would be, and that’s ignoring the potential enemies gunning for them as they ascend. Unlikely.

In the other direction is a bridge. A wooden bridge. A wooden bridge with a few explosive barrels ever so conveniently placed right by one of its already visibly decaying support beams.

Honestly it’d feel like a crime if he didn’t blow it up at this point.

Before he can however, someone gets really brave, because he’s very suddenly hit in the side of the head. Hard. He stumbles back a little.

He’s never actually been in a proper fight, with only your fists for weapons. There wasn’t exactly a need to back in Black Mesa, he’d had a gun, or at the very least his trusty crowbar.

Technically, he still does have his gun, two guns in fact.

Of course, Gordon Freeman, an intellectual, proud owner of a PhD in Theoretical Physics and MIT Graduate, drops the gun he’s holding and swings a punch.

Barney had taught him a few things, at least, even if it was all in practice and directed at the open air. Keep your thumb outside of your fist or you break it. Step back and swing forward, let your whole body help do the work. Don’t send your arm straight out, hook it. Be careful not to trip. And, most important of all…

Don’t hold back.

Seeing as this is his first punch, he’s not really sure where it lands in terms of… punchy-ness. Listen, he’s a theoretical physicist, not a fighter. It’s also, again, his first ever punch actually thrown at a target. Not to mention, the HEV suit is certainly skewing the results a little, adding more support to his wrist and arm which lessens any pain he might feel as well as adding power to the punch itself.

That being said, the punch flings their head back, and he swears he hears a sickening crunch. They crumble to the floor easily, and don’t move to get back up again.

Not even a twitch.

Which is fine. It’s good! The Combine are hurting people! And he hasn’t had much of a problem gunning them down before. The only difference between this and that is that he was much more involved this time. Hands on.

The blood gets to be physically on his hands, instead of just metaphorically.

Yay physics! A weak voice cheers in his head, and he sort of raises a fist with it. He won a physical fight! And probably even just killed someone with his bare–

A flash of green halts his thoughts. Familiar green. An electric green.

Energy, green energy that had to be from that vortigaunt flows and flickers around his arm like it belongs there, and more radiates from the cracks carved in earlier, dull but very much there.

And now that he’s noticed that, he’s able to notice similar cracks in the soldier’s mask, right where he hit them and oozing that same energy.

Noise floods his brain all over again, not just the overwhelming sounds around him but something more. Raging and roaring fires he can’t see, the chatter and laughter of people he’s not even sure are from this time, the constant beeping of machines that simply aren’t there–

It’s all muffled, very suddenly. Still there, still loud, but no one sound is as distinguishable than the rest. It’s no longer so… overstimulating. That’s the word.

The ground beneath him shakes, shattering like glass, with that eerie green shining out. But then something changes, that color, to be specific. It shifts to orange, to blue, green again, red, purple, too fast to keep track, covering every color on the visible light spectrum and maybe then some. Then, the world falls, the ground crumbling away into the void of nothingness below, consumed by the prettiest, deadliest lightshow he’s ever seen.

He suddenly has the thought to look up, and… something like a railway, twisting and turning, winding this way and that in whatever direction it seems to feel like as something like trains or trams cart along the tracks on their own merry little ways.

Colored. Each line is an individual color. Red, yellow, orange, blue, green, the whole rainbow is up there. And the shapes they’re in– the direction they’re going, he’s seen it before.

Black Mesa. It’s the Black Mesa Transit System, the trams he used to use every single day.

A flash of green catches his eye, that green, and he only gets a glimpse of some humanoid figure before he goes flying, falling down into that same nothingness, the ever shifting lightshow consuming him.

Freeman lands back in his body, wholly himself and lacking any hearing at all for a few seconds, before the ringing starts. It’s short lived, and the actual sounds, the one’s he can see and knows he’s supposed to hear flood back in, much more welcome than they had been earlier.

No vortigaunt energy either. The glow in his suit fades, and is gone once more.

So much shit happened in Black Mesa that day. For the rest of the world, the days got worse. But Freeman never got to join the rest of the world. For him? That day is still going, with no end in sight.

This could be the thing that breaks him.

People he knew died. People he didn’t died too. Creatures he couldn’t begin to comprehend invaded the facility and killed people, and those creatures died too. He saw their bodies, he saw their faces. He knew some names. He knew some stories. He’s lived– living with the unforeseen consequences of that test, of what happened in the chamber.

It was… not fine, but okay enough he could deal with it because despite all the insanity, he hadn’t felt like he was losing his mind.

Right now he hopes, he really hopes that's all this is, because he doesn’t know what to do if what he just saw wasn’t some hallucination, some attempt at his brain to… what, cope? Heal? Protect itself from getting worse? He DOESN’T–

He doesn’t know what to do.

Something touches him and he flinches, hard. Stumbles back. Nearly falls.

Hands steady him in an instant, although they pull away just as quickly as they grabbed him, sunlight catching on the golden armor adorned on them.

“Is he dying? Look in his eyes, check how much light is left. Or, better yet, move aside and I’ll–” Red calls from his left– no, his right. Yellow glares him into silence. “Wh– well it’s not like you can feel his pulse! Not through this clunky fucking thing!”

He then gestures to that clunky thing on himself. Yellow pushes him, face first, away until he’s just out of Freeman’s peripheral vision. Which he tries to appreciate.

He just feels numb.

“Are you– is everything good man? You just kinda… left? Up here?” He gestures to his head absentmindedly. “Like, you got shot at even– don’t think you were hit but– you just stood there. Is– are you– can I–?”

Yellow silences himself. Pushes his hair back over his shoulder. Freeman misses having long hair like that, even if his own was never that long.

“I mean, it’s hair so… it’ll grow back.” That is true– wait what? “What??”

Unfortunately, Freeman does not get to know what just happened because, as per usual, something interrupts in a destructive, impossible to ignore manner.

This time? A tank– or at least whatever equivalent has been cooked up in this horrifically messed up future– crashes into the bridge from earlier, the one he absolutely wanted to explode. So much for that.

A person also lands, just moments after, proudly posing on the tank that, if he had to guess, they somehow just launched.

Except, no, he realizes as they turn around, that isn’t quite accurate. It isn’t just some person, obviously, because of course it can’t be just some random person.

Gordon Freeman stares down at them, a glowing pink beacon, the sun itself acting as their own spotlight.

Most frustrating of all, he can’t even focus on this issue or that one, because way off in the distance, just past Pink and presumably where they’ll be headed next, Freeman can just make out several other blurs of color, vivid and distinct.

Each just as shiny as the suit he wears.

“Hey there boys!” Pink draws their attention back in, sounding and looking far more confident than any Gordon Freeman ever should. “You lost?”

Chapter Text

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” That’s Yellow speaking.

“No fuckin way,” That one’s Red.

“Finally, things are getting interesting!” And that’s Pink cheering. The new one– or at least one of them. Potentially. He won’t really know for certain if those other specs of colors are even more alternates, not until they catch up.

But he has a feeling they are. A gut feeling that’s simply too strong to ignore.

At this point he’s not even on an emotional rollercoaster anymore, he’s in a fucking pinball machine getting bounced from one extreme situation to the next without even a second of breathing room.

No. No, that’s not the kind of thinking that’s going to help this situation. Now is not the time to freak out or wallow in self-pity. Now is the time to get moving, to get out of the city and get out of sight. He can’t help anyone if he dies, and he won’t abandon the world a second time. Not if he can help it.

(He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t–)

Pink hops off the tank, slowly waltzing towards the three of them like they have all the time in the world, circling the trio like a shark in the water.

This new alternate is very different. Taller. It’s hard to say their exact height, but they’re chin is roughly at forehead height for Yellow. Pink’s hair is short, like his, but curly like Yellows, and not at all greasy, unlike Red’s. As a matter of fact, their hair looks the healthiest out of all of them, which is saying a lot because Yellow’s hair looks very well taken care of. He’s feeling a little jealous again.

Speaking of proper care, their skin seems smoother. He can’t spot a single blemish on them. Their jaw is sharper, and their glasses may very well be for show because they certainly don’t look like prescription glasses. Then again, who knows. Maybe they do make hot pink heart-shaped prescription glasses. What does he know?

All in all, it feels like every single insecurity he’s ever had about his body is just… absent, from this double. He’s a bit curious how relevant that fact may be.

It’s the suit, however, where the changes really begin. The HEV suit, or Hazardous Environment Suit, is borderline unrecognizable. He doesn’t even feel like he can morally or ethically call it that, because there is no environment this suit could protect someone in, except for maybe a hazardous social situation.

The entire upper layer of armor is completely missing, with only the undersuit left in its place, and even that is cropped and sleeveless. A few bits of pink armor do decorate the collar, and in the center still rests the familiar lambda symbol. Where the ‘i’ sits for Yellow, Pink has a heart. He’s still curious what those additions in particular mean. Just under the lambda plaque is a heart shaped window in their shirt.

On their arms, or wrists rather, are what look to be gauntlets. Their muscles are very well defined– not that he’s looking at their very muscular arms or impeccable abs– and he doesn’t see any weapons on them, which leads him to believe they prefer to fight with their fists. Yet another difference.

Below the waist– NOT LIKE THAT– their armor returns to the same design they have. It’s maybe a bit bulkier and– and their boots are heeled. Very high heeled.

“What exactly do we have here? More clones? Here to kill me too?” Pink sounds… taunting. Which, doesn’t quite fit what they’re saying, as far as he can tell. Maybe they know something he doesn’t. Or, maybe they think they know something he doesn’t.

“AHA! See, I’m NOT crazy for thinking that at first! Screw you assholes!” Red cheers, walking backwards past the bridge as he points at them with quite possibly the lamest finger guns he’s seen in his life. And he’s seen Kleiner make finger guns at him.

…God, he misses Kleiner too. The man was… he means a lot to Freeman. He was Freeman’s oldest friend, and the mentor that always inspired him to do better. He’s also the sole reason why Freeman had even gotten a job at Black Mesa in the first place, and despite everything that came of that… he wouldn’t have met Barney, if he hadn’t gotten that job. Or Eli, for that matter.

He misses his friends.

“Alright, let’s go! No more zoning out.” Yellow begins dragging him forward, rushing to catch up with Red, even though he’s still very visibly in sight, evidently having gotten stuck in the mud while kicking a barrel out of the way.

Freeman decides to take the lead for now, and diverts his attention to the new… him. ‘What did you mean by more clones?’

“What, you think you’re the first they sent after me? There’s been so many I lost count.” They– he? For some reason, it just doesn’t feel right to refer to them like that– shrug.

‘All sent to kill you?’ He questions.

“All sent to kill me,” They clarify.

“Was it like, all at once? Or in waves, because I’ve fought an army of clones before and let me just say, it was NOT fun,” Yellow chimes in right before ducking under an archway further into the canal. Freeman wonders if the clone army was in any way involved in the bank robberies or not.

Freeman and Pink follow behind them, much slower but apparently just fast enough to watch them shove a barrel at a bunch of barnacles, igniting it shortly thereafter.

“Why would you kill a clone army when you could rule a clone army?” Red stares Yellow down incredulously. “And why am I the only one without clone technology in my world?”

“Your world?” Pink looks between all of them.

“Multiverse.” Yellow nods towards Pink. “And they weren’t my clones, which is good because they were creepy as fuck. Killed all of them.”

‘So, none of them helped you rob a bank?’

“No– well, unless you count Dr. Coomer. I’m not actually entirely sure if he’s like, the original or not. He did help though.”

“Who?” Red and Pink ask at the same time.

‘He helped you rob a bank? He’s very old in my world– or was?’ Not to mention, he didn’t know him beyond a short greeting in the halls.

“Oh, he’s still old, yeah, but he also founded the Black Mesa Underground Boxing Ring and honestly could’ve gotten out of Black Mesa on his own easily.”

“Are you saying he didn’t get out after the ResCas on his own or not at all?” Red disappears in front of them with a splash, only to then grab back onto the ledge to look at Yellow. “Wait, the underground WHAT??”

‘Do you have any normal stories to tell?’ He jumps after Red, not all that concerned with an answer because he highly doubts it’ll be a yes.

“IF IT’S SUCH–” A pause, followed by a splash as Yellow joins them in the water, deeper than the grate from earlier– “A PROBLEM, THEN WHY DON’T ONE OF YOU SHARE?!”

A barrel– no, several barrels, all on fire, land in the water with them. He’s about to swim deeper, ‘like mine craft’ as Yellow said, only to very suddenly be lifted higher.

“Hey– AHA!” He sees Red get flung over Pink’s shoulder, evidently being held under their other arm himself, only for Red to wrap his arms around their neck and swing himself around like he’s here to get a piggyback ride. Yellow is then also grabbed, held under their arm much the same as Freeman is.

It’s only now that he realizes they’re completely above the water, and Pink is standing on it, although he doesn’t get to dwell on that crazy fact (when does he ever?) because they stop standing on water and start running instead.

Red, judging by all the screaming he’s doing back there, regrets his decision to try and free himself from their hold.

The journey that would’ve taken a few minutes at most is shortened to just seconds as Pink slides into yet another tunnel. Freeman is aware of a canal but he’s getting real fed up with all these enclosed spaces. At least this time, the only way to continue is up instead of down.

He can hear the helicopters, just before seeing them as they exit back outside. They rain a barrage of bullets down, these ones seeming to have much better aim than the soldiers. Freeman leads the charge forward, running past the helicopter towards any sort of cover they can get, seeing as they don’t have any way to–

By some miracle, he skids to a stop just in time to not get crushed by the helicopter as it twirls its way into the ground, the whirring, panicking blades acting as his only warning.

Pink, he sees just over his shoulder, leaps up to attack another helicopter. With their bare fists. Of course. What else did he expect?

“How many of those things do you think we’ll have to break before they stop sending them?” Yellow asks, having to shout to be heard over the very, very loud–

“They’re called Hunter-Choppers, first of all,” Red drags them up some stairs, kicks a door open and then down some stairs while Pink is off fighting the Hunter-Choppers. “And second of all, the more that psycho breaks, the worse shit they’ll send after us, so let’s get the hell out of dodge before that happens.”

‘We’re leaving them behind?’ It seems mean, morally incorrect, and logistically stupid. Pink’s one of them, literally, as well as just a fellow survivor, one that seems incredibly strong and capable. It makes more sense to stick with them than without. Red does have a point about escalating the fight drastically, but that's easily fixed by just… talking it out.

“No, we’re leaving and they’re behind. Completely different.” He says it like it’s supposed to change his mind and make him wholeheartedly onboard with this plan.

“Who’s behind?” Pink pops up out of seemingly nowhere, peering over Red’s shoulder.

“Wh–” Yellow begins.

“Pass. Port. Now. Use… Passport… Now…” That ever haunting static fills the air, only broken at uneven intervals to repeat those same meaningless words, the phrase almost resembling a sentence, though it’s still missing… something. “Use… Passport… Now…”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…!” For a minute, he thinks it was Red who said that, seeing as he was the only other person there who heard the radio the first time, the only other person who could be haunted by it.

But it’s Yellow who’s glaring the broken radio down in the corner where it sits, his face looking for all the world like the radio itself personally started the Resonance Cascade, killed everyone he knew, ended the world, and then slapped him in the face to top it all off. Which is… interesting.

Maybe the only thing that message was missing was context.

“Gordon… Freeman… Use… Passport… Now…” He’s certain he knows that voice, and with Yellow’s reaction, he has reason to believe they should all know that voice, too. Which means it has to be from something they have in common, undeniably so.

Like Black Mesa. Because, that’s where the voice is from. It’s the same, robotic, monotone voice that issued warnings around the facility. It didn’t immediately register because the system was limited to very specific announcements, and he’s never heard it say–

“I’m gonna fucking kill myself…” Yellow has his face in his hands as they lean against a wall, back to the group. It’s a bit of an overreaction in Freeman’s opinion, worryingly so.

“...Soooo,” Pink draws out, their smile a stark contrast to the confusion on his and Red’s face, as well as to the distraught betrayal on Yellow’s. “Who’s Gordon Freeman?”

“What– fucking US??” Red throws his hands out in a ‘what the fuck’ gesture.

“Kinky,” Pink says with a grin, leaning over Red. Freeman feels like he shouldn’t be here for this conversation any longer.

“THAT'S NOT WHAT I FUCKING MEANT AND YOU KNOW IT!”

“Sure sure. It’s just that, well, I’m Gorgeous.” They place a hand on their chest sincerely, although both their tone and expression are anything but.

“Somebody’s full of themself,” Red huffs, evidently still annoyed. Or flustered.

Some questions are better left unanswered.

“No, I mean literally. That is my legal, god-given name.” The smug, self-satisfied demeanor drops as Pink tries get their point across that this is not them fucking with them. Supposedly.

“I do not believe you for even one second,” Freeman, similarly, does not believe them.

Yellow finally stops having whatever crisis they were in the middle of to join this dubiously important conversation. “My middle name’s ‘Martini’?”

“No it is not,” Red immediately argues.

“Yes it is,” Yellow counters.

‘Why are we focusing on this and not the radio?’ He gestures to the aforementioned radio in question, in case his companions simply forgot about it.

“I actually don’t think they’re all that… unrelated? Maybe?” Yellow explains rather ominously.

Pink crosses their arms and leans against the wall beside Yellow, lifting their glasses to rest on their head instead of their face. “So like, are you just going to tease that you know something we don’t, or would you actually like to share with the class?”

“Yeah yeah– I just– here, y’know what, I’ll just show you.” And with that, he reaches behind him and pulls from out of nowhere—

A passport, blue with all lowercase gold text plastered across it. Which, in retrospect, not at all surprising. Should’ve been completely expected, given that was one of the only things the radio had spoken about. It was the only noun prior to their name(s? He’s not sure how to phrase it, given they all share one name– or at least he thought they did? The longer he’s with them the more confused he’s been getting, which seems backwards…) uttered and very clearly the subject of the sentence.

What is much more surprising, as surprising as any nonsense can be with these people anyways, is what's on the pages when he flips it open. On the right side is a picture of Yellow looking absolutely exhausted, so nothing new there, with basic details about him like his name, date of birth, age, etc. next to it–

Sure enough, as he had previously claimed, the passport confirms his middle name to in fact be Martini. Huh.

“Is that fucking sharpie??” Red very helpfully points towards his immediate grievance of this particular moment, in this case the messy, scribbled blue writing crossing out Yellow’s last name to say ‘Feetman’ instead of ‘Freeman’. “What the hell is that about?”

“Benrey…” He quietly seethes to himself. Freeman will unpack all of that at a later date.

“What, you aren’t gonna comment about his name?” Pink points, rather forcefully, towards Yellow’s middle name.

“Okay, I can believe his middle name is Martini. It’s nowhere NEAR as crazy as fucking GORGEOUS!! FREEMAN! HELLO??” Red slaps their hand away, glaring.

“Hi there.” To be fair, Red did walk into that one.

No, stop. He’s, he’s stooping down to their level again, and that can’t be allowed to happen. At least one of them has to be semi-sane, semi-responsible for the group, and it definitely won’t be Red or Pink. Yellow is very nearly equally unlikely, though he does have his moments. But no. He’s not used to relying on others anyway, so there’s no point in building up that sort of habit now.

‘It said to use the passport, right? Do you have–’ He stops midway through the sentence, taken aback by a detail he didn’t notice before, perhaps willfully. The right side, for all it says, doesn’t actually tell him much, at least nothing he didn’t already know. They are, at the end of the day, the same person. There shouldn’t really be too many surprises there.

The left, however, is an entirely different story. Or, maybe more appropriately of an analogy, a different side of the same coin. Because, the other side isn’t technically showing him anything new. It’s a map, one he’s seen plenty of times before, if only for a brief second before he had to rush on his way, lest he be late for work. Later than he already was, anyway.

A map, not of Black Mesa, but of the Tram System. Normal people might wonder what the map of an underground facility’s transit system would be doing on a passport, and the Freeman of twenty minutes ago would fit well under that category.

But, then there was that strange… vision, he’ll classify it as for now. Of Black Mesa’s Trams. Pair that with the broken radio that’s somehow still working, and following them at that, instructing them to use the passports with the aforementioned map, and, well…

Once is an accident. Twice, a coincidence. Thrice? A pattern.

According to the tally, he’ll need to keep an eye out for… anything else that ‘relates’.

“I have… no fucking clue what it meant by use them. Last time they– I don’t– I hope it’s nothing like before.” Yellow, once again, just refuses to elaborate in any meaningful way.

Wonderful.

Not that it matters, Red and Pink are still arguing about names and what constitutes as a good one, a bad one, a real one, a fake one, a dead one, a living one, a dad one, honestly it’s too many in Freeman’s opinion. He didn’t know there were that many names. Actually, he doesn’t believe there are that many either. They could just be making things up. It would not be surprising.

“Why don’t you put your money where your fucking mouth is, huh? Show us your passport?” He taunts, leaning towards Pink as if that’ll make it less noticeable that he is, in fact, the shortest of the three of them.

Pink, for their part, pats his head mockingly before pushing him back, by the head of course. “Maybe I– will??”

They reveal, in their other hand, yet another passport, the outside identical to Yellow’s. Judging by their reaction, its existence is just as much a reveal for them as it is for the rest of the group.

With impressive reflexes, Red snatches it out of their hands and flips it open, holding it close to his own face and therefore blocking it from view for everyone else as he checks it for something. Their name, if he had to guess.

“You’re joking. This is a fucking joke. Comedic, even,” He says monotonously, not even resisting as Pink plucks it back out of their hands and looks it over themself, proudly presenting the passport moments later to show off their name, which very clearly says ‘Gorgeous Freeman’, not scribbled in or over in anyway.

“Think I can make it in stand up?” Now they’re just taunting him. Red clearly knows that, seeing as the blank, lifeless, soul-crushed stare turns to plain annoyance.

“You? Not a chance.”

A sigh. “I am my own worst critic.”

Maybe they do have a chance in the comedic scene, because that gets a laugh out of both him and Yellow.

“You’re both traitors and I will remember this for forever. And after that, too. My vengeance will be swift and merciless, my will unyielding,” Red threatens.

“Can it, shortstack.” Pink plops their hand on his face, effectively silencing him as he struggles to move their hand literally anywhere else. “I believe there’s one more passport to see?”

‘He has also not shown his off,’ Freeman clarifies, gesturing to Red.

“Well yeah, but I don’t care about him. Unless someone has a marker or something. Then I care.” Their smile is as menacing as it is sparkly.

And it is very sparkly. Alarmingly so.

Freeman checks his own hands and indeed finds his own passport awaiting them, as identical as the rest. On the outside, anyways.

His, like both Pink’s and Yellow’s, sports a picture of himself, his name and some other basics about him, as well as a map of Black Mesa’s Tram System. Where Yellow looked bone tired and Pink looked about as confident as when they met, Freeman finds he looks rather… neutral, in his own picture.

Seeing nothing else of note, he looks around for where he can put it. Yellow just… leaves his on a nearby barrel, so Freeman follows in his lead and drops his own off.

‘You could always use mud…!’ He suddenly signs, and Pink’s grin is downright devious when they realize what he means.

“Hey cyclops, let’s see that passport of yours!” They don’t wait for him to produce it, instead lifting him off the ground, flipping him upside down, and begin shaking him for all he’s worth. Red makes his dislike of this particular activity very known, but Freeman doesn’t think he would’ve been any help even if he wasn’t laughing too hard to even stay upright. Yellow’s completely fallen to the ground.

Surprisingly, this plan works, and Red’s passport falls into the muddy waters below. Pink drops him immediately, and he too lands in the muddy waters, face first. At least now his hair is finally getting washed.

“I hate... ALL OF YOU!!” Red pushes himself out of the mud almost faster than he fell into it, dripping passport in hand as he swats it around in the air in a futile attempt to air dry it. He eventually gives up, instead just inspecting it for damage. “What the fuck?”

That gets their attention, and they all crowd around Red and his passport to spot whatever elicited that reaction.

His name reads out ‘Gordon Freemind’, which definitely doesn’t sound right. He’d said earlier that their name, collectively, was Gordon Freeman, so presumably, that’s what’s wrong with the passport.

“The FUCK is that supposed to mean??” All heads turn to Yellow, who looks just as perplexed.

“How the hell should I know?? It’s your name!” He very helpfully explains to the group.

The tunnels around them shake with the booming sound of an explosion somewhere above them. It’s probably not smart to stay down here too much longer.

Walk and talk. That’s the plan.

Freeman takes the lead, twisting and turning through this much more cramped… sewer system? He can’t say. He’s definitely hoping what they’re stepping in is mud and not… anything else that's that color, texture and consistency.

The barnacles are a welcome distraction from that particular thought experiment for all of two minutes. Then they go back to being a tedious obstacle, one that’s just troublesome enough they have to take care of each with barrels and bullets, but not so life threatening that they feel like they’re accomplishing much.

“So… that whole passport thing,” Pink begins, and Yellow groans. “Now that we’re acquainted with each other's very different names and what not, could we do some proper introductions?”

“What the hell are you talking about? We’re the same person, we know each other already!” Red immediately argues, although Freeman sort of gets what Pink means.

“Well then how have all of you been referring to each other? I haven’t heard you guys address one another at all, which makes me think you’re avoiding it because you don’t wanna deal with the hassle of having the exact same name, except you all don’t have the exact same name so, I’ll ask one more time. Can we do some proper introductions so I can stop referring to each of you as short, shorter, and shortest?” They’re out of breath by the end of the rant, but it’s not like there’s anything else left to say.

Red backs away. “Uhm, right. I’m Gordon… Freemind. PhD.”

“Was the PhD part really necessary?” Yellow immediately detracts from the introductions.

“I worked HARD for that fucking degree you self-righteous son of a bitch. Hop OFF my dick and die,” Red escalates.

“Ffff duh,” Pink very helpfully adds.

He resists the urge to facepalm. They’d been doing so well, too. ‘I’m Dr. Gordon Freeman. PhD.’

“Right, uh, my turn. Gordon Martini Freeman. Fucking PhD, whatever. Would you like the college I graduated from too? Employment history?”

Before another argument can start, Freeman steps in, resting a polite hand on his shoulder and applying a calming amount of pressure. ‘There are far better and taller hills to die on than this one. Pick something that’s actually worth it.’

“R-right. Yep. Yeah. Sure, you– you right,” Yellow agrees immediately, a very welcome change of pace.

“And I’m Gorgeous, but we all knew that already.” They smile– no, smirk.

‘Since the rest of us have different last names…’ He trails off, looking to the other two in the hopes they understand where exactly he’s going with this.

“Freemind does sound like a pretty badass name, doesn’t it?” Red holds a hand to his chin, stroking an invisible beard. Well– it’s technically visible, but not nearly long enough to actually justify the gesture as anything more than that; a gesture.

“Is that a genuine question?” By Pink’s tone alone he can hear the obvious no being answered. Red, as it turns out, can also hear the denial. Freeman turns away so he doesn’t have to witness the very one sided catfight Red tries to incite from that, lest he lose anymore sanity or intelligence wasted trying to understand how those two are him.

“Wait wait wait, hold on, I’m sorry, you specified last name? I actually would like to go by my middle name, which is actually different. Feet– what was written on my passport,” He seems to physically struggle to get the word out, “is not my actual last name. Martini is my actual, legal middle name.”

“Sure thing Feetman.” Red claps him on the shoulder, fight with Pink– with Gorgeous forgotten in favor of mocking Yellow. Martini. Feetman? He’ll figure it out.

‘I’ll go by Freeman, then.’ This change is probably the easiest for him, seeing as it isn’t a change at all. The same could be said for Gorgeous, but that’s assuming that really is their actual name people actually called them back in their universe. He’s still a bit skeptical of that.

This system also works better in the long run, since he can’t know for certain that the four of them, plus the few he saw from afar, are all the Freeman– Freemen?– that they’ll be running into. There’s only so many colors, let alone ones he knows and can remember the names of. It would’ve gotten far too complicated far too quickly. No thank you, actually.

Speaking off, he’s just realized they might want to hurry if they want to catch up with that group. They were, as far as he could tell, also being attacked by the Combine, therefore they’re probably also trying to get out of the city.

Better get a move on then. More booms shake the tunnels, the thundering sounds acting as yet another reason to get out of here sooner rather than later.

‘Race,’ He signs with both hands, waiting just long enough to watch the understanding form in their eyes before he takes off, various reactions echoing down the halls after him.

“NOT AGAIN!!” Echoes Feetman’s voice distantly.

“YOU HAD A HEADSTART YOU FUCKING CHEATER!!” Echoes Freemind’s, much closer.

“Like it’d matter either way!” Gorgeous cheers as they pass him, just in time to barrel through the door ahead and break it open. They don’t even stop after passing through it.

Well then.

Freeman, on the other hand, does stop after exiting the tunnels, and for good reason. A Hunter-Chopper, if he’s remembering the name right, crashes into the bridge above and the ground below, the flames of the ensuing explosion just barely missing him, even as someone knocks into him from behind, Freemind if he had to guess. He feels hands on his shoulder as that same someone tries to peek around him at whatever’s happening.

“I TOLD you guys I was gonna steal one of these! Why did you break this one!” A new voice, familiar but distinctly different, annoyedly calls from the Hunter-Chopper.

“It was still shooting at the railroad, and was still therefore a threat to be taken care of,” Yet another answers back, their tone much less casual and much more clinical in comparison.

“Even you perhaps get one!” A third voice is added to the fray. That accounts for all three of the specs of color he saw, if he recalls correctly.

A Freeman in a deep blue suit, nearly purple in the right lighting, hops out of the Hunter-Chopper, just as another two Freeman approach, one in a violet suit, the other in a lighter blue. It feels weird to refer to them as such, but it’s technically accurate. Pink– Gorgeous peeks out from just behind the Hunter-Chopper, making eye contact with Freeman himself and just, shrugging. None of them have been noticed yet.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening??” Feetman– or Martini– says from behind him, peering over his other shoulder.

That gets the attention of the newcomers. The one in the violet suit moves to stand in front of the other two, cautious but open. Their suit, beyond the color and the lambda, is fairly similar to his own. He’s not actually sure how to describe the symbols surrounding their lambda, at least, not until he looks up. Their hair is braided into an intricate low bun, the entire look completed by a purple wreath wrapping around the back of their head and resting just over their ears. The lambda is surrounded by a wreath, too. Their glasses are similarly tinted to match their suit, like Red and Yellows– Freemind and Feetman’s. He’ll get this. Eventually.

“You’re just like us,” Violet says, tilting his head and watching them with an unreadable expression. They don’t seem overtly hostile, but then they don’t seem all that friendly either. He nods nonetheless.

“At this point we’re gonna amass the whole fucking rainbow, and then some!” Freemind grumbles behind him.

“Can you go one whole sentence without cursing? I’m genuinely curious.” The way Gorgeous says it makes him think they might not be genuinely curious.

The new trio all turn to look at Gorgeous, with varying speeds.

“Is that a fucking tiddy window??” Dark blue– or Indigo, feels a bit safer of a difference to refer to him as– very helpfully points to said… window. Freeman wasn’t aware it was called that, and he will pretend like he is still not aware, if only for his own sake. “Why– why??”

“Why not?”

“Y’know what, that's my bad. I didn’t think about it like that,” It’s the first argument he’s seen end before it’s started between any of his alternates and he’s suddenly very proud of these new three.

Indigo’s suit is, as far as he can tell, also the same as his own, with minor differences here and there that aren’t major enough to be noted. His best guess is that while his suit is the Mark V, his alternates might have newer or older versions. His hair is much darker than any of the rest of the groups, nearly black where they’re all soldily brunette, and its curls are pulled back into a tight high pony. The ends are a much lighter, if faded, sort of blond. His glasses are also different, mostly because they aren’t really glasses, but more like a visor. It also breaks the pattern of having a slight tint to match the suit, being green instead of indigo. Huh.

Their lambda, weirdly, just looks like it has one long, uneven zigzag zigging and zagging through the center.

Blue, the lighter suited one, seems the friendliest of the three. His hair is, for lack of a better or more fitting word, very floofy. His glasses continue the theme of being tinted to match the suit, except… there’s a lot of things wrong there alone. For starters, each lens is a different shade, and he’s not sure if either even actually match the suit’s shade of blue. One of the lenses is also rotated sideways, taking the shape of a diamond more so than a square. He can almost feel it digging into his own skin from just looking at it.

Where Feetman had an ‘i’ and Gorgeous had a heart, Blue’s lambda has the letters ‘GT’ hanging just above it. He’s really itching to ask each of them about it, what the difference could mean and if it’s significant in any way.

All in all, they seem about as normal as the rest of them. Because the bar is really, really low.

An alarm starts sounding off again, one he’s definitely heard multiple times today, and with the approaching sounds of yet another Hunter-Chopper, now’s probably a good time to get moving. They can continue with the whole introduction thing on the way. Walk and talk.

There’s another door just further down the canal, conveniently the only direction that isn’t horrifically destroyed, so that’s where he goes, the rest of the group falling into step behind him without question, which is as cool as it is intimidating. He’s aware at least half of them can take down literal flying gunships, which is something he can not do, so it’s odd to be the de facto leader at the moment. Not that he necessarily trusts any of them to lead, but the lack of arguing or combatance on the matter feels off.

Underground once more and surrounded by only the quiet, muffled sounds of the dangerous city above, despite present company, Freeman finally allows himself a moment to question a lot of things, if only to sort out his mind.

First and foremost… Barney. It’s been a question plaguing his mind since… forever, it feels like. Is he okay? He should still be with Kleiner, working to keep the both of them safe because that's the smart thing to do, but… but there’s always the chance of Barney trying to follow after him, and that could be bad. Really bad. From what he can tell, the Combine are putting everything they have into finding him. There’s so much destruction being left in his wake, and if there’s one thing he could protect from that trouble that seems to follow him everywhere he goes, it’d be his friends. It’d be Barney.

Hopefully, Kleiner fixed that machine of his and went to Eli’s lab with Barney, keeping the both of them out of harm's way.

Unfortunately, he won’t have any answers to those questions for a long while.

Of course, the question of how there’s six other versions of himself just walking around, so different in so many ways yet so alike in so many more.

Will he ever know what brought them here? Does it… have to do with him?

He’s about to question why or how a conversation between the rest of the group hasn’t started yet, only to realize they have been talking, just in quiet whispers, the whole time.

“No, he’s just– I mean yeah, he’s a little intense– just–!” Are Feetman’s defensive–

“Hey! Get in here, hurry!” Someone calls, distinctly not another alternate. Ducking under some boards blocking the path, Freeman finds they’re yet another rebel, legs dangling off the ledge they’re sitting on. They hop down to greet the group. “Civil Protection is onto us.”

“No shit,” Freemind snorts. Freeman sends a glare in his way, shutting him up as effectively as if Feetman gut punched him again.

“We’re tearing up the railroad, covering up our tracks” The rebel continues, undeterred. “Looks like you’ll be the last ones through.”

Violet steps out of the group and drops several weapons down into a pile, alongside two medkits. “I picked this up along the way, but I’m sure you’ll find better use for it.”

The rebel snorts. “You sure you won’t be needing this? Looks like you’re a big group, not too inconspicuous.”

‘We’re just trying to get out of the city,’ Freeman is quick to disagree. They’re more than capable on their own, although Violet has inspired him to pick up anything he can to leave with other rebels. It was never something he’d thought of doing, which is odd because it’s so simple yet potentially life-saving.

“I hear that! Be glad you’re not the guy they’re looking for, poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance! Sounds like they’re calling in every CP unit in City 17.” The rebel laughs, and Freeman winces. Someone– Freemind– slaps a hand onto his shoulder.

“Sounds like we really better get going then,” He urges, not all that politely.

“Be careful,” The rebel says as he begins removing the few barricades on a door he hadn’t noticed until now. “They’re flooding areas up ahead with Manhacks. Be quick, you do not wanna be around when they sweep through here– OH SHIT!”

If he says anything else, it’s drowned out by the droning, whirring battle cry of what he can only assume to be Manhacks. The rebel raises an old pipe as if it’ll actually do much to protect him, but he never has to swing it down upon anything.

Freeman himself doesn't need to do anything either. He sees Freemind pull not one, but two pistols out, shooting down two Manhacks at once with impressive precision. Feetman, rather than gun any down like he expects, jumps down from the ceiling (when did he even get up there??) and whacks one so hard it goes flying into a wall and exploding upon impact. Gorgeous, meanwhile, grabs two and throws them at the new trio, to which only Violet handles the Manhacks. In defense of the other two, they shot both down so quickly (with only one pistol, mind you) that there’s no way either could’ve done something. Indigo instead gives Gorgeous a dirty glare, which is sort of understandable all things considered. All it does is make Gorgeous grin even more, unfortunately.

One of the Manhacks landed at his feet, probably one Freemind shot judging by the bullet implanted in it. He kneels to inspect it, curious as to whether or not it has a camera attached and works remotely, or if it’s built upon an ai with specific orders to follow. The latter would be more useful in the event they wanted to reprogram these things, but the former isn’t entirely useless information to have either.

“That was a close call! Thanks for all the help,” The rebel breathes out shakily, hand braced on their chest as if it could single-handedly (heh) stop them from collapsing to the ground. It’s giving Freeman the impression that the Manhacks are much more dangerous than the mildly annoying flies their group treated them as.

Freemind, of course, argues. “Close call? Fucking microwaves are more dangerous than these glorified paperweights!”

Feetman, expectedly, tries to keep him in check in the least effective way possible. “Are you doing this on purpose, or is being an asshole just something that comes to you naturally?”

“We’re happy to help,” Violet ignores the other two in favor of actually being a nice person.

Not that Freeman is able to really focus on any of that. He sees that green again, seeping out of the cracks in his suit. Dropping the Manhack like it burned him, he stands back up to full height and attempts to discreetly step away, mostly just hoping no one else saw that. He doesn’t dare check, as if so long as he doesn’t actually acknowledge anyone else, they won’t be able to acknowledge him either. Or what just happened.

“Look, it isn’t safe here.” At least the rebel didn’t seem to notice. He ushers them all to the door where the Manhacks came from. “Keep quiet and you’ll be fine, the next station isn’t far.”

“Is be safe too,” Blue nods to the rebel as he leaves, making Freeman pause in his swift escape out of sheer bafflement. They’ve been fairly quiet, and now he’s wondering if there was a particular reason why.

“What he said,” Indigo mindlessly agrees as he pushes Freeman forwards. “Kay bye! Have a nice life! Don’t die or whatever!”

“How encouraging,” Feetman takes over in pushing him onwards, speeding up as if he’s trying to distance the two of them from the group. After a few seconds, he realizes he is trying to do that.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Freemind, apparently also with them, peers over one shoulder. Feetman peers over the other, and this is how they’re going to have this conversation it seems. ‘You’re getting weird on us. Is it the other freaks? It’s the other freaks, isn’t it. Four's a crowd, as they say.”

“The saying is three’s a crowd, actually, and I don’t think it’s them. He was getting weird before Gorgeous showed up. Right before, actually, but I still don’t think there’s correlation there.”

“No no, he was weird since we first hit the canals.”

‘I’m not getting weird,’ He’s quick to disagree. They didn’t see– they did. But what? And what are they going to do? They pulled him aside, actively hid this conversation. Why?

“You are getting worryingly weird,” Feetman emphasizes.

“Yeah. Was it the vortigaunt? It did that– no, you had a moment before that.” Freemind thinks aloud.

“Wait, what happened before the– wait what the fuck is a vortigaunt?” This is a great conversation topic, Freeman would like to talk about vortigaunts instead.

“The fucking alien? In the train car? Red eyes? Three arms? Littered all throughout Black Mesa?” Freemind explains.

‘Did you never encounter any after the…’ He pauses, realizing he doesn’t have a sign for the Resonance Cascade. He never thought to make one, initially because it was such an unlikely scenario, but eventually because it hurt too much to think about.

Judging by the expression on Feetman’s face, he understands what he was going to say regardless. “No, yeah I did, I just– we called them something else. Thanks for the clarification. What happened before that though?”

And now they’re back to that thing he doesn’t want to talk about.

The distant sound of Manhacks flooding through the tunnel sounds like an angelic choir, freeing him from– no that’s a little too much praise for the Combine. Whatever, he hears salvation in the form of something else to focus on that isn’t this particular thing, and he’s glad to redirect to this instead.

Only, before he can, a rock goes flying over their heads and slams into one of the Manhacks, the angle forcing that one to bump into another, and so on and so forth. It’s a bit comical.

And unfortunate. Mostly unfortunate, actually.

Freemind glares at the group that is much less behind them then they were a few seconds ago.

“Yay physics!!” Violet cheers with a fist in the air, much more happily than he ever could.

“I would just like the record to show we were not eavesdropping on your conversation about how weird he’s getting.” Indigo places a hand over their heart, the other hand raised like they’re pledging to something. “I swear.”

“Woah! Language! There are children present!” Feetman scolds, gesturing to Freemind like he isn’t the one cursing the most. “No swearing please.”

“I– I wasn’t,” A wheezing laugh. “I am so sorry about that. Won’t happen again.” He salutes, as if that seals the promise.

“I hate the both of you and I will make you each suffer horrible, painful deaths. By my hands.”

“How is wrong him?” Blue asks, and yeah he’s starting to just accept he’ll need to sort out whatever he says if he wants to understand him.

“Do you want, like, that list to be alphabetized or would you rather it in chronological order?” Freemind is his least favorite once more.

“Alphabetized please.” Nevermind, Gorgeous is his least favorite.

Freemind, at least, gapes at that response like he didn’t expect somebody to actually pick. “That was rhetorical–”

“Did I McFuckin’ stutter? I want the list. Alphabetized.” Freeman does not appreciate the potential existence of the list in any way shape or form.

“Ah yes, my favorite McDonald’s order: the McFuckin.” Indigo nods along with himself in agreement.

“What would that even be? A burger?” What even is this conversation?? He looks at Feetman, torn between feeling betrayed that he’s helping it devolve further, and relieved that he’s helping it devolve further.

“Pickles,” Indigo answers ominously.

“Wha– like, just pickles??”

“Why pickles? Actually, more important question, is it fucking pickle slices, or full on pickles??” Neither of those questions were the more important question, least of all the second one.

“A full pickle, obviously. I get it.” Gorgeous looks about three wrong words away from explaining what there is to get, and Freeman prays his horrified look is enough to shut them up rather than egg them on.

“Fish,” Blue very helpfully adds, which does stop Gorgeous from continuing so it must be a win, however small.

“You’ve been real fucking quiet,” Freemind says suspiciously to Violet, for whatever reason. “Nothing to add?”

“I’m afraid I’m not much for culinary practices. There’s not much I can add to this conversation.”

“What part of any of this conversation gave you the impression a single one of these idiots knew the first thing about cooking? Genuinely curious because I got the impression I shouldn’t trust them with even a toaster,” Feetman very hurtfully, yet very truthfully calls them out.

‘I once nuked a casserole in a microwave,’ At least they seem to have this in common; complete incompetence regarding food.

“Do you just not like casseroles or something?” Indigo asks, leaning past Feetman, who is also still peering over his shoulder.

‘It wasn’t mine,’ He cryptically replies instead. See, he can do it too.

“Damn, who pissed you the fuck off?” Freemind actually sounds proud, which is… conflicting. Very conflicting.

‘Magnusson,’ His expression sours. Of all the scientists that gave him a hard time, Magnusson was always the worst, because out of everyone he was the only one to ever let his disdain for Freeman bleed onto others. He and Eli had been close before Freeman showed up.

He is pointedly electing to ignore the fact that the casserole incident was… actually more so an accident than some sort of spiteful, petty revenge.

“I could— I could feel the rage there. Did he like, kill your dog or is he just an asshole?” More leaning, he’s starting to appreciate this less.

“Come on, we’ve all seen John Wick, his revenge would be a lot worse than a ruined casserole if it was really that deep,” Indigo counters. Is… is this a real conversation right now?

“Have you had a good casserole before? Sometimes it really is that deep,” Feetman argues back. Is this the same man who admitted to multiple armed robberies? Did Black Mesa actually bend his morals out of proportion or were they always messed up, because it really sounds like he’s willing to murder over a casserole.

Pulling away from the group, he quickly pushes the door ahead open to escape both this conversation and that other one.

There are, of course, a large group of Combine waiting in the claustrophobic space on the other side, guns aimed and ready to mow through them. Somehow, Violet and Freemind are faster. He knows it could only be those two because he hears the rest of the group react, with various curses from Feetman, laughter from both Gorgeous and Indigo, and oddly enough a very friendly “Hello!” from Blue.

One lone Combine charges for him, though Freeman still doesn’t need to prepare for a fight in anyway because at that exact moment, as if the heavens themselves are intervening, an old pallet falls from the sky and slams into the soldier, almost certainly rendering them dead on impact as the pallet breaks into pieces from the force.

He’s only been out here for fifteen seconds at most and his poor brain is stuck playing catch-up as yet another Freeman drops from the sky, this one green and decked out in gear he’d expect to see someone wearing for a triathlon, albeit still overkill for such an event.

“Ah, there we go. I knew I saw four of you. Now then,” Gorgeous slaps a hand onto Freeman’s shoulder as he looks between both the newcomer and the rest of the group. “Do you have your passport?”

Chapter Text

“FUCKING HELL!!” Freemind loudly groans. He understands the sentiment.

“You forgot the ‘o’, but honestly saying ‘hello’ is a waste of time anyway because there are faster greetings, such as ‘hey’ or ‘hi’, and of course then there’s waving which doesn’t use up your breath and can be done at any speed,” Green rants, raising a hand up to demonstrate just how quickly he can wave and how time efficient it is. “It can also be done from relatively any distance therefore not requiring you to stop moving or to get close to whoever–”

“How are you even real,” Indigo laughs, although it doesn’t sound much like a question. They should really get their names figured out.

“…Fucking passports…” Feetman quietly, distraughtly mutters to himself. Freeman’s not sure if it’s meant to be a complaint or a reminder, but he appreciates it regardless, especially since it gets the conversation back on track.

Gorgeous claps a hand down on the shoulders of both Violet and Indigo, pushing them forwards and towards Green. Blue follows all on their own, smile on their face like this is a perfectly normal day for them and not one of the greatest scientific discoveries of their generation, if not of all time. Then again, for all he knows this is a perfectly normal day for them. Maybe they’ll even be getting a beer with Barney later.

That thought, at least, manages to drag the smallest of smiles onto his own face too. He’d be happy for them, if it turned out that was their situation.

“Hey Foot Guy,” Gorgeous begins, smushing Feetman’s— Martini’s, it feels far too mean to call him that now— head with both hands as he forces him to look at the pink variant of themselves. He then turns both their heads to look at the new three— new four. “How do we do the passport thing? They need names!”

“This has something to do with that stupid fucking clone thing of yours, doesn’t it?” Freemind leans against the wall, still in the hall behind Freeman.

“NO!” Gorgeous says, a little too quickly to be believable.

“Can you please let go of my face?” Comes Martini’s muffled voice, words drawn out and laced with exhaustion. Relatable.

“Sure sure, but how do they do the thing?” He repeats again, still not actually letting go of Martini.

“What thing?” Violet asks.

At the same time, however, Indigo speaks up as well. “Is this the thing?”

Sure enough, he’s got a passport in hand, the outside as identical as the rest. He flips it open faster than anyone can say anything, and then just shrugs when he sees what's inside.

‘What does it say your name is?’ He asks before Gorgeous can grab it out of Indigo’s hands. They can do this far more civilly than they have been.

“Gordon ‘Streamer’... actually my name’s too scribbled over for me to read the rest. Or anything else on here, for that matter. Think I see the word regret? Man? Eh, works for me,” He debates with… himself. He seems oddly detached from his own name, although Freeman can’t say he doesn’t sort of get that.

Freemind gestures for him to show off the passport, and sure enough there are scribbles over it, a tealish green, a red, and another green, this one more neon.

He has… questions, about that. Both Feetman and… whatever new name they’ll be giving Indigo, have writing on their passport that’s almost definitely not supposed to be there. Given that he doesn’t entirely believe these things are all that grounded in reality, the fact that two of them now have evidence of a third party tampering has some interesting implications. Not to mention, as far as he can tell, both aren’t surprised to see the graffiti, in fact he recalls Martini saying a name earlier. Barney, if he heard his muttering correctly.

“OH! I get it! You want these!!” Green leans in between Violet and Indigo, elbows braced on either’s shoulders as he holds out his passport with both hands, testing the whims of gravity itself as he precariously dangles above the ground off his unwilling arm rests. “We’re getting to know each other, knowing teammates is important after all, but going down the list of important details we’d need to know is time consuming so we have everything written down instead and can just show it off with a quick flash and then zoom we’re gone again and–”

“Exactly!” Gorgeous succinctly finishes their thoughts, plucking the passport out of their hands while only offering a rather patronizing head pat as thanks. Green doesn’t seem to mind, at least. “Gordon Speedrun Freerun. Hey, that rhymes! Can’t quite tell if that’s supposed to be like, a title or something. It looks sort of…”

Gorgeous displays the passport for him and Feetman, leaving Freemind to very loudly complain about being left out as he moves to join the group anyway. Green’s passport… looks like it had to be manually filled in, and isn’t very legible because of that. Whoever wrote down their information was in a rush. He has a sneaking suspicion he could guess who that might’ve been.

“I believe I understand now,” Violet begins, reaching behind them and pulling their own passport out of thin air. Gorgeous chucks Green’s passport somewhere behind them.

Just as quickly as they pulled it out, they flip it over to show the rest of them. ‘Gordon Freemercy’ greets them, the passport itself looking very normal. The picture of them looks neutral, neither too bored nor too excited. Come to think of it, he barely saw the other two’s pictures. Indigo’s portrait was just as scribbled over as the rest of the passport, and Green’s was blurry, like he’d just run in front of the camera right as it got its picture of him.

With only one person left, all eyes turn to Blue, who still has that same polite, blank eyed smile.

“Ah!” Just like all the rest, their passport is in their hands the moment it’s needed. However, when they flip it open, Freeman swears he hears the rest of the world go quiet out of sheer bafflement.

Instead of yet another butchered variation of the name ‘Gordon Freeman’, as had been the case with everyone else, the name plastered by their picture (where they still look as happy and zoned out as ever) reads out ‘Cicero Fryman’. It’s not written in by hand like Green’s, nor is their actual name just scribbled over. The passport is completely untampered with as far as he can tell.

“What. The fuck,” Freemind says in the quiet, carefully blank tone he’s beginning to recognize as the calm before the storm. “WHO THE HELL–”

Anything else he could’ve said is promptly silenced as Gorgeous grabs him face first and puts him into a headlock.

“I’m… I’m so confused. What– what happened here??” Feetman weakly gestures to Blue’s name. “It’s like– it’s like–”

“Like someone ran it through Google Translate a few times?” Indigo asks in a tone that suggests that’s not only a conclusion he’s already come to, but a concept he’s already accepted as fact. Freeman isn’t even sure what a ‘google translate’ is.

“How the fuck did you come to that conclusion??” Maybe he can ask Feetman what it is, seeing as he’s not questioning it in the slightest. At least, he’s not questioning that part.

“Have you heard him speak?” Apparently Indigo has made a fair point, because Feetman concedes with a nod.

“Hello!” Blue waves with his other hand, unconcerned with the problems his name is causing. Gorgeous waves back, so Freeman decides to do so too.

“Who cares what his name is? I say we just get their names picked so this guy stops trying to run off,” Gorgeous says with a shrug, half distracted as they watch Green try and fail to run through the open door awaiting them, only held back by Violet. “How about we go first?”

“I’M MARTINI!!” Feetman– Martini quickly says, falling into a fighting stance like he expects he’ll have to actually, physically fight to go by that name. If that really were the case, Freeman sort of doubts he’d win, against either Gorgeous or Freemind, both of which being the most likely to combat (pun intended) the claim.

“Yeah, Feetman wants to go by Martini!” Freemind agrees in possibly the least agreeable way possible, which was completely expected. The sudden, inhuman strength he possessed to push himself up and out of Gorgeous’s grasp enough to spit that out was almost commendable.

‘I go by Freeman,’ He hesitates before continuing. It feels only fair to remove the other two’s opportunities for their own introductions, as a sort of punishment, but they never created signs for their names. Technically, Gorgeous’s name can still just use the word Gorgeous in ASL, and the other two he can break their name’s apart into the individual words, but it feels a little less personal. Something for later, he supposes. ‘This is Gorgeous and Freemind,’

“Well, I’m seeing a pattern here. Obviously, I’ll go by…” Indigo pauses dramatically. His smile is far too smug for him to not know what he’s doing. “Streamer.”

“Streamer? Not like… fucking Regretman or something?” Freemind just sounds… so perplexed. Understandable.

“I. Will be SO fucking done with ALL of you if you actually let him get that,” Martini grits out, already sounding seconds away from strangling all of them, collectively. Freeman offers a few pats on the back, and oddly enough that actually works, the rage and tension leaving his shoulders as just exhaustion drags them down. He should probably try to keep the others in check a little better.

“Well so that’s exactly why we can’t–” Freemind is cut off.

“I suppose I will go by Freemercy then? Or perhaps just Mercy, seeing as it’s simpler.” Violet looks to the sky, just before they all hear a loud siren. They’ve been in one place too long, it seems.

“Okay let’s speed this up. You, you’re Freerun or whatever.” Freemind– Or maybe just Mind, if they’re creating nicknames for their nicknames now– points to Green. He points to Blue next, then hesitates. “Maybe we just leave this one behind.”

“WE SHALL CALL HIM CICERO, AND I SHALL NO LONGER BE THE ONLY FIRST NAME FREEMAN AROUND!!” Gorgeous declares, scooping Blue– Cicero– up with the arm not still wrapped around Freemind. Apparently, Violet– Or Freemercy now– takes this as their queue to get going, and they release their hold on Green– Freerun. Indigo– Streamer, finally they all have names– shrugs half-heartedly before following along, and the next thing they know they’ve all jumped deeper into the canals.

Coincidentally, the Combine are also jumping down deeper into the canals, the quiet, alien whirring of something above their only clue as to where they came from.

He doesn’t bother with the SMG strapped to his back, instead pulling out his pistol. He’d rather save the heavier ammo for when it’ll really be needed; with a group this big and as dangerously capable as they are, he’ll barely need to worry about more than a few enemies at a time.

As he’s gunning down the few Civil Protection he’s fast enough to actually hit, he finds he’s at the back of the group at the moment, so he’s able to see what everyone else is up to and get a feel for how the moving parts of this unlikely team might operate.

He isn’t all that surprised to see Gorgeous running straight for the soldiers, hang lining them with their arms and making them fall flat on their asses as Gorgeous charges on ahead. Freemind, a little bit less unsurprisingly since he forgot he even had a knife, is busy finishing off the soldiers Gorgeous knocks down, using a knife rather than bullets. Likely also to conserve resources, if he had to guess. Even Feetman using his arm mounted machine gun to bash the skulls in of anyone who gets too close, regardless of the fact he’s running at them isn’t too shocking.

On the other hand, watching… Freerun, that’s what they decided on– run along a wall only to jump off, wrap a leg around a soldier’s head and slam them into the ground is decidedly… not something he expected to see.

Nor did he expect to see Streamer slam an explosive barrel into one Combine’s head, the subsequent explosion just… launching him back against the wall. Far back, the impact forcing cracks into the wall as he flops to the floor, limp. And then, just as quickly, he hops back up from the floor, wiping the soot off his suit like that’s the only thing that went wrong there, despite the fact that the soldier he attacked is literally missing the top half of their body, and that he was equally as close to the explosion as they were.

And then, there’s Freemercy and Cicero. On one side of the spectrum comes the complete predictability of Mercy plowing through the enemies like it’s nothing, disappearing around the corner ahead as he clears a path for them. On the other side of the spectrum, Cicero is sitting down, legs criss-crossed and back against the wall as he points out different things in a book he suddenly has, a very lengthy textbook with a blue whale on the front. Next to him, a soldier nods along, asking muffled questions and receiving nonsense responses. He… he doesn’t even know what to think anymore.

So, he chooses not to think right now, and instead follows after Freemercy, trusting the rest of the group to follow along at their own pace. Most of them have already sort of proven how good they are at suddenly appearing when it’s least convenient for at least one person involved, so he doubts it’ll be much of an issue.

Or, he tries to leave, anyway. He’s immediately stopped by an arm wrapping itself around his shoulders like it belongs there, getting swung around to face Freemind, Feetman approaching at his own pace as he’s distracted by Cicero and their… new friend?

If this is supposed to be another secret conversation, it’s not being hidden very well.

“Alright, what’s our game plan?” Mind asks, trying and failing to pull Feetman into a mini huddle.

“Our game plan?” Martini looks properly confused, and Freeman himself tries to look as lost as possible to signal his own unsureness of whatever this could be about. Why is he always so conspiratory? Freeman isn’t like this, is he??

Now Freemind looks confused. “For these other guys? What are we gonna do about them?”

‘What do you think we need to do for them??’ He hopes the sheer bafflement he feels at this line of thinking bleeds through his words.

“Well OBVIOUSLY that fucking depends on them!!” The half huddle is broken as Freemind throws his hands apart, glaring at the two of them like they’re the crazy ones suggesting they… what, make up a contingency plan for if they ever need to turn on their other alternates? Against people that are literally them?? “I just think we should be prepared. Just in case, I mean have you seen these guys?”

“I have, actually, and that’s part of why I think you’re crazy. I mean,” Feetman, for some godforsaken reason, once again focuses on the far less important point. “The chances of you winning are like, laughably low. You’re more likely to be hit by lightning three times in a row.”

“You pulled those numbers out of your ass and you fucking know it,” He accuses, a finger violently pointed to Martini’s chest. “Show me some real statistics, you coward.”

They’re bickering again, for nothing worthwhile either.

‘Do you really,’ Freeman pours as much judgment into his signing as he possibly can. ‘think we need to plan a betrayal?’

“Better us than them!” Freemind argues, like it’s actually a valid point. Why does it even have to be a choice?

“Wh— Does he really look like a danger to you??” Feetman then gestures to Cicero, who is quite possibly the least intimidating of the entire group. He briefly looks up and waves, before returning to his… tutoring? Lesson?

“THAT’S HOW THEY GET YOU!!” There’s no way Freeman is even half as paranoid as Freemind is. He just, refuses to believe it. “It’s always the cutesy looking ones that are the most fucked up!”

Feetman crosses his arms. “They? I know there’s a whole like, motherfucking government after us right now or something, but I feel like sending an alternate version of us to infiltrate our group is a little too elaborate and competent for them.”

“True, but that doesn't prove their innocence,” Freemind just barely concedes, in his own way where he still doesn’t actually budge on the issue. He wonders how well he’ll be able to read them and predict what they might do next, by the end of all this. That brings up a good question, actually; how long will they be here, running around and causing chaos while they try to leave the world around them a little better than they found it? Until the end of this war? Or just until they can find a way home?

Will they be able to go home? Will they even want to?

“Ever heard of innocent until proven guilty?” Feetman continues.

“You’re a fool if you think anyone in law actually ascribes to that belief. They don’t get a paycheck for proving someone’s innocence, dipshit.” While mean and honestly very bleak, Freeman isn’t… so naive, as to not know there’s some truth behind the rather hateful words.

Feetman waves a hand away. “Yeah yeah, ACAB and all that, I feel like we’ve already established my disregard for the law or whatever, but these guys aren’t cops and neither are we so let’s try and be—“

“ACAB??” How many times is he going to mention something neither Freeman nor Freemind know about? At least Freemind is on top of getting answers. Freeman’s not even entirely sure why they include him in these conversations, seeing as he barely ever has anything to add, meaningful or otherwise.

He appreciates it, either way.

“Yeah? What— You just went on a mini rant about the failings of our joke of a government, there is no way in hell you like cops.” Freeman suddenly wonders (yet again) how different their worlds really are, seeing how horrible Feetman describes his own.

“I DON’T, I DON’T!!” Freemind’s agreement is equally concerning with what it implies about his own world.

‘What about Barney?’ Freeman suddenly butts in, because surely even if their worlds themselves are that messed up, Barney was still the same old Barney…

Right?

“He doesn’t count, security guards are far more respectable, even if they do basically the same amount of work,” Freemind explains.

“Wait, who??” Wait what? Hadn’t he— he’d just mentioned Barney earlier, hadn’t he? About the passport— Freeman is sure he heard him before.

Freemind groans, like it’s such a pain to have to answer such a question. Or maybe, just a bother to think of Barney. “Annoying security guard? At Black Mesa? Almost as weird as he is annoying?”

“Oh, he… huh,” Feetman mutters to himself, not that Freeman cares right now. He just— annoying? Barney??

He needs to step away from this conversation before he loses his temper. Freeman was used to having to defend his friends and their reputation, back in Black Mesa, but he’d never thought he’d have to protect them from himself.

“Okay, okay, hold up. Let’s not— We shouldn’t just let this settle and fester and get worse until eventually somebody blows up and things go bad.” Feetman draws him back in, gentle but unrelenting. “Let’s talk this out like adults, okay?”

No that's— fair. That's fair. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He's— he doesn't know what their worlds are like. Maybe Barney isn't the same. He shouldn't— it's not helpful, to just assume things like that. Still... 'I would appreciate if you didn't talk about Barney like that. He's a very close friend of mine.'

"I'm meaner to him because we're friends," Freemind says with a shrug, like that's a completely normal statement.

"So that's what therapy is for," Feetman cuts in without missing a beat. Freeman snorts, turning to finally continue onwards. Footsteps follow behind him, more than just the two sets he expected, and he wonders just how much of their conversation were the others listening in on?

Pure light momentarily blinds him as the sun peaks into yet another partially open area, the waters just below him clear enough to reflect the light doubly. He’s not sure what season it is, and having lived in New Mexico for so long he’s sure his perception is a little skewed too, but he thinks it must be mid-summer. Jumping into the water has never seemed more appealing.

Apparently Gorgeous agrees with that sentiment, because before he can take another step, a pink blur swan dives in at mach 5, the subsequent splash as impressive as it is towering. The man made pillar of water seems less awe inspiring as it crashes down on him. He can’t see past all the droplets clinging to the lenses of his poor glasses.

“Splffffft,” Feetman intelligently says, spitting wet hair out of his mouth, and suddenly he’s much more grateful for his shorter hair, even if the loss was never his choice to begin with.

“Damn, what a dive—“ Suddenly, there's yet another blur, this one indigo, whatever else he was going to say cut off as he falls in, much less gracefully than how Gorgeous had. Probably because he was pushed, by Freemind if he had to guess. The accused leans over the water as he presumably watches his handiwork, grin some flavor of unhinged.

He is then grabbed by his legs and dragged in by Streamer, which, not at all surprising and fully deserved to be completely honest. Feetman snickers from somewhere behind him, and Freeman lets his smile grow a little bigger.

Under the water is a tunnel, which leads upwards to a completely different, unsubmerged tunnel, which leads them to yet another tunnel and although this one had a large pipe taking up most of the space and “spicing” things up a little, he can’t say he’s all too thrilled to be stuck in all these super enclosed spaces. Are they even going the right way? This is getting a little ridiculous.

Steam blows into his face and now he really is just feeling aggravated. He can hear Manhacks in the distance, slowly but steadily approaching, as well as some gunfight he’s sure they’ll run into in no time.

He’d never really had all that much time to breathe, back in Black Mesa. It was always one thing after the other, with almost no down time in between for him to think, which had been a blessing as much as it had been a curse. On the one hand, he never had a chance to spiral, to think about what he’d done and mourn the world he’d just helped to destroy, to doom. On the other… he never had time for the adrenaline rush to properly die out, to let the fight or flight sense fade away and just rest.

He still hasn’t really had the latter, but he’s practically stuck with nothing but the former, and it’s an agony he can’t really bear.

“Is okay?” Surprisingly (when aren’t things surprising anymore?), it’s Cicero talking to him. He doesn’t think any of the new alternates have started a conversation with him, let alone one on one, so he’s interested in seeing where this goes.

‘Is okay,’ He confirms, feeling a little silly for a moment for matching him word for word, but then Cicero lights up and he decides it might be okay after all. ‘Are you?’

“Is am. But lost, happy. Friends!” Cicero gestures to the group around him, earning a few looks but no further comments. It seems like he might not be the only one a little lost with how they should… handle isn’t the right word. Interact? His speech is a bit jumbled, although he wonders if from Cicero’s own perspective they’re the ones talking weird.

Freeman brings two hands up, pointer finger curved and hooks them together, then pulls them back and hooks them the other way. ‘Friends.’

He’s absolutely delighted when Cicero mimics the motion.

“OH SHIT!” They hear, and watch up ahead as Feetman stumbles back from one large burst of steam. The loss of balance almost has him falling off the pipe, but Gorgeous grabs him by both shoulders and swings him around, pivoting on their own foot as they bring him back onto the pipe at the exact point he was on. In their own, over the top showboaty sort of way. He’s just barely able to notice Freemind behind them, putting his hand back down at his side.

Friends. Cicero couldn’t have said it better.

Of course, all friend groups must receive a proper seal, to make it official.

He knows the perfect thing.

Setting one foot behind him, he takes a deep breath in, preparing himself for what comes next. The others are fast, they’ve certainly proven that. While he may not necessarily be faster, he can be smarter. He’ll take every shortcut he can find, spare no second he doesn’t absolutely have to.

He makes sure his pistol is ready, safety off and ammo reset. Then?

He runs.

“Where is he–” Someone questions, though they’re quickly cut off.

“NOT ANOTHER RACE!!” Probably Feetman, if he had to guess. He wouldn’t know since he’s already leaping off a pipe and running on much more solid, stable ground. He cuts the corner, shooting down the Combine (or attempting to, he does miss a few shots however) and ignoring the flaming, explosive barrels thrown their way.

He’s not… entirely sure how, but Gorgeous (who is FAR too close behind him) somehow manages to kick all three barrels back up, without exploding them via said kick. At least he was right to assume it wouldn’t be too big of an–

It’s like an artist painted a long brush stroke of neon green across the way, although the smear of green disappears as quickly as it appeared. The ‘speedrun’ on his passport, while grammatically confusing, certainly makes a lot more sense now. And he’d thought Gorgeous was fast.

Even the way he takes the next turn, which has to be very sharp, is incredibly smooth. He doesn’t think Freerun loses anytime taking it.

The tunnel they turn into (god not another one) is very dimly lit, and he stumbles here or there because of it. Gorgeous leaps over him, striking a lazy ‘paint me like one of your French girls’ pose midair. How insulting. He will not stand for this.

Except, he’s forced to almost come to a complete stop as two hands grab either of his shoulders and put what must be their entire weight as a red blur of pure evil backflips their way over him. Freemind lands facing him, but of course, rather than be a kind person and apologizing for the sheer disrespect of such a move, especially in a highly competitive race he incited, the bastard begins running backwards, grinning as he takes the next turn, moving to run forwards again.

The next turn is much rounder, which explains why Freemind was able to take it so easily, but it has a sudden sharp turn right after it that has him slamming into the wall to avoid slowing down. He refuses to let a little pain stop him either, so he keeps running.

Or, he tries, anyway. The only door he can find in the next room is resolutely locked. There is, however, an open vent.

He’s famously very quick in those.

Not that it matters, apparently.

The others are waiting in a much bigger room, one which he is suddenly dropped into from the vents. The finish line. The metal clang as he lands sounds hollow. He’s lost.

He falls to his knees, staring at the ground like it has all the answers to where he went wrong. It must’ve been the start. He wasn’t on very even ground, he couldn’t find the right footing for his start, so he didn’t get the maximum speed he should’ve had, especially when it comes to beating these alternates. They’re much more formidable foes than he’d first assumed. He will never make this mistake again.

Someone gently pats his shoulder twice, although all he can think of is that he’s still directly under the vent so whoever it is must have also beat him in the race, which is still just devastating.

Light blue armor decorates the arm offered to help him up, and he’s actually surprised Cicero was one of the people to beat him. He could’ve sworn he left him behind at the start of the race. Maybe he’s just that fast? Either way, it feels less of a loss to lose to him. At least one of them did well in the race.

He takes the offered help. And, just in time, too.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHH!!” Feetman falls from the vent and flops to the floor, laying on the ground limbs sprawled like he’s a starfish. Completely understandable.

Then Streamer falls, silently, but he doesn’t stick the landing, which means he falls and lands right on top of Feetman. “Light work, no reaction,” Comes his muffled voice from the ground where he lays.

Last out of the vent is Freemercy, although considering he was at the front of the group when Freeman started the race, he has a hunch they just choose not to join the race in the first place. This, of course, makes them an unknown variable he’ll need to work around in the next race; will they join later races? If they do, just how fast are they?

Regardless, they do not join the pile forming under the vent, probably for the best considering Martini is grumbling and groaning about a bad back. Isn’t… isn’t he supposed to be 27? Is he older? Is he just weaker? How did he survive Black Mesa again??

Instead, anyways, Mercy grabs the ledge right before dropping and swings clear of the group, landing a ways away. He can see Freemind seething out of the corner of his eye, and wonders if that’ll be yet another… what, a rivalry? Is that what he has with Gorgeous? He’s mad at everyone and everything, so maybe it’s something that doesn’t need a label.

“Where’s the green one?” Mind suddenly asks, looking every which way for him. Sure enough, Freerun is nowhere to be seen.

“He has a name you know,” Gorgeous chastises.

“Good for him,” Freemind easily dismisses.

“Yes! Very good for him!” Gorgeous slaps a hand on his shoulder none too kindly, the sheer force nearly knocking Freemind over. “Why don’t we use that lovely name he has too, while we’re at it?”

“Don’t panic, but I think he can smell fear,” Streamer stage whispers.

“You’re not helping,” Freemind also stage whispers. So he can be cooperative. He just chooses not to be. Makes sense.

“I’m not trying to help,” Streamer says much more gleefully, evidently following in Freemind’s uncooperative footsteps. Oh joy.

“Oh go fuck yourself,” He drops the whisper entirely, and thankfully has the foresight to silence Gorgeous before they say something wildly inappropriate, whirling around to get the first word in. “And you need to shut the hell up!!”

As if the universe itself took that as a challenge to defy him, there’s a sudden sort of squelching sound, and far below them he watches as some questionably clean water rises up towards them. He also finally notices a ladder he hadn’t seen before, leading down below the grate to the ever approaching waters.

“We need to go down that way,” Freemercy instructs as they saunter on back to the group, Freerun already several steps ahead and—

He dives down the ladder. Freeman swears for a second it looked like the grating hit him, but he didn’t stop or lose any momentum, so maybe he’s just seeing things.

“Ooh— there he goes.” Streamer laughs, waving down at Freerun as he disappears down a pipe the water is now slowly flooding. Do… do these guys know where they’re going?? Some of them lead so confidently, but then other times they hang back and let him take charge. He doesn’t know where he’s going— he’s just following the path of least resistance— like water. Water in a canal.

Is that what they’re doing??

“Did you two do— we can get the next thing, if—“ Feetman disjointedly gestures to their trio, apparently volunteering them for the next go at leadership, or at least the next bit of manual labor.

“It’s fine. I have it handled.” For a second, he thinks Mercy means it in the same way Mind keeps trying to ditch the rest of the group; an unreasonable distrust of the rest of them that leads to exclusionary acts— gatekeeping. But, he wasn’t referring to him and Freerun. He only specified himself—

Freeman’s seen this before. This self-sacrificing “better me than someone else” mentality. It wasn’t healthy when Barney did it, and it’s not healthy for him either. Mercy— it’s not healthy for Mercy.

Of course, before he can say anything he’s already being dragged down the ladder and into the water by Freemind. It’s cold, probably because they’re somewhere underground.

He was never a big fan of swimming in big bodies of water in general, but he’s becoming even less fond of it by the minute. Especially when more Manhacks flood the area above where they resurface. Great. Perfect. Exactly what he was hoping for.

While they weren’t moving all that fast before (minus the race, where they moved very quickly), now, with the water weighing down their every move, they’re moving at barely even a snail's pace. He’s not even sure how far Eli’s lab is from here, but it feels farther than it ever had this whole day. Has it been a day? Or are they on the second day now? His perception of time is so warped now— it feels like this will never end.

“Hey!” Two hands grab onto his shoulders, but rather than Freemind having the audacity to do that again, it’s Feetman who’s got a hold of him this time. It’s unwelcome regardless.

“Ooo, someone’s grumpy.” Streamer falls into line next to them, apparently having decided this conversation should involve him too.

‘Not grumpy,’ He signs, trying and failing to force the frown off his face. It’s fine. He’s fine.

“Yeah, he’s just not feeling great right now,” Martini for some reason defends.

“My bad, my bad.” He holds his hands up placatingly. “So uh, question, actually. This is… his world, right?”

He nods— wait. Is… is this his world? He’d just— he’d just assumed it was, but— the last time he saw anyone— anyone he knew— was right before the alternates had started showing up. Right after that botched teleport.

Before, he’d only really been able to spare a few passing thoughts to the idea of getting the others home— but now that he himself could be lost it’s the only thing he can think of— flooding his mind— clouding his thoughts— the haze—

“Yeah— yeah. That’s— right?” But— “I’m glad I’m not— like he got that feeling too, y’know??”

“Yeah what is that though? Like is that just, like, a thing?”

“Hell if I know man. I was getting ready to go grocery shopping and then all this happened.” He… he didn’t think about what they might’ve been doing before this. They really just… need a proper moment to ish out every detail they know so they can finally piece together what’s happening.

“Gross cherries,” Cicero helpfully contributes before walking off, leaving them to continue the conversation with that also just hanging in the air. He’s… he’s not sure if that was some sort of jumbled response or just… a thought.

‘What thing?’ He instead focuses on, because while the both of them seem to be on the same page about that thing, he has no clue what they could possibly mean.

“Yeah have you— no, I guess you probably wouldn’t feel it. There’s like— a feeling we’ve been getting. All of us, I think?” Martini gestures uselessly with his hands, fumbling and failing to find the right wording.

“I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird,” Streamer says much more bluntly.

“We’re literally the same person. You cannot get any more or less weird than the rest of us.”

“Uhm,” he gestures to literally everyone ahead of them.

“Relatively speaking, I mean.”

A flash of red swings in front of him. Freemind is hanging upside down, some boards above them acting as a walkway up above. Gorgeous is up there still too, holding the back of Freerun’s suit as he tries to run on without the rest of them. Cicero sits up there, legs dangling and swinging.

Freemercy is still down with them, evidently posed and ready to post the rest of them up.

“You guys are gonna wanna get up here. Unless you do want to—“ Freemind eyes Streamer. “Do that thing I keep bringing up.”

‘We’re not leaving them behind,’ He signs, pushing Mind’s head out of his way so he can go climb up to join them. ‘But thank you for the offer.’

“God you’re boring.” Before he can get anywhere, Freemind reaches both his hands down and offers them to Freeman. He does… not trust this entirely. Not so much that Freemind would purposely drop him, but more so that they’re both more likely to fall than for him to actually pull him up on his own.

The choice is then taken completely out of his hands as Martini suddenly picks him up. Without much struggle, notably. He’s very high off the ground now, enough so that maybe, maybe, if Mind was fast enough, he actually could—

He’s swung up so quickly it doesn’t even register he’s been moved until he’s already back on solid ground, staring blankly at the far wall.

“Shit man. Guess those noodle arms are built.” Streamer crosses his arms.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Freemind swings back down to help Martini up.

He swings the both of them up, while Streamer just takes Freemercy’s offered help. “He just means you’re stronger than you look.”

“No yeah, I figured that part out. Who talks like that??” Freemind asks a perfectly valid question. He’s never heard someone word that that way.

“I don’t know, zoomers? I’m old man,” Feetman sounds exasperated, like they’re the ones making things confusing.

“Zoom!! I’m a zoomer!” Freerun so eloquently puts it. Good for him.

Feetman gapes at him. “You ARE?? Damn now I really do feel old!”

“Aren’t we all 27??” Freemind finally asks, and Freeman nods along immediately, both confirming his own age and backing up the validity of the question.

Various “yeahs” and “yeses” ring out throughout the group, confusing about half of them which then confuses the other half even more.

“I’m— I’m so lost right now.”

Freeman decides none of this is worth the hassle or headache, and leads the charge again. While he would like to go over everything and make sure they’re on the same page, now’s not really the time, and here’s not really the place.

This turns out to be the right decision, seeing as he can hear yet another fight break out, one that’s arguing a pointless point and fighting just for the sake of fighting. Or, more likely just trying to dogpile Gorgeous.

“You wanna lose that other eye?”

“At least my clothes don’t have any holes on them!”

“This heart is intentional and it’s beautiful!”

“They say that about ripped jeans too and you know what? They look just as stupid as you!”

“Who’s wearing ripped jeans anymore??”

“Is nice heart!”

“Thank you!”

“I DON’T THINK YOU KNOW HOW THIS IS SUPPOSED TO WORK!”

Mercy is the only one walking with him, so at least one of them is mature. Wait—

“Hey you!” Up ahead a ways is what he can only assume is a checkpoint for the next station, like what that train car was. A rebel waves them over, although they hesitate as they lay eyes on the entire group. They look to him specifically. "You're... Freeman?"

Nodding, he decides to ignore whatever’s going on behind him.

“We got word you were coming,” They say, turning and walking towards a table he didn’t notice until now. There’s a radio on it, and for a minute he swears he sees bullet holes in it. He blinks and they’re gone, assuming they were there in the first place anyway. “You got here at a bad time.”

The white noise of the radio is replaced with a voice… Alyx! “Black Mesa East to Station Six, do you read. Gordon Freeman is on his way down river. Lend him the airboat and give him all the help you can. Repeat, Gordon Freeman has returned, it is critical he reaches Black Mesa East.”

Something feels… off, about the way she’s talking. It feels too… robotic, especially in comparison to the lighthearted (one-sided) banter of before. The rebel doesn’t seem to notice anything is off, and unfortunately the seven other heads he could run the idea through are preoccupied, so he’s just left with his own hunches and theories. If this were the only strange occurrence involving a radio, he’d probably forget about it, let it be, so long as it didn’t prove to be an issue. But that’s not the case, and he has no idea if it’s a good thing or something really, really bad.

He’d really like to talk to the others about it.

“We’ve got some ammo in those crates over there, help yourself to supplies and keep moving,” They instruct, gesturing to just under the table. All of a sudden, three crates of ammo are dropped in front of the table, along with a few guns he recognizes as what the Combine have been using, though he doesn’t actually know what to call it. The rebels looks at the delivery with huge bug eyes.

“Actually, I’m afraid we won’t be needing those. Hold onto these for the next survivors to pass through please.” It feels like a command the way Freemercy says it, and it doesn’t look like the rebel is able to deny the excess supplies. Freeman himself isn’t sure he’d be able to argue otherwise, not that he plans to.

“Bro literally said ‘double it and give it to the next person’,” Streamer says, voice lilting up as a few laughs bubble out of him.

“And he’s based for that.” Feetman shrugs, although it sounds like he’s agreeing with Streamer.

“Based? Based on what??” Freemind holds his hands to his temples like he’s physically getting a headache trying to understand the grammar of that sentence. Or trying to blow the both of them up with his mind, which is equally likely and just as relatable.

“Don’t you mean ‘fucking based on what’?” Gorgeous grins.

“FU— SHUT UP!! I can go a whole sentence without cursing, you egomaniacal bastard!” Freemind attempts to push Gorgeous back, but of course that fails spectacularly because one is built like a twig and the other is built like a tree. You’ll never guess who’s who.

Freemercy butts in, for quite possibly the first time.” Well you certainly can’t seem to back up those claims, ‘bastard’ is a swear word.”

“Swear word? What is this, kindergarten?” It feels like Mind’s trying to change the subject.

“Curse are is much childish.” Cicero sagely nods along with what he’s said.

‘What he said,’ Freeman is quick to sign, most of the pride attached to his expression coming from the fact he perfectly understood that.

Freemind groans. “I am surrounded by idiots and the insane.” He shakes his head, like he isn’t the leading contender for the most insane of them all.

“You mean the voices in your head? I’m sure they would sound insane after a while.” Gorgeous wraps an arm around his shoulders, knocking on his head like he’s checking a watermelon to see if it’s hollow.

“I don’t know if he’s come to terms with those guys yet, let’s be a little more considerate gang,” Feetman so kindly reels them back in from their teasing.

“Gang?? Hello?? Guys that’s so much more embarrassing than anything I could ever do.” Freemind points to Feetman, as if that would help convince them of his point. It does not.

“Be so fucking for real right now.” Streamer crosses his arms.

“You and your brothers better get goin,” The rebel points out, and apparently that’s all the invitation Freerun needs as he speeds past the group. Freemercy follows behind him, and Freeman is about to go on too, it’s just…

‘Not brothers,’ He signs, only the rebel just seems lost when he does. He supposes he was getting really lucky with all the people who could understand him. It was only a matter of time until that luck ran out.

“We’re not brothers,” Feetman easily translates, slapping a hand on his shoulder (people love doing that, apparently), which— that gesture really doesn’t help dissuade that image, but whatever.

“Oh, you’re… sons?” He’s not even sure which of them that’s directed at, which might be a good thing. They’re all 27, unless there are liars amongst them, and he’s sure at least half of them would get offended at being perceived as older than the rest, especially old enough to—

“Actually we’re—“ Freemind tries to explain. Keyword tries.

“Alright let’s get this show on the road!!” Gorgeous interrupts, draping Freemind over their shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes. It’s very entertaining to watch him flail around as he tries to free himself, but Freeman pretends the reason he chooses not to try to help is because he’s afraid Gorgeous would just give him the exact same treatment. Instead, he moves ahead of those two. While Freemercy had established himself to be fairly responsible, he’s not sure if that quality will bleed over onto Freerun. It’s better safe than sorry, really.

He hears more voices up ahead.

“INCOMING!!” Someone calls out, presumably another rebel. Just around the corner, he watches as something like a missile shoots into the ground in front of him.

“They’re shelling us!” That’s a different voice, still presumably a rebel, and he watches as the ‘shell’ in question opens itself up, smoke obscuring his vision before he can make out much else. He can, however, still hear what’s going on, the eerie crooning of a headcrab– no, several headcrabs– fill the air.

He can also hear some muffled screaming as the rebels from earlier are attacked, but then he hears gunshots and can just barely make out the sounds of labored breathing as they heave in air they can suddenly breathe again. Freeman himself breathes a sigh of relief, raising his gun and venturing into the slowly dissipating smog.

A headcrab leaps at him, followed by another, and he shoots both before they get much farther than that. Sunlight begins shining through, and he can continue forward a little less blindly again.

“AUGH!! STOP— DON’T YOU DARE—!” Freemind very suddenly goes flying over their heads, and that answers that question before he could even actually ask it. Gorgeous looks proud of what they’ve just done, at least. For better or worse, anyways.

“He’ll be back,” They grin.

“Not if he knows any better,” Feetman mumbles, sounding for the first time since he’s met him properly horrified. Freeman isn’t really sure why this in particular is where he’s drawing the line, but at least there is one now.

“Well news for you: he absolutely doesn’t,” Gorgeous says matter-of-factly.

“Can’t argue with that.” Feetman shakes his head.

‘That’s the one thing you can’t argue with?’ He feels like it’s a fair question, given everything else that he has argued with. Which is everything.

Silently, he gestures to the trajectory of Freemind, back when he was still with them, may he rest in peace.

‘Fair enough,’ He concedes.

They take some twists here and some turns there, the path already cleared by Freemercy, evidently. And Freerun, potentially. He’s still not entirely sure what his approach has been thus far, besides speed. At least he’s consistent about one thing.

Across a few rickety old boards, ones that certainly don’t seem like they want to hold their weight, but do so anyway, and they find themselves over much more… toxic looking waters. There’s no way that’s safe to touch in any way. Better steer clear of that, on top of everything else.

He thinks he sees the actual main station up ahead, or at least… something very promising.

“Hey Dr. Freeman! I’ve been hoping you’d show up,” She grins, hands on her hips as she smudges more oil onto her clothes. “Got the Airboat all gassed up and ready to go!”

Sure enough, floating on the noxious waters sits, in all its glory, the weirdest, yet somehow coolest… boat feels like a stretch but it’s certainly something of that genre, offering possibly the warmest welcome since he saw Barney and Kleiner, all that time ago.

How exciting.

Chapter Text

“DIBS!” Freemind yells, reappearing just in time to run and jump up onto the airboat. He looks around, expression manic as he challenges any of them to argue. Which they will, because of course they will.

“What if I wanna drive?” Gorgeous rests an arm on his shoulder, the other finding purchase on Martini’s shoulder as he uses them as arm rests, leaning forward to stare coyly up at Mind.

“I don’t think I trust either of you behind the wheel of anything,” Feetman quickly dissuades, perhaps unsuccessfully if their expressions are anything to go off of.

“You’re just saying that because you wanna drive,” Comes Freemind’s predictably accusatory response.

“I do not, actually. I don’t trust myself behind that wheel either, I just trust you two way less.”

“Well there’s your first mistake buddy, there should only ever be one driver behind the wheel! It’s an easy mistake to make, don’t worry,” Gorgeous cheerfully and purposefully misses the point.

“What’s happening?” Asks the only sane person in this conversation; the rebel. Mechanic?

“I found these—“ Ah, and now Freemercy’s here, evidently dragging Streamer and Freerun with them, with Cicero close behind. At least they’re all here.

Streamer gasps. “Holy shit, what the hell is that and what do I need to do to get it? The price I’m willing to pay is anything.”

“Boat are fish.” Excellent addition Cicero.

“While it is important to be respectful of those in the service industry and their goods and services, bargaining or haggling should still be practiced when appropriate. A salesman worth their salt can work around it regardless.” It’s quite possibly the most he’s heard Freemercy say, and he’s happy at least that they’re seeming a little more comfortable with the group.

“Stealing is always an option.” And Freemind should feel less comfortable sharing with the group.

“You boys don’t need to steal anything! This beauty right here is a gift,” The rebel reigns them in. She looks to him specifically then, an odd expression on her face. “I think… I ought to trust you with her. Treat her right for me, alright. We’ve been saving her for a rainy day and, well… here it is I ‘spose—“

“Actually it looks pretty sunny to me?” Streamer takes them back off topic. Maybe they should play by kindergarten rules, have a talking stick or something. Assuming they could even follow that rule, anyhow.

“Maybe are bones?” Cicero wonders aloud.

“Weather feeling bones are real? I need to update my collection then!” Freemind hits a fist into his open palm, like he’s just come to an important realization. Freeman is as far opposite the idea of curious as is physically possible, in fact he thinks he’s setting a record. Put him in the Guinness Book of World Records please. Do they still do those, actually? It’s probably unlikely, seeing as— well—

“Your—“

He shakes his head violently. They are NOT continuing down this line of conversation, or any line of conversation, until they’re all on the air boat. It can be about plausible deniability or whatever, if they need a reason. Not that they should, because… come on. A bone collection? The less they know the better—

Wait a damn minute. ‘How will we all fit?’

“Uh, duh!” Streamer climbs onto the side, rocking the airboat so much he thinks it’s about to capsize. It doesn’t, thankfully. Expectedly too, probably. He was always a worrywart, but now he has seven other idiots of questionable sanity and varying wills to live that he has to also keep an eye on.

It’d be a miracle if all his hair wasn’t gray by the end of this. One can hope, at least. He’s sure Barney would make some joke about it, that he’s a proper mother now, despite having never planned to have kids.

The unmade joke gets a laugh out of him, if only because he still pictured Barney being the one to fumble through making it.

“Ah, of course.” Freemind steps onto the front of the boat, one leg braced on either… floaty thing. He lived in New Mexico okay? It’s a landlocked state.

“You’re absolutely just doing that because we aren’t letting you drive,” Feetman rightfully points out.

“Fuck you,” He says in lieu of an actual argument or counterpoint.

Gorgeous climbs onto the very back, taking up all the space there. Apparently, it went unsaid that Cicero and Freerun were going to ride on their back. Mercy joins Streamer on his side, standing in front of him, and Martini takes his spot on the other side, dragging Mind with him as he takes his spot on the back half.

“Have you considered,” Martini begins, forcing Freemind to look at him as he makes his point. “That not being the driver allows you to focus on gunning things down instead? You keep complaining about kill stealing anyways.”

He feels like there should’ve been quotation marks around “kill stealing” because what“Aha! Finally! Something besides a race! I can and will kick all of your fucking asses.” His grin is downright evil, and Freeman feels very afraid. He’s apparently not even a part of this competition.

“I don’t think you quite hit your quota there, might wanna throw in a few more swears. Make sure we get the message and all that.” Gorgeous moves to grab him, lifting Freeman and setting him gently in the seat, which… is a lot nicer than he expected. Maybe they just don’t like Freemind. “Alright, let’s get this show on the ROAD! I’m ready for—“

“This is a boat, actually, and they tend to go on water rather than road, seeing as they’re much faster on the former than they are the latter,” Mercy explains and wow, he cannot for the life of him tell if they’re teasing Gorgeous or being 100% genuine. Maybe he doesn’t need to know either, since the mystery adds a whole new layer of humor.

They were right about one thing, however. Gorgeous, he means. They do need to get this show going. Out onto the open, murky green waters.

Seeing as he can already hear the engine of the airboat, he probably doesn’t need to fumble around with trying to turn it on. Instead, he grabs the steering and squeezes the lever attached.

While he knew that had to have been the gas, he didn’t quite realize how fast it would be. The sudden push forward, as well as the front of the boat suddenly tipping upwards, has him immediately releasing the gas as he fights off the oncoming heart-attack. He was… not ready for that.

But they do need to go, sooner rather than later.

“Yeah, careful there Doc, she handles a little funny. Tends to steer right, though you do have the big fellow on your left so you might be alright there.” Martini, the apparent big guy in question, gasps. Mind sets a hand on his shoulder in support, though his other hand isn’t really succeeding in muffling his laughter. “Your balance is a little… skewed right now, but I’m sure you’ll get the hang of her. Good luck out there… you guys?”

Yeah, it’s okay. He’s confused on how to refer to their ragtag group too. He can’t even begin to imagine how confusing it must be, to see eight identical men in odd metal suits matching the rainbow and bickering like school children in the middle of a dystopian apocalypse.

Suddenly, he finds he respects the rebels they’ve run into ten times more than he did a second ago.

“We trip!! Well fun, bye!” Cicero very energetically waves, swinging themself around a little from where they hang, other arm wrapped around Gorgeous’s neck and shoulders.

Mercy tosses two pistols back onto the makeshift dock. “Stay safe!”

“You weren’t gonna want this back were you?” Streamer calls, hand cupped around his mouth despite still being close enough to be heard fairly easily, hangs as far back off the side as he can, the airboat leaning a bit with him. Really, they’re just too far from the dock to get off now.

“Tell our story!!” Gorgeous calls, bending a leg up to strike a bit of a pose as they lean back even farther, at the cost of Cicero dangling even more precariously. Freerun, who’s sitting on Gorgeous shoulder rather than hanging from it, also strikes a pose, although they quickly break from it to wave. With both hands.

“Do you think if we taped multiple of these boats together side by side we would achieve even more speed? I believe anything is worth a try once, and we would just need a lot more boats. You should make more boats, for the ultimate boat and so you can leave, it won’t be safe here for long, not that it is all that safe is it? You all should leave anyway, but the boat—“ Freerun begins.

“Oh my god!” Feetman cuts him off. “Fine, I’ll be the nice, responsible one. Thank you for the boat and for your help! Please don’t die!”

“Or do. We don’t care.” Freemind shrugs.

“You are a terrible person,” Martini groans.

“Well so, horrific news about that one. Just, absolutely devastating revelation for you.” Gorgeous leans forwards this time, once again making the boat tip upwards.

“Whose side are you on?”

“Mine.”

“So, about that,” Streamer says, and all he can picture is just Pong, the ball getting hit back and forth much like the way this conversation will inevitably loop.

Freeman waves goodbye, and then gives her the best gift he possibly can for the boat; freedom from having to endure this conversation. This time, he’s prepared for the burst of speed they begin with, and doesn’t panic (as much) when the boat tips upwards. It quickly rights itself, and he lets out a sigh of relief. They’re on the move again, and at a faster pace than they ever have been, without the worry of anyone running off and getting lost.

The rest of the trip should be smooth sailing.

“None fish,” Cicero says, and without even needing to turn around he can hear the frown on his face. It’s probably for the best that there aren’t any fish in these waters, seeing as their quality of life would be incredibly low. That, or they’d be built a bit like cockroaches; unkillable pests that will slowly take over the world because they are built for the worst of the worst and are perfectly capable of rising above that. He shivers.

“How can you even tell? I’m pretty sure if I stuck a hand down there I wouldn’t be able to see it at all.” Feetman stares at the water, potentially considering proving that theory.

Freemind stares at him in pure horror, which Freeman can actually relate to. He puts a little more pressure on the lever, hoping more speed would perhaps discourage Martini from tempting fate. “Why the fuck would you stick your hand down there? At all? That’s going to be a fucking one way ticket to losing it.”

“Well obviously I wouldn’t use my actual hand!” What– what does that even mean? Martini holds up his right one– the one that’s usually encased in the machine gun. Does… does that add more armor? Is that why he thinks it’d be safer to test with?

“I’d stick my head in for like, $20 bucks honestly,” Streamer says with a shrug.

They pull to a stop at some sort of gate, and Freemercy jumps off and tredges through the not all that deep (but still very gross and toxic) waters to get to a valve that presumably controls it. There goes literally the only person that might argue how bad of an idea that is with him.

‘Please do not–’

“Eh, 20’s a lot. I’d do it for 5.” And it got worse, thanks to Gorgeous and their lack of self-preservation.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the worlds kinda in fucking shambles. What are you going to do with the money? Stare at it? Wait for some proper, equally oppressive world order to be reinstated? Use your fucking heads you morons,” Freemind argues, and you know what? It’s probably the best he’ll get out of any of them so he’ll take it. “Make a deal that’s actually worth it. For instance, I’d do it for boat driving privileges.”

Nevermind.

“I thought we’d already established you wanted to shoot people instead of getting to drive? I know we’re in the clear right now but like– come on??” Feetman, frighteningly, reminds him that while their boat is stationary he is perfectly capable of reaching in either hand, seeing as he’s using both to gesture as he talks.

“Yeah? I just meant for like, 5 minutes. Duh. Also how dare you assume I can’t shoot a gun while also steering this thing around?”

‘You can’t.’ It’s not even a lie, the steering locks up too much for someone to do it one-handed. He won’t exactly be able to talk much while they’re moving, but he’s not sure how much coordination their fighting will actually need. Only time will tell, he supposes.

“Move aside then bitch, watch me.” Oh. Oh no. Out of all the swears he doesn’t like, that one is his least favorite. He’s sure his expression alone makes that fact very clear. “I– uh. Sorry.”

“Oh my god! He actually knows the ‘S’ word! They grow up so fast!” Gorgeous wipes a mock tear away, and Freemind circles right back around to being angry again.

“I’ll have you know–”

“Go go go!!” Freerun cheers, pointing past the gate that’s probably been open for the entirety of this conversation at this point. He happily obliges.

“Gun’s ready,” Mercy instructs as they sail through– another tunnel. Good god.

Maybe it’s his attitude that’s making this worse. Maybe, he just needs to think about things differently. Find a new word for that which shall not be mentioned, so it feels less repetitive. Lets see, there’s… what, channel? That just doesn’t fit. Underpass? No. Most of the words that immediately come to mind are very situational, like mines and subways. Both are tunnels, but they aren’t interchangeable with the word itself.

Are there no good synonyms? Maybe his hatred is way more justified than he thought. All good words have lots of synonyms, because otherwise they get overused and you absolutely can have too much of a good thing and start to hate that thing and–

He has had far too many tunnels, and they weren’t even a good thing at the start.

“What do you think he’s thinking about?” Streamer stage whispers, much louder than the last time. It barely even qualifies, honestly.

“Casseroles I bet,” Gorgeous giddily replies.

“Okay, seriously I need to make a fucking casserole for you people because they do not deserve this slander.” Feetman facepalms.

“Potluck!!” Cicero cheers.

“Oh god, I hate potlucks. People always get so fucking judgey when I bring anything storebought. They look at me with those eyes, like I have to spend my own time making food they won’t even like,” Freemind says, loud enough that his words echo through these godawful tunnels. “Fucking pricks.”

“Who’s inviting you to potlucks?” He’s not even sure at this point if Feetman meant that in a mean way or if it was a genuine question.

“Annoying nosy fucking coworkers who just want another excuse to gossip,” Freemind grumbles. “I’m sure that sounds like the dream to you, since your only friends are your coworkers.”

“Oh same dude!! Tell me about your guys!” Streamer leans over the middle and rests his arms on the upper framework of the airboat, staring at Martini like this is the story of a lifetime. “Are they still Jefferson and Dadvidson in your world, or are they, like, completely different??”

Freeman does not recognize either of those names. Neither does Feetman, apparently, given the blank expression that sits on his face for all of ten seconds.

“Oh uh– well there’s–” He begins.

“Dr. Smaller!!” Cicero interrupts. He does not recognize that name either. Do any of them know the same people? Freemind at least, should know Barney. Right? Or– is he completely different too? Is that why– but he said they were friends– he’s not ready for this conversation right now is he?

The murky waters give way to completely clear, safer looking waters. Freerun jumps up off of Gorgeous and onto said waters– and begins running. On the water. Alongside the boat, matching their speed perfectly. Sure. Why not.

Cicero, he can see now that he’s not looking directly forward, leans back as far as he can, legs wrapped around Gorgeous’s torso so he doesn’t actually fall, sticks a hand into the (not toxic) waters. The subsequent spray following their trail makes a rainbow, though he can’t help but think of their group with each color in it.

“If it makes you feel any better, I do not really have any friends either,” Freemercy comforts Freemind, and the wholesome moment he just had is now entirely forgotten as he struggles to breathe past his laughter. He doesn’t think Mind has ever looked so betrayed, not even when Gorgeous threw him earlier.

“WHAT THE FUCK MAN?! I HAVE FRIENDS!”

“Are– are they–” Streamer struggles past his own body-shaking chuckles. “Are these ‘friends’ in the room with us right now?”

“Guys he clearly meant the voices in his head, and as we all know he’s constantly surrounded by them!” Gorgeous says without missing a beat. “Tell your ‘friends’ I said hi, won’t you?”

“Oh! A potluck all in your head would be very time efficient! You don’t have to spend time planning out the dates because you need to find a time when everyone going is free and the weather is nice, or find the right space, and you don’t have to spend any time cooking or looking for what foods to buy from the store, which is also much more speedy than cooking, and you don’t have to worry about what time to end things so there’s time for people to eat during the potluck and time to clean up after– you should always clean up after these things y’know?” Freeman isn’t sure if he even took a breath while saying any of that, nor does he think he’s going to as he gears up to continue.

“I DO NOT IMAGINE MYSELF HAVING STUPID FUCKING IMAGINARY POTLUCKS WITH MY STUPID FUCKING IMAGINARY FRIENDS YOU STUPID FUCKING ASSHOLES!! I HATE ALL OF YOU!!” His voice wobbles a bit at the end as Freeman takes a ramp up for a big jump with the airboat. He’s having fun, at least. Mind sure isn’t.

“Damn, self-loathing is real.” Streamer shakes his head in mock sympathy.

“So you admit you have imaginary friends?” Gorgeous trills, sounding absolutely stoked at the verbal misstep.

“Knowing you have a problem is the first step towards making a change to fix it,” Feetman very insincerely congratulates him, even going as far as to pat him on the back. He’s quickly swatted away.

“Acceptance is the last stage of grief,” Freemercy, with questionable sincerity, informs their group.

‘We’re proud of you,’ Freeman takes a second to sign, more than willing to sacrifice a little of their steering for a moment to join in this very much so deserved teasing.

“Yay!!” Cicero, with complete sincerity, cheers.

“Hey down there!” He’s sure Freemind is relieved that new voice is not actively bullying him. Freeman comes to a stop just in front of a large bridge, looking up at the rebel trying to get their attention. Freerun also comes to a stop beside them, and Gorgeous leans over (very far) and lifts Freerun back onto his shoulder. He also moves Cicero up onto his other one. “Supplies!”

He’s sure the rebel means it as an offer. He also knows Mercy will not take it as such.

“Gorgeous, was it?” Their purple variation looks to their pink one.

“That’s me!” They grin, lacing their hands together and holding said hands under their chin like they’re about to have an interview or something. “Whatcha need?”

Freeman has no idea why, but he didn’t really notice how Mercy (or Mind, for that matter) had a bunch of guns strapped to his back and sides until now. That… that actually explains how he’s been carrying them around everywhere. How did he miss that? He knows he has bad vision, he’s got glasses for a reason, but also… he’s got glasses for a reason! How? How??

“I want to get these up to our ally above. Do you think you could help with that?” Freemercy holds his hands together, as if he needs to ask really nicely to convince Gorgeous to help. He might, actually. He might not, though, with how Gorgeous is looking at him.

“Well, it’s not all that safe to throw guns around,” They say it like they very clearly have an alternative in mind.

“I am portable.” Yup. Yeah. That’s– that’s where he figured this was going to go. Sure. Why not.

“Right you are!” Gorgeous doesn’t waste a second more, picking Mercy up with both hands, lifting them over their head, and throwing with what probably isn’t even all of their might. “See you soon!!”

“OH GOD!!” The rebel screams, clearly having not at all expected any of them to suddenly come up there.

Freeman decides Gorgeous is right, they will see him soon. Them? He’s… he’s still not sure how to refer to some of these alternates. He continues on under the bridge, only to find at the very edge of the other side is a drop, one they won’t be able to get out of. They’ll need to jump it, but how?

“I think I know how.” Gorgeous grins, leaning over the front towards him.

“How… what?” Feetman asks.

“How to get across. Hey, Freeman. Gordoooonn,” They singsong. He thinks it might be the first time any of them have properly used their new names to address each other. “I need you to go at it, full power. Get some real speed too, some traction.”

“SPEED!!” Freerun cheers.

“It’s about speed, it's about power, we stay hungry, we devour– wait, no, that’s not how it goes. Hold up–” Freeman, not knowing at all what Streamer is talking about, does not hold up. Instead, likely to the chagrin of Freemind, he listens to what Gorgeous told him to do, making a long u-turn and holding down the gas all the way.

There’s a ramp right at the drop, but it was too low. It would never launch them high enough. Apparently, that isn’t an issue with Gorgeous in the picture, because they give an extra kick right as they come off the ramp, sending them maybe ten feet higher and easily clearing the jump. Mercy even dropped back down, mid-jump, to join them. The waters up here are toxic again and–

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT??” Streamer sounds more appalled than he does afraid, which is okay because Freeman feels more afraid than he does appalled, so surely they balance each other out.

Way up above them is… some sort of… aircraft? It looks… a bit like a bug, with all the– and it– god it’s gross to look at. And the beeping sound it makes– it sounds like breathing, weirdly enough. It flies ahead of them, still clearly following the canal and absolutely after them, though whether or not they’ll be fighting it or whatever it looks to be carrying is debatable. He really, really hopes they aren’t fighting that… thing.

Thankfully, he gets a proper answer to that question a few seconds later. There are Combine soldiers on the ground, standing in clear, nontoxic waters too. He’s very relieved to watch the… those things pull away, even if they might just return with more soldiers later on. He’s never been squirmish with bugs but these things are testing his limits.

Now comes the real challenge, one he has secretly been preparing himself for: winning the Most Kills Competition. It… it sounds bad on paper. But, well. He’s Gordon Freeman. He can’t just… lose a competition. Hello? Not a chance.

Of course, there’s the obvious issue that he can’t wield a gun and safely steer the airboat, putting him at an extreme disadvantage in comparison to the others.

However, there are no rules to this competition, including the method of… murder.

What are these people doing to him??

Anyways, his trump card here is pretty clear; the airboat itself, which is moving at roughly 60 mph if the gauge is to be believed. Plenty of force to kill, and fast enough that he can make it harder for the others to get good enough shots to also kill their targets.

He… he does realize making it so that the people who are on the boat explicitly to shoot people so they can safely(ish) drive by suddenly unable to shoot said danger is… counterproductive, but, uh… it’s what any of them would do, honestly. They’ve set the bar, and now he’s straddling it. Dangerously so, maybe.

There’s plenty of cover around them, thanks to the large rocks and broken docks nestled into the uneven grounds of the dried up canal (apparently this boat does do well on land, and therefore likely roads as well), which also works for not getting shot at, which makes him feel a lot less guilty.

Not only does this boat do well on land, but he also finds it does great on walls, if only for a short period of time. It’s not necessarily built to defy the laws of physics, or anything special like that.

“Wh– HEY! KEEP THE FUCKING BOAT STEADY SO I CAN–!” Freemind’s complaints are drowned out by the rapid fire of Feetman’s machine gun, which Freeman is only just realizing is attached to the hand that’s supposed to be holding onto the boat. Martini’s now facing backwards, back to Freemind, which feels dangerous. For all the talk of backstabbing, he is probably the most likely to literally stab someone. In the back.

Freeman will keep an eye out, for Martini.

Belatedly, he’s realizing that part of this challenge includes counting the kills you get, because otherwise you won’t know where you stack up in comparison. He’s sure he’s in the double digits by now, but he’s also fairly certain everyone else is also now in the doubles. Maybe one of them is keeping track of everyone’s scores. If not, he’ll have to estimate his count at the end of this. Something to worry about later, anyhow.

There’s a lot to worry about later, isn’t there?

For once, though, later feel like an eternity away, it doesn’t feel like some far off, distant concept he may never know. Eli’s lab is so close, he’s sure of that, and that will finally, finally give him some downtime, a moment with his thoughts and a moment to talk with the others about the serious stuff, for better or worse.

It may just be in his head, but he thinks the boat’s going faster now.

“I swear to GOD he’s driving bad on purpose. What, are you trying to– YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL STEAL AREN’T YOU?!” Freemind accuses. Correctly, notably.

Martini rolls his eyes. “God you have trust issues. You act like the whole world’s out to get you and plan out counter attacks that make you the asshole.”

“Freeman is friend!” He thinks his heart is about to burst, because not only is that the most grammatically correct sentence he’s heard out of Cicero, but it’s also about him.

“Damn, no wonder you don’t have friends, you literally attack them and their character every chance you get.” Streamer shakes his head in disappointment.

“I wouldn’t invite you to my potlucks, Mindy boy.” Gorgeous tsks, wagging a finger at him.

“It’s not wise to attack your allies, Freemind. That is how they become your enemies,” Freemercy informs him, ever so politely. Or sarcastically. He can never tell with them.

“You’re all just mad that I’m right, that I fucking figured it out first, while the rest of you are playing catch up!” Freemind, while distracted very animatedly arguing with them, definitely falls behind in the kill count as everyone else successfully multitasks.

“What are we gonna do about that gate up ahead?” Martini asks, bringing Freeman’s attention to said gate up ahead, which is closed. There’s a large building next to it, and something tells him that's where the controls will be.

“Why don’t we just get the big guy to handle it again?” Streamer asks, jerking a thumb back to gesture towards said big guy.

“Because~” That is an odd sound Gorgeous is making, but okay, sure. Let’s hear this out. “You all need to learn to fight your own battles! Big daddy Gorgeous won’t always be here for you, y’know?”

Feetman gags. “Refer to yourself as ‘big daddy’ ever again and I will throw up right in your face. I don’t even mean this as a threat, this is a warning. It will happen and it will not be fun.”

“We could always abandon the boat, but boats are fast and that could slow us down by a lot, which would be bad, so maybe we could go over it, or go through it, or go under it, or find a way around it, although there are things in the way like the ground and buildings and gravity but through it–” He’s certain the only reason Freerun is still with them and not running off to enact all of his plans at once is because Gorgeous is holding onto his legs so he can’t jump off their shoulder.

“I can handle it,” Freemercy says, and because no one is holding onto him, he easily hops off the boat, pulling out–

“What the sigma?” Streamer… questions? Curses?? Observes???

“Why, out of the ENTIRE GREEK ALPHABET, did you pick that one as a swear? There’s so many better ones that just feel right, like epsilon is right there!” Freemind argues, and at least he answers one of Freeman’s questions.

“Up your silon.” Freeman is absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Feetman’s face is blank so he doesn’t burst out laughing.

There’s an explosion, a loud one, just ahead. That… explains what Mercy’s plan was.

“I said epsilon you deaf fucking degenerate.” He’s never sounded so sincere.

“If you had left out the ‘fucking’ you would’ve had deaf degenerate, which is alliteration which is a good fun thing because they’re very common in tongue twisters which are the fastest of fast words and–” Freerun begins counting off his fingers.

“Personally I like Mu,” Gorgeous purrs.

“Oh god, please don’t start mewing, I’ve never hated a trend more in my life,” Streamer says, voice laced with terror.

“Mewing? Good god I’m glad I forgot my Tiktok login. No more doom scroll for me.”

“–It’s just good practice to get fast at speaking and the more you talk fast the faster you’ll talk because we always get faster the more we do things, which is also very good–”

“No no, the doom scroll is twitter. Or X. Whatever.” Streamer sounds unhappy with his own self-correction.

“Ah shit– X?” At least someone is finally as confused with this conversation as he is. He’d thank Feetman, if he weren’t usually the first person to begin talking about the things he’s not familiar with.

“Twitter? What the fuck is that? Like, MySpace?” Freemind sounds very judgmental about whatever he thinks they’re talking about.

Feetman gapes at him, much like how he had earlier.“MySpace?? God, how old are you?”

“Wh– sorry I’m not wasting my time on the fucking internet of all things.” Freemind– FINALLY! Answers!! He– he knows the internet. For the most part. Wasn’t really his thing, but he did work with computers a fair amount at his job so he’s not entirely unfamiliar. Barney probably knew more about it, come to think of it.

He’s just going to keep driving, actually.

Combine shoot at them from the building they never went into, and he’s sure Freerun would be proud to know how much time they’ve probably just saved.

On the other side, besides the factories in the distance… they’re out of the city. Truly and fully away from it and all the dangers lurking inside. They’re not even close to much of a perimeter anymore, they’re just being chased. They…

They really are making it.

Smooth sailing.

There’s still a great many bridges, of course, where soldiers slide down from ropes they’ve attached to the edges. He’s definitely winning the challenge now, considering they come down at just the right time the others can’t really shoot at them, but still land just in time for him to plow through them with the airboat. Which is… maybe a little bit gruesome, but they don’t exactly… not deserve it.

Perhaps, as an act of karmic justice from the universe for his “bent morals”, there’s a blockade in front of him that’s suddenly lit ablaze as several barrels attached to the broken down cars and boats explode.

The universe must not hold that much against him, however, since it also put a conveniently placed ramp right next to the blockade.

“Man these guys suck,” Martini wisely observes.

“And swallow?” Gorgeous questions. What– what does that mean?

“Never speak again.” Apparently nothing good, if Freemind is to be believed. Gorgeous just blows a kiss in response, which is the wrong response seeing as Freemind nearly climbs over Feetman to get at them. They’re very distracting and are making it hard for him to focus on steering clear of all the explosive barrels being thrown in the—

Not. Another. Goddamn. Tunnel. He can’t even speed through it with all the debris in the way, lest he do serious damage to the only thing making sure they actually get somewhere at a reasonable time.

“Me wish fish.” See, the tunnel is making even Cicero sad! You don’t find fish in boring, stupid old tunnels. You find them in open waters!

“Honestly I could fuck up some gas station sushi right about now,” Streamer… agrees? It sounds like he’s agreeing. Why specifically gas station sushi though? Sure, he was a broke college student once upon a time, but not that broke.

There’s an alarm blaring now, as they drop out of the tunnel. It’s like the universe is warning him of the dangers of being inside one, which he gets. They could collapse any minute and crush him like the evil evil structures they are.

“We’ve got trouble,” Freemind says, laughing under his breath like there’s some inside joke only they know. Overhead, he hears the familiar sound of a Hunter-Chopper.

“You’d think they’d know to stop sending these after like, the 60th one gets decimated.” Streamer also hides a few chuckles under his breath and, ah. There it is. That makes sense, actually. With how easily he’s seen a few of them–

“Oh shit, I have an idea actually.” Feetman barely even waits for them to get to the dock, he just runs off. They’re not at Eli’s lab yet, not as far as he knows anyways, but they probably should make sure they don’t lead any of the Combine or their heavy artillery straight to him. Wouldn’t really be for the best. “Be right back!”

With that as their only real que, the rest of them follow up the same stairs Feetman disappeared, at varying paces. On one end of the spectrum is Run, who also disappears, nearly as fast as Martini had. On the other end is Gorgeous, who saunters behind the group at their own pace.

Freeman chooses to be on the faster side. While they are taking a bit of a detour to make sure Eli and the rest of the resistance are safe, he’d still like to make this a rather short one. The sooner they deal with the chopper, the better–

“Ah shit,” Freemind groans, bringing everyone’s attention to the seven other Hunter-Choppers approaching. They begin raining fire down upon them, and it’s only thanks to the Combine’s consistently terrible aim that they’re all able to scatter amongst the storage containers on the loading bay.

Unfortunately, the scatter caused him to completely lose track of the others. Whatever, this is fine. He gets his gun at the ready– the SMG, this time. No point holding back here.

The Combine are quick to run at him, but he’s quicker to just shoot them.

He runs both through and around the containers, looking for a way to the building by the bay where he can get to proper cover, the kind that’ll actually let him see and take in his surroundings so he can form a proper plan.

Instead, he finds his way to what he assumes to be a watchtower, one with some terminal that he– can’t explore the abilities of until he clears the room of the two soldiers inside. They weren’t exactly expecting him to just rush in, so it’s not like it’s hard.

There’s a big red button with his name on it politely waiting to get pressed, by him of course, so press it he does. He then notices the true beauty of this room; a gun bolted into one of the windows. He aims it for one of the choppers, grateful for the fact none of them have noticed that he’s snuck in here.

With his sights now firmly on the choppers, he’s given the chance to find his friends again, too. Sort of.

First he spots Martini, the only tell that it’s him being the golden (in this light, anyways) suit reflecting the sun directly into his eyes, as well as the long, poofy flowing hair that’s probably blowing directly into his face, which, if he had to guess, is all the more terrifying considering he’s dangling some 200 feet off the ground, a single rope– nope. No. That’s– that’s a barnacle. He’s hanging off of a barnacle stuck to a Hunter-Chopper, except instead of the barnacle being on the chopper with its tongue attached to Feetman, it’s the reverse. The barnacle is on his arm. The right one, so at least it’s the one he was willing to lose if the water had been that toxic.

Holding back puke, he’s much more relieved, and also confused, to find Gorgeous lounging on a different Hunter-Chopper. Is… are they waiting for someone to deal with it? Someone else??

There’s an explosion then, and he sees a purple stain soaring through the air at another chopper. Just when they’re about to slam straight into it, there’s another explosion, and while Mercy goes falling back down to the ground, the chopper… also falls. It’s the first to go, and a serious confidence boost for their ability to clear the rest in a timely manner.

A green blur also soars from the air, albeit from a different direction and without any explosion signifying how they got up there. Freerun– they do slam into a chopper, and that one too goes careening into the ground, exploding upon impact much the way Mercy’s did. Freerun, meanwhile, falls into the water, resurfacing the same time Mercy does. Sure. Okay. Sure. At least that should mean Martini is safe too, if he falls.

Little wins.

Speaking of little wins, actually, one chopper makes the mistake of flying a little too low, too close to the tallest structure around them; the building. Freemind, who was likely just waiting up there for his moment, jumps onto the chopper. Freeman is pretty sure he can see him breaking into the chopper through the window. It too falls, with Mind ending up in the water with the rest of them.

Martini, he notices with another blinding flash straight to the eyes, swings himself up onto his own chopper– nope. No, that’s not what’s happening. He overshoots, falling off on the other side and wrapping the barnacle’s tongue around the chopper.

Regardless, the sudden push is enough for the pilot inside to lose control. He’s not even sure how Feetman gets rid of the barnacle in time, but he falls, just as the chopper does, and lives, unlike what the chopper does, which is explode.

He– he just needs to focus. That’s– what, four down? That just leaves four to go, and he’d better hold his weight here. The gun in the tower sounds and looks exactly like the ones connected to the chopper, and after a second he realizes it is the same kind of gun. It turns out it’s a very powerful one, too, which makes it very fortunate the Combine just… aren’t good at what they do. He’s… not quite sure how they took over the world, because while they do have the technology on their side, they don’t have the skill.

More thoughts for later.

“HEY!! OVER HERE!!” Streamer shouts, although before he can move to see what's wrong or help, a chopper does. It’s then hit by a– by a storage container, one that’s tied to a rope and being swung back and forth. How Streamer had the time to set that up, he’ll never know. Was it already here and he just found it?

By now he has noticed there’s been a bit of a trend; there were just enough choppers for all of them to handle, so they all individually took one down. His even falls as he thinks about this. Gorgeous has already more than proven they can handle this.

But what about Cicero? He hasn’t… really done much, in the way of fighting. Maybe Freeman should help take down his–

He doesn’t know how, or where, or why, or– a whale– a goddamn whale falls from seemingly the sky, like it’s just raining whales, you’ve heard of cats and dogs now get ready for–

It crashes into a Hunter-Chopper. He sees Cicero pat the whale as it lands safely in the water. It swims off before he can even think to move.

Maybe he would also like to listen to Cicero talk about whatever was in that book from earlier. It might– it might– he needs to stop thinking about this before he tears all of his hair out and then also his brain.

He doesn’t even bother to watch as Gorgeous finally handles their chopper, probably just slamming it into the ground in some physics defying way. Why even have universal laws of the universe if no one wants to even follow them in the first place? He misses the mind-numbing, sanity-shattering conversations of before. At least he could just reason that they were insane and so were the things they were talking about. It’s hard to argue with things he physically witnesses happen.

We’re so close to the lab, he repeats, like it’s the only mantra keeping him from having a mental breakdown. In truth, it sort of has been. It’s just that, now, now his whole worldview is shaking and– it’s just a whale. It’s just a whale. We’re so close to the lab.

Almost there.

“Think they’ll send anymore?” Feetman asks as they all approach and reboard the boat.

“If they were smart? No, of course not,” Freemind immediately disagrees.

“Are they smart?”

“No, of course not.”

Freeman starts up the boat, sailing straight for the gate. They can’t be that far now, can they? He’s… he’s been running on fumes for a while now but those fumes are now also running on fumes and it’s not a good combination. He just–

They have to pass through yet another tunnel. Before he can even muster up the energy to be upset or offended or however, they’re already back out. It’s fine.

He goes a bit on autopilot at this point, feeling numb. A fucking whale. That’s what breaks him finally? Not– not the constant death, or the– the lost time, the apocalypse, the fact he might not even be in the right universe– no.

It had to be a whale.

“Whale is friend,” Cicero explains, and there goes even that one special moment from earlier, also stolen by the whale. Maybe it’s a tunnel in disguise.

“Is uh–” Feetman begins.

“I’ll get the lift.” Freeman isn’t sure what Mercy means, but suddenly he’s going downwards– they all are. The boat is. Okay. Sure.

“Is he falling asleep at the wheel?” That’s… Freemind talking. He’s pretty sure.

“I mean have you seen those eye bags? Who needs baggage when you’ve got all that going on.” And that’s Martini– no, Streamer.

“He looks like he’s like, in between having a mental breakdown and just falling asleep. Should we– OH SHIT!” And that’s Martini. He knows because suddenly curly hair is shoved into his face as he presumably takes the wheel, steering them out of the way of some falling pillar, or something of that shape. This is fine. Into another tunnel they go.

“Hey!” He blinks for a second, and suddenly they’re in a different tunnel. That’s… probably not healthy, but he’s sort of passed that point too so it’s maybe fine. Maybe. “You’re Freeman, aren’t you?”

That wakes him up, if only a little. There’s a rebel talking to him, and they sound far too hopeful for the person who’s actually shown up. It’s still– he is who she was expecting, but…

“I wouldn’t believe it if I couldn’t see it with my own eyes!” Another rebel calls, this time from the front of him instead of the side. There’s another gate blocking their path, but at least this time someone not on the airboat can open it. Speaking of, they do in fact lift it open. “Dr. Gordon Freeman himself! Uhh–”

He’s probably hesitating on account of there being eight Gordon Freeman's present, but who's counting? Freeman sure isn’t, seeing as his focus is on the gate behind the now open one. They’ll need to lift that too. Probably shouldn’t have put two–

God, he needs to get a grip.

He drives up to the dock, assuming that’s where they want him right now. The others are strangely silent, and as they slowly get off, one by one, he notices it’s because they’re too busy watching him to worry about whatever inane thing each other are doing. Freemind, of all people, offers him a hand to get out. He doesn’t even have time to wave it away before Gorgeous lifts him out of the airboat instead.

“You’re just in time doc, we were just getting ready to pull out.” He’s not sure which of them that was directed at. Himself, maybe. Maybe not.

The rebels– there’s a vortigaunt with them, and he chooses to look anywhere but at them as Gorgeous, still carrying him, follows the rebels into the side door they disappear behind. Likely their base.

“Greetings to the Freemen,” The vortigaunt calls after them.

“Here, take a look at this.” The rebel waves them over, gesturing to a map strung up on the wall, with a few places marked here and there along the canal. “This here’s the dam, it’s just up ahead. Eli’s hideout is here, a stones throw from the apron and nestled in the old hydro plant–”

“Eli?” Gorgeous questions, an odd tension in their voice. He can feel their grip on him get a little bit tighter.

“Dr. Vance?” The rebel clarifies. “That’s where you’re headed for, ain’t it?”

“We’re not going to Eli Vance.” Gorgeous’s tone leaves no room for discussion. Freeman pulls– no, he has to rip himself from their grip.

‘Why not?’ He’s maybe too tired, too angry for this conversation right now. He knows– he– the different universes–

“Wh– Hello??” Gorgeous chuckles, looking to the rest of the group like they all know some joke, some punchline that Freeman is missing. “Eli Vance? The Eli Vance that works for Breen? We’re not just going to go waltzing into his lab, are you crazy?”

‘He’s a friend!’ He argues.

“He’s a monster,” Gorgeous argues back.

Freeman looks to the rest of the group, hoping at least one of them, just one even, could come back him up. Could defend– first Barney and now–

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they’re right.” Freemind sighs, like it pains him to say any part of that sentence. The wrong parts, really. Before Gorgeous can say anything else, he continues. “We can’t just– trust him, or anyone like that. I thought we were just–”

“I thought we were– god it’s stupid looking back on it– I thought–” Martini starts, stops, drags a hand through his hair as he looks anywhere but at them. “I just wanna go home, man. Joshie– he–”

‘Eli can help, he can–’ He desperately signs at Feetman, not that he’s even looking, not that he can even see– can even hear–

“He can’t. He won’t,” Gorgeous takes a step forward, and he flinches back because– they’ve never looked anything close to angry before. Now? They look ready to kill. Freeman would move in front of the rebel if he could, but his legs barely felt like they were working before they got in here. “Not that we’ll give him the chance to prove me right. We’re. Not. Going.”

“Dr. Freeman has to get to Black Mesa East. This war– Humanity itself could depend on it!” The rebel argues.

Freemind scoffs. “Oh bullSHIT! You act like this is the fucking second coming of Christ, like anyone actually gives a shit. He’s not some messiah sent from the Heavens to free you from your bonds–”

‘But I can still help! We can still help!’

“We? WE??” It doesn’t sound nearly as funny this time, the way he puts emphasis on the word. “This isn’t my war. This isn’t even my WORLD! Don’t drag me into your mess, you fucking– ASSHOLE!!”

“I just want to go home– I just want to go home–” Feetman mutters, backing away into the corner. He doesn’t look okay. Freeman doesn’t have the heart to– to care, right now.

How fucked up is that?

Gorgeous takes another step forward. “Sounds like we’re all decided then. We’re not going to Eli’s. We’re leaving.”

‘We–’

The rebel steps forward. Gorgeous tightens a fist. It’s the only thing he can pay attention to. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Gorgeous laughs, but there’s no humor attached to it. “What the hell is wrong with him? Did he have you bring us here on purpose? Did you trick us into following you all the way here on purpose? Wanted to– to deliver us to the good doctor himself, huh?”

He barely understands what they’re saying. It’s not headache inducing this time. It’s just terrifying.

“Eli Vance is–” Gorgeous reaches a hand out, poised to grab the rebel by the throat. A single gunshot rings through the air, the bullet aimed just past Gorgeous’s hand, just barely missing. Smoke rises from the barrel of Mercy’s pistol.

They’ve never missed before.

“I think,” They begin, and their voice, which always had an oddly sincere if clinical tone, is now carefully blank. “We’re at an impasse. An allyship cannot last without trust, and unfortunately, we don’t seem to have that. It’s hard to pinpoint when we did, if we did.”

Freeman couldn’t agree more. He wishes they hadn’t said it, though. Hadn’t voiced the thought, didn’t give power to the concept by giving it words, didn’t–

Didn’t talk it into reality.

Surely that’s what it is. That’s what’s happened here. They ruined a good thing because they talked about the scary, serious stuff. The questions he carefully stores away from the forbidden later, the time that’s always planned for but never truly supposed to come. Here it is.

How tragic.

“...Fine by me.” Surprisingly, it’s Freemind that’s the first to agree. He goes to the corner Feetman has trapped himself in, grabbing for his hand. The right one.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” He slaps him away, his eyes glossy. He looks at all of them, but he doesn’t even see them. He stumbles away, and after a few minutes of standing stock still, shell-shocked, Freemind leaves too. He doesn’t know where they go. He doesn’t hear the airboat start back up. Maybe they’re just waiting. Waiting for him.

He can’t move.

Gorgeous doesn’t say anything, as they turn to leave. They just look at him over their shoulder with a critical eye and an expression he can’t even begin to dismantle, to decipher, to– whatever. Like it matters. They wouldn’t give Eli that sort of courtesy.

Freerun is nowhere to be found. It’s debatable if he ever even came in. Maybe he decided they were taking too long, to get to wherever he wanted to go. Maybe he’s waiting with the others.

Mercy walks out next, as silent as Gorgeous but face far more blank. Their eyes are less judgemental, but there’s a gleam of something else he still can’t understand.

“This is uhm– I–” It’s maybe the first time he’s heard Streamer struggle to say what he’s thinking. He looks at Freeman apologetically, and leaves to join the others.

Cicero stands alone in the room with him. He looks to the door, where the others left. He looks to Freeman. He’s conflicted. Freeman can’t– or won’t, maybe– blame him. He lifts his hands, points his index fingers, curves them–

He leaves too. He never finished what he was going to say.

Freeman slowly stumbles to the door himself. They’re waiting, he lies and lies and lies.

There’s no color in the world outside that room. Just a bleak, gray tunnel, with gray water lapping at its edges, at the gray dock, and a lonely boat that only has one seat.

Good riddance, he lies once more.

Chapter Text

His legs feel like lead, weighing down his every step as he climbs back into the boat. No one tries to help him in, no one to lift him up and set him inside before he can tell them he’s got it. No inane bickering acting as a white noise, to help make sure he’s not left entirely alone with his thoughts. No one who’s back he has to watch.

No one to watch his.

“Bonds that break will strengthen anew,” The vortigaunt cryptically chitters. Who said he even needed new bonds? He has friends, friends he knows he can trust. Friends who won’t turn on him at the first sign of disagreement, who will actually tell him things and listen in response.

Friends who live in the world he ruined, who’ve been stuck here while he’s just… been gone.

“Dr. Freeman–” One rebel calls, albeit weakly. He’s surprised they still have anything to say, and even more so that they’re willing to say it. “We’ve uh… we’ve attached a gun to your boat for ya. So you can… keep safe out there. You won’t make it far with a Hunter-Chopper on your ass, and a few other stations have been reporting several…”

He almost laughs, although nothing’s funny. He might just have eight more choppers on his ass, with seven less people around helping to fight them, all stronger than him.

Regardless, he climbs into the boat. He doesn’t have time to be afraid, or mad, or sad, or however he’s feeling right now. There’s still a war going on, one he does intend to fight in, even if certain others are more concerned…

With getting back to their own war-ravaged worlds.

Freeman barely even waits for the gate to get all the way up, tearing through the tunnel with as much speed as the boat will allow. The sooner he gets to the lab, the better. That’s always been the plan. Nothing’s changed there.

He feels sick to his stomach, and pretends he doesn’t know whether that’s because he’s disgusted with the others or himself.

A Hunter-Chopper waits for him just at the end of the tunnel, flying dangerously low to the ground. No one leaps off the boat to grab it, so he shoots at it instead. It’s awkward, having to use one hand to steer and one to shoot, especially because both suffer from the fact they can’t be the center of his attention.

He comes into an enclosed area, one gate closing behind him, one closing in front. An old chain link fence offers him a way up the side anyways.

Some soldiers he hits with the boat, but most he just works on spraying down with the gun. Might as well work on getting his aim on this thing together.

The waters here are that murky, ugly kind again. He tries not to think about dipping a hand in, to see if he’d lose it. Tries not to hear the echoes of a conversation that feels like it was years ago instead of hours, maybe even just minutes.

Another tunnel. He wonders if the others would’ve ever cared to hear his outrage at them.

So many soldiers keep showing up, ready for a firefight that’s lost a lot of its power on one end. At least if they’re here, they’re not going after anyone else.

Little wins.

More breathing beeping from above. He chooses not to look, lest he test his luck and actually puke, now that he’s feeling worse than ever.

What would even come up at this point? He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t drank anything, he’s probably not even getting enough clean air at this point. It’d be a wonder if he survives much longer. It was a wonder he ever survived Black Mesa.

Then again, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he got shot by one of the much more highly trained military soldiers sent down to silence them, and he’s bleeding out in some hallway he’s never even seen in his life. Maybe some zombie, or just some alien even, got the jump on him and he’s crowded against some wall he’s passed a thousand times.

Maybe he never even actually made it out of the test chamber, and his brain’s just fabricating a whole life he could’ve lived

One where the people he loves don’t look at him like the monster who destroyed everything, and for a while he can even love himself, weird eccentricities and all.

He’s trapped, he realizes when it’s far too late. In some… he thinks it might be a dam. The waters are nowhere near high enough for him to drive up and over, and there’s no conveniently placed debris lying around for him to jump off of.

Just him, the airboat, and the Hunter-Chopper trying to kill him.

It’s surprising there’s only one, but then it starts dropping absolute hoards of bombs, and it makes a little more sense. He can’t focus on driving past all of them and on downing the chopper. He tries to anyway, because he has to anyway.

Maybe it’d be easier if the chopper had a few more targets to focus on. Or– or if there were someone able to get up to its level, to mess up its flying so it couldn’t properly aim at them.

There’s someone watching him. Up at the dam center, a shade of blue that isn’t even close enough for him to mistake it for one of his friends– for one of the others.

The distraction costs him.

While trying to circle out of the way of a bomb, he ends up right in the way of another bomb. Several, maybe. It all happens a bit too fast for him to tell. One second, he’s swerving to dodge, the next… on the ground, pinned by the boat that seemed uncapsizable. It’s too heavy for him to move it, not that he has the time to even try. The chopper is coming back around for another go. He barely even has cover here.

Still, he has to try. Has to try and– move– to fight– to live.

Except, as he’s reaching an arm as far as it can go, so he can get some leverage to pull himself out or even just to push up–

His hand finds another bomb. Just his luck, it starts beeping.

He has to– He needs to–

Thinking fast, he wraps his hand around it and throws as far as he can–

Only, the situation is deteriorating faster than he can keep up. That same green light clouds his vision, pulsing out of the cracks in his suit, far more intense than it’s ever been, the electrical currents refusing to stay confined to him like they had before. They flee to the bomb, following along with it as it flies through the air, higher and farther than he should have reasonably been capable of throwing it.

The beeping red lights on it are green now too, a change that passes over to all of the other bombs that suddenly fling themselves out of the water and to the main one. Like magnets.

Freeman doesn’t know what to think, especially not when the swarm, in all of their nerve-grating-beeping-glory, suddenly swing in an entirely new direction, locking onto the chopper instead.

He can’t even see a speck of it, the Hunter-Chopper, past the sheer force, the blinding-light, the fiery power of what must be at least 30 bombs.

It evaporates the water just below it, and he can feel the burn from here.

It also pushes the boat, just enough he’s able to use a burst of energy to push himself out. His arm protests the move, and his vision spins for several seconds after he’s stood up.

“Major fractures detected,” The suit warns.

Not that it matters. Not right now. Not when he’s so, so close to the lab. To his friends. To the people he needs to help. For as long as he can.

He is still up there, still watching. There’s no telling how long he’ll get to stay out, stay free.

Speed is key, as Freerun might tell them. In more words than that, of course.

Just a little further.

Freeman begins limping onward, on to Black Mesa East.

Just a little further…

______________________________________________________________________

The train yard echoes with the sound of alarms and ships, Combine radio chatter and sirens, all acting as the only real proof that he must still be here, somewhere.

Of course, one of those is far more alarming than the others; the radio chatter isn’t coming from his comms, no, his are off.

Which means they aren’t alone down here.

It’s not helping that Kleiner doesn’t know how to walk quietly, neither his footsteps nor his constant murmuring are helping with the stealth side of things. Maybe if he got out more, he’d be better at this.

Maybe if he got out more, he’d have just died sooner.

Barney doesn’t risk shushing him, just snaps to get his attention, brings a finger to his lips. Kleiner zips his lips immediately, at least.

He gestures for him to stay put, which he does try to argue. Futilely, since Barney leaves him seconds later. Only one of them needs to check this out, gauge this situation, and Barney’s the one in their uniform, the one that won’t be shot on sight. He fumbles for his mask as he goes, dreading having to put it on again because he hates looking like them.

Except, when he rounds the corner, jumps down from the train car he had to get through to approach the CP, it’s… they’re already dead. Three bodies, two lying on the ground and one propped up against a box, neck twisted the wrong way. The chatter is coming from their radios, still running in their headsets for ears no longer able to hear them.

“Hey doc?” No point keeping him out of sight any longer, it’s just putting him in more danger to be somewhere Barney can’t monitor.

Silence.

“Doc? Kleiner?” Barney calls again.

“Is it safe…?” Finally, he calls back.

“Why do you think I’m callin’ you??” Sometimes he forgets that as smart as Kleiner is… he can be a little dumb sometimes, too. “Come on, coast is clear.”

“Oh my,” Kleiner moves to sit and slide down from the side of the train car. He seems torn between approaching the bodies and leaving them behind altogether, like they were never there.

Barney makes his own decision, approaching the one closest to him first.

There are bits of broken wood around them, as well as in their neck, which is at just the wrong angle to be comfortable, were they still alive. He can still hear a slight, quiet flatline playing from all three. Too faint to notice unless you know to listen for it. Not that he needs to hear it. Closer now, he can see a bullet hole straight in the head. There’s no weapon on them or nearby, so it was probably their own gun that put that there.

The next body is the one propped up, sitting against a train car. There’s no holes in their body, just a neck facing the wrong way. Their Standard Issue Pistol is missing too.

The final corpse is slouched on the ground, and he gets the idea they might’ve been sitting earlier too. In comparison to the other two bodies, this one is littered with holes. Like cheese. Their gun is still with them, still holstered. None of these guys stood a chance, it seemed. Outclassed, outgunned, outmatched.

“You don’t think this was… Gordon, do you? He, he did survive Black Mesa, yes, but… I don’t believe he has this in him,” Kleiner mutters, likely more so to himself than to Barney. It’s fine though, he’s still willing to share.

“Naw, this wasn’t Gordon. Not just him, anyways.”

“You think… there were more people here?”

“The only bullet holes are in these guys, they didn’t get a chance to fight back. Either someone’s inhumanly fast, or there were, what, maybe three people here? Could’ve been more.”

“And Gordon?”

“If he was here, I haven’t a clue who he musta run into.”

“You… don’t think it wasn’t a few more rebels?”

“We don’t got artillery like that just lying around here. Maybe White Forest has something new they’ve cooked up, but I don’t know if they’d just send it into the city like that.” No, it doesn’t sound like something they’d do at all. Magnusson is very particular about his toys and where they end up. He’s not very good at sharing.

“… He didn’t run into any trouble, did he?”

“Who said he was even here?”

“A fair point. For the sake of the argument, assume he was?”

He pauses to think. “Nah. Clearly he took these nut heads out, no problem.”

“You know what I meant!”

“Alright alright, just messin’ with ya doc. No, I don’t think whoever he ran into here caused him much trouble. The real question is, who are they, and did they split from here?”

“If he was here,” Kleiner asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question.

“If he was here,” He confirms anyway. “Better get a move on now. If we want to catch him anyhow.”

There aren’t any other bodies to inspect in the train yard, although coming to a side door they do find something interesting; two more bodies, and a splatter of blood he doesn’t think belongs to either. These two both have just a bullet in the head, likely from whoever made the first corpse. Kleiner doesn’t say anything about these ones, hot on Barney’s heels as he unintentionally rushes him forwards.

“Barney?” He calls as they begin climbing up some stairs. “Do you think we’ll find Lamarr?”

“God I hope not,” He says with a chuckle, hoping to hide the sincerity of the sentence behind humor.

“Maybe they’re together? Lamarr did jump into the teleport with him,” Kleiner suggests, although the mental image that thought spawns is one he could’ve lived without. Forever.

“You don’t think they ended up like the cat, do ya doc??” He doesn’t bother hiding the horror on his face, instead just trying to block that damn cat from his mind. He’s seen a few missing posters of a cat around, and he’s sure it has to be that one, though it’s hard to picture that cat being the same… thing he saw that first test.

“No no, I’ve worked out that particular kink. Never again,” Kleiner assures him absentmindedly, sounding just as haunted as he feels.

“Right, right.” If Lamarr had ended up with him, Gordon probably would take the thing with him. The very first time they’d met, it was because Gordon had been trying to hitch a ride up to the surface to free a beetle that’d somehow snuck all the way down. In his haste, he’d forgotten his ID and couldn’t’ve opened just about any door that would’ve gotten him out. That’s where Barney came in, and together they’d saved that damn bug, lunch breaks be damned.

If Lamarr really was with Gordon now, he probably would take the pest with him, if only to return him to Kleiner. For better or worse.

Barney would definitely argue for worse, but that’s neither here nor there.

They come out next to the tracks, these ones actually in use. A new train arrives every half hour, although what it carries always varies.

Yet again, there’s bodies scattered around the place. Good riddance.

Each body adds to a building pattern. Some have only one wound, a bullet straight to the head usually but there are variations to that where they hit (rather impressively) vital organs instead. Some have a couple more than that, which in comparison to the supposed first person implies a far less trained handler. Last are the bodies with an inconsistent but high number of bullets lodged in them, close but spread; likely some sort of machine gun they used while moving.

There were a few that strayed from that; mostly knife wounds, though there were a few bashed in skulls that make him really curious as to what the weapon being used was.

Still, he’s at least sure that there are multiple people, and he really does think Gordons among them. He’s got help, people watching his back, and that news, that revelation is so relieving.

All they have to do is catch up.

Just a little further.

A crow lands right in front of him, staring him down like he’s the one in the way. Stupid bird. It moves away as he begins walking forwards again, flying around some corner and disappearing.

“Where exactly are we going, Barney?” Kleiner finally asks, and wow, he held onto that one for a while.

“Well…”

______________________________________________________________________

Deep, deep in the dark pits and caves of floating islands that found home in a world in between, where gravity is a suggestion more than it is a requirement, a haven for the fleeing and a hell for the conquered, is… not a home, per se. Someone lives here, but like many of the creatures that have carved a place for themselves in a world so barren, he doesn’t belong.

In this not home is a wall, covered in tally marks. 147, to be exact. The 148th is about to be added, too, the maker of all of them slipping out of his not bed, swinging a few dog tags around his finger all the while.

He didn’t really know any of the soldiers they belonged to, not beyond being comrades on the field. His own squadron never landed at that damned lab in the first place. He’d just grabbed them because, well, someone had to.

With every passing day, it’s seeming more and more like that someone won’t actually be him. Jury’s still out on that one.

Sheep growls and gurgles at him, his only true alarm for anything in this place, which was unfortunate for the first few weeks, when he couldn’t tell the difference between him being hungry and danger being near.

Apparently it only takes 147 days (give or take) to learn to decipher the weird noises of… whatever Sheep is. The eggheads back at that lab, Black Mesa or whatever it’d been called had said he was a “spore launcher”, although one, that makes him sound like a weapon when he’s more like just a fucked up dog, and two, spores are supposed to be a mushroom thing, he’s mostly sure of that, and, well… Sheep looks very unmushroom-like, to say the least.

If anything, he’s probably a lizard. Or an oversized bug. Jury’s still out on that one, too.

Whatever. It’s time to get up. Just because his rescue hasn’t happened yet (if it ever will) doesn’t mean he can’t get a head start of getting out of here. However he’s supposed to do that…

He wasn’t exactly the most studious kid in school, but then again he sort of doubts high school chemistry would’ve taught him anything about opening portals to other planets, or whatever the scientists were up to.

No, but what he does know how to do is survive. How to fight. It’s what he’s been doing since that crash, all throughout that stupid facility, and even how he got his freedom back from that freak in the suit.

He remembers when he first saw him back at the base. The other guys back then had just called him another “g-man”, probably there to make sure the training they were going through for whatever the higher-ups thought was coming was going great or whatever. Maybe there to hand out some nice promotions, but not much more.

He’d never liked the way that thing looked at them. Looked at him.

Then the call came in, and they were off to some lab, one no one on base had ever even heard of, apparently sent in to “clean up” the place, although he never got that order. His squad never got that order.

Does anyone even know he’s here? It’s not like there’s anyone alive to tell the tale, no one who knew his name or saw him get taken. No one besides that thing, although he’d rather die than accept its help.

Whatever. He’s not dead yet, so he’s not giving up yet.

That’s what matters.

“Sckrattle!” Sheep wisely reminds him. He, of course, nods along. They should go get breakfast.

The island they’ve built their home on is nothing big or special, as long as you don’t count the fact that it floats as special. Then again, every island floats around here, so really it isn’t special. Whatever.

Built is a choice word actually, because technically he just found the base and made parts of it habitable again. It was probably left behind by the scientists, for whatever they were trying to do here.

Traveling inbetween islands is terrifying, because he has to take just, a solid leap of faith and hope he makes it again. If he fell… he’s not actually sure what would happen— if he’d be able to get back up or if he’d just die. It looks like just an ocean of water below them, although it’s very… green. And blue. And a slew of other colors, too many to count and too blended to make out much.

Better to just not miss. Easier said than done, but still.

Sheep follows with much more confidence. Yet another reason he’s pretty sure the little (not anymore) guy is from here, in spite of what the eggheads at the lab said. Who says they even know what they were doing in the first place? Didn’t they literally lose control of a portal or something and start this whole mess in the first place?

Yeah, he’ll try trusting his instincts on this one instead.

It’s not like this thing can get much worse anyways; he’s stranded in some alien world with no sign of help on the–

There’s something watching him.

Something green, an ugly glowing neon green that hurts to look at, too far for him to make out any discernible details. Assuming there even are any. It just looks like a mess of green, like it’s exclusively that.

It disappears as quickly as it came, not by physically moving away or even with a flash of light. It’s just there one minute, gone the next. Poofed into thin air, blink and you miss it kinda thing. Like… like it only existed until he stopped observing it.

He needs to get out of here.

Just a little further.

Chapter Text

Black Mesa East was a lot less hidden away than he’d expected, a very obvious entrance waiting for him on just the other side of the dam. Still, he probably would’ve gotten there faster, if he still had friends the boat.

He’s here now. It doesn’t matter anymore, the what-ifs and coulda-beens.

The water he trudges through is waist high, though occasionally he’ll stumble into deeper areas. He’s only gone completely under once or twice, so it’s fine. If he worries about it, he’ll slow down. If he slows down… he might run out of time. So, he won’t worry about it, won’t slow down, and won’t leave this world behind again.

Never again.

Up a ladder, he finally finds himself on the doorstep of somewhere safe. A locked doorstep, evidently. Each and every door refuses to budge even a little, and no matter how hard he knocks he can’t make out even the slightest sound inside.

Is he… he’s not in the wrong place, is he? There’s no way.

They’re… they’re supposed to be nestled in some dam. That’s what the rebel told him, even had a map for visuals, so there wouldn’t be any confusion.

Maybe… maybe it's more hidden than he’s expecting. This is Eli’s lab, everyone around him has made that fact very clear. Eli isn’t stupid. It’s not like they can just set up camp anywhere and work from there. They need to be somewhere hidden, somewhere discreet, somewhere the Combine would never even try to look.

Far off, back under the gates where he came from, he notices two sewer pipes. Tunnels, one could call them, with grates that are supposed to be blocking them off. One of them is blocked off.

One isn’t.

It’s a long, tiring walk that drains him of even more energy he doesn’t even have in the first place. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t immediately pass out the moment he finally, finally reunites with someone he knows again. Some he can actually trust.

Climbing into the open tunnel– the open pipe, he finds a ton of that murky water is here, and without the open air whisking most of the stink away, he’s left nearly hurling at the entrance. He can barely see inside the damn thing, so there’s no telling how long he’s going to have to rush through here to get to the lab.

No time to start like the present.

After maybe a minute of walking in, the flashlight he still doesn’t actually know how to control turns itself on, a single, lone ding. Now he can see the seemingly endless nature of the pipe. Oh joy.

There is, after what feels like hours of walking (that was probably more like ten minutes), a bend in the tunnel– in the PIPE, that he immediately takes without a second thought.

His light turns off, which is sort of okay because he does see light up ahead. Not a lot, because it’s coming from a small campfire, with something overtop of it helping to block off the little light it’s already producing.

Something stands at the campfire, back encased in darkness he can’t see beyond. A vortigaunt, if the vague silhouette cast before him is to be believed.

Freeman keeps a hold on his pistol. Just in case.

They’re chanting, very quietly, he realizes as he slowly approaches. He’s really not sure what to make of it, but they’re the only living thing around right now, and he’s seen a few working with the resistance, so the chances of this one knowing something, of being able to help him

finally get to the lab are… high, he’d wager.

Not that that makes him at all comfortable with what he’s about to do. But, if he wants to find his friends… he’ll have to.

He pauses by the campfire, unsure of how to go about this. Will the vortigaunt even be able to understand him? Should he find something to write on? Does he even have anything to write with? This is a bad idea, actually, now that he’s thought about it for more than a second. He should just turn around and leave. It’s not like he’s actually on a time limit, not that he knows of anyways. There’s time to search– to look– to–

“The Freeman is alone.” Way to rub it in. He almost wants to stay, just to argue.

Almost.

“We are a tapestry woven of Vortessence. It is the same for you, if only you would see it.” They continue, hands spread across the fire for warmth. “Could you but see the eyes inside your own, the minds in your mind, you would see how much we share.”

His hands twitch, a response dying out before it can begin. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know what that could even mean.

He waits to see if they have more to say.

The vortigaunt continues warming up by the fire. They’re cooking a headcrab, one that’s… blackened, but not burned. Barely cooked, even. He’s never seen one like this before. It’s thinner than most, probably not much of a meal. He moves to stand on the other side of the fire.

‘What do you mean?’ It’s… the first bit of real faith he’s put into one of these… things. To trust it to understand him. To answer him.

“Far distant eyes look out through yours,” They cryptically explain, reaching hands over the fire, offering them to him.

After a moment of hesitation, he reaches back, resting a palm on either of theirs. The third hand, the one he always forgets is also there, rests on top of their pile of hands, that green glow just barely overtaking the light the fire provides in the cave.

“How many are there in you?” It feels like they're actually addressing him now, not just talking at him. He doesn't know what to make of it. The question almost makes him think of… the others. “Whose hopes and dreams do you encompass?”

Maybe not them, then. In all the time they’d spent together, which looking back wasn’t really all that much, although it certainly felt longer, he… barely actually knew them.

Not that he says all of that. Or anything, for that matter. His hands are sandwiched by the vortigaunt’s. Trapped. Silenced.

The vortigaunt blinks at him, each eye, very slowly. Like he’s the one speaking cryptically, who can’t be understood because he’d rather speak in weird riddles than be direct.

“Your mind is opaque.” Or, or that. What does– what does that mean? They don’t– they can’t read minds, or anything like that, right? They can’t read his at least, if he’s understanding at least that correctly. “Your bright face obscures your darker mask.”

Well that just seems unkind. But… true. It’s true, isn’t it? He… he looks like a human, but he’s a monster. He opened the portal to Xen that day. He was the one who got everyone killed, or enslaved or– or maybe worse. This is all his fault. Gorgeous knew it– clearly. That’s why they all left him, too, isn’t it? Because they knew better.

“We call you sib, although your mind and meaning are a mystery to us.” It almost sounds like the vortigaunt is trying to clarify what they meant, especially if he reads the expression on their face as a grimace.

How many of theirs did he kill? Victims just trying to survive, struck down by him?

“We cannot forget those whose cords you cut. Forgiveness is not ours to bestow.” Maybe they can read his mind. Maybe his face just says it all. Why is he the one getting comforted? The blood is on his hands, but it isn’t his blood. “While our own lay scattered at your feet, you severed the vortal cord that bound the Nihilanth to life, and to us.”

Vortal cord? Are they just making up words now? No, he remembers they spoke a different language in Black Mesa. It must be a word from that, one they either don’t know how to translate or simply can’t. It doesn’t help him understand what they mean.

“You have brought us grief and jubilation beyond measure.” Ah, he gets it now. They remember what he’s done, but are letting it go for the time being, while they fight the same fight. He can understand that. In a way, he’s sure that’s partly what humanity is thinking about the vortigaunts too; they killed a lot of soldiers and scientists down in Black Mesa too. That kind of thing can’t just be forgotten, but it can’t be what they focus on now, either.

His suit has that faint glow again, but it doesn’t feel as panic inducing this time. Maybe it’s because the last time he saw this, it was saving his life. Maybe it’s just because the vortigaunt doesn’t seem to care, and if anyone would understand what's happening to him, it's probably these guys. They have that same green glow, afterall.

“The way ahead is dark for the moment.” He’s sure they mean it far more figuratively than literally, although both are true. “There is more to the Freeman than meets the eye. Your song we sing and shall sing for eternity. No matter the consequences of this struggle.”

It sounds like a goodbye, and as the glow dies away he pulls back, rounding the fire to go back through the tunnel. He’ll… he’ll find the lab. He will. He’s already here, already past the hardest part. There’s bound to be something he missed back at the main building, some clue that’ll point him towards the–

The lights behind the building, he realizes as he jumps down from the sewer, back into cleaner, deeper waters. Now that it’s gotten darker outside, he can’t help but notice the faint, dimmed lighting seeping out from just behind the dam center.

He all but rushes to get back onto the docks. How could he have missed something so obvious? Of course they wouldn’t hide in a building, no matter how far they go those would always get searched, or bombed, or any number of things that could stamp out the resistance in a matter of seconds. In a mountain, however? Or a hilltop, or whatever this tunnel is leading him into? That would be hard to take out, hard to even spot, unless you were on the ground actively looking for it, unless you knew it had to be here.

A poster of Breen stares at him on the wall, as he passes through a chainlink fence blocking off what definitely must be the lab. He, as he’s sure would make Eli proud, flips the old administrator off.

The tunnel itself, which presumably would lead him to the lab, is closed off with some door, a bit like a garage–

Darkness consumes the room, the loud sound of a door slamming shut behind him warning that he can’t even back out to see the sun again. At least this confirms someone is out here. Whether or not they’re friendly, he thinks he’s about to find out.

Lights, these ones much brighter and whiter, fluorescent if he had to guess, flicker back on after a second, and he’s able to see part of a wall to his left open up as two cameras emerge, red lights flickering.

“We’ve got something.” It’s a voice he almost recognizes. The cameras lock onto him, and he tries not to flinch. It’s not the reception he got from Barney however long ago, but it’s not an immediate gunfight, so… so far so good. “Okay, it’s– it’s human.”

How… how bad are these cameras? They look like they’re working perfectly fine, but the woman on the other end sounds completely unsure of what she's seeing. Oh well.

“Hello? Take it easy in there, you’re safe now.” The lights flicker off again as a new hatch opens– no, it’s more like a window. A window covering, really, since there’s still glass in the way. Someone’s watching on the other side, although their attention is barely on him at the moment, instead busy messing with what’s probably a control panel on the other side. He’s sure he’s seen her before, but he’s still at a loss as to where. He can’t even put a name to the face. “You’ll have to forgive the scanning process, we can’t take any chances.”

There’s some beeping, the cameras fold back into the wall, there’s gas, or maybe some steam filling up the room, and a myriad of other things going on. For some reason there’s a traffic light? It’s on yellow at the moment, and he wonders if it goes hand in hand with the “scanning process” in question.

“Dr. Freeman? Gordon Freeman, is that you?” She’s looking at him now, pushing her red hair back into her bun as recognition slowly dawns on her face. If only he could relate. “You’ve made it here so quickly! Well, Eli’s going to be so amazed– not to mention relieved!”

She says it all in one breath, and he wonders for a minute what a conversation between her and Freerun would look like. Probably too fast for anyone else to keep up with.

“I’m Dr. Mossman! Dr. Judith Mossman,” She explains, and finally he has a name. It… still doesn’t seem all that familiar. He’s still not sure how he knows her. “I’ve been hearing about you since long before the Black Mesa Incident. Oh, Black Mesa! I do so envy you working with Eli and Dr. Kleiner when they were at the top of their field.”

He feels… very uncomfortable, with everything she said and the way she said it. Envious of his time at Black Mesa? His infamously world-ending time at Black Mesa?

“Ah, there we go! You can come through now.” The traffic light is now green, confirming it was playing some part in the scanning process. Whatever that even means.

There’s a click, and the door opens to finally let him into the lab. Dr. Mossman waits for him on the other side, though there’s something off-putting about the empty smile she wears.

She knows what you are. What you’ve done.

There were monsters in Black Mesa, but none as scary as you.

“I’ll take you down to Eli right away,” Dr. Mossman continues, perhaps trying to keep up the facade that everything is okay, that they all want him here. They don’t have to. He gets it. He knows. “He would never forgive me if I kept you waiting.”

Footsteps echo through the tunnel, and he’s just left standing there, staring. He’s not sure at what. He should– he should wait by the door– for them to open it, so he can–

He shouldn’t have come here. What if there was a Hunter-Chopper following him? Or soldiers? Or–

What if the others decide they can’t trust any of the rebellion, and come to make sure they never become a problem in the first place? What if they come to clear the place out? What if–

What if he messes up again? Reminds the world how they ended up like this?

He hits the floor. Hard, despite having slid down a wall– or maybe the door, so he can slip through when they open it again and leave before he causes even more problems. Why did he come here again?

“Dr. Freeman?” He knows that voice, her voice. He just spoke to her– or she spoke to him. He can’t remember who she is, still.

Neither hand will move, or even budge. He can’t feel them, beyond the tingling sensation, the way they’re curling without his input, or permission, or–

Come to think of it, he can’t really breathe either. He could just a second ago.

Now his lungs don’t want to cooperate. Just like his hands. Just like his legs.

Just like his mind.

“Your mind is opaque.” He hears it like he’s there again, still in that conversation he couldn’t make any sense of. Maybe that’s why he can’t move his hands– they’re still being held in place. They can’t hurt anyone like that– being held. Is that why Barney would do it, on those really bad days? Because he knew what type of monster hid just beneath his skin? It sure sounds like Barney, too kind to hurt the monster the way the monster might hurt him.

“Your mind is opaque.” Maybe, maybe… maybe they meant that his mind won’t let even him in. He’s somewhere else, and the mind is what's in control. What keeps leaving the world in ruins. But where would that leave him, if not in his own mind? There’s certainly no room in his heart, there’s too many other people there that need a place. The soul, maybe?

But no, he doesn’t know if he ascribes to the idea of souls. How would it even work? The mind is the person, their thoughts, everything that makes them who they are. The body is the vessel, an art piece in its own right as it expresses that which the mind cannot. The soul… has no void it must fill. No purpose not already served by the other two. Is the soul just supposed to be the mind? It certainly isn’t life– the body is the life. It holds the heart, the blood, the bones and the organs. Take that away, there is nothing. Take away the mind and there is nothing.

Take away the soul, and what? What changes?

Green, green, THAT green is here, standing before him, standing over him as it watches, as it knows. What does it know? What doesn’t it know?

Why does it know–?

His cheek stings, and it’s the first sensation he can feel. The first one that’s real.

Did he– has he– who slapped him??

“I’m sorry!” Someone new exclaims– and she– he knows her. She only sounds a little bit sorry, really, but he can’t hold it against her.

His chest still hurts, still feels like it’s caving in, as the armor presses in on him, but he’s– he’s here, at least. He’s not sure if he’s ever spiraled so hard before.

Gordon Freeman– his name is Gordon Freeman, and he’s… alive.

Alyx Vance is crouched in front of him, a hand raised in case she needs to… get his attention again. Has she never dealt with someone having a panic attack before??

“Are you…? Uhm,” She looks around, like any minute now someone who does know how to explain this will come along and shed some light on the situation she’s found herself in. No one does. “Should we go get my dad?”

He’s not… capable of moving right now, or at least he doesn’t feel like it. He, he doesn’t want Eli to see him like this either. It’s been so long. He can’t let this mess be the first thing he sees of Freeman.

Of course, he can’t tell her all of that. He sort of doubts anyone took the time to teach her a whole other language in the apocalypse, especially one that’s hardly spoken.

Instead, he just shakes his head.

“Okay. Alright. Yep,” She pops the ‘p’, looking around with forced casualty. Then, like she’s suddenly realized something, she looks around again, this time much more tense.

Without any further warning, she leaps up, grabs him under either armpit, and lifts with surprising strength. She doesn’t even wait for him to get his feet on the ground, just drags him with her as she runs them down the hall, keeping close to the walls like she’s trying to stay out of sight. Or keep them out of sight.

At the end of one seemingly dead end, she kicks a door open and all but throws the both of them in, slamming the door shut behind her.

It takes a comical few seconds for a light to blink on. Not flicker, just one solid blink into existence. Alyx stares at him with a new intensity, one that hardly fits whatever's going on… unless there’s something else. Something he doesn’t know about.

She sets her hands on either of his shoulders, and he feels the haze, the panic of before fading into the background as adrenaline takes over. He can handle this, he can handle having to get his hands dirty to keep others safe. It’s nowhere near as scary, as intimidating as–

“Alright Gordon, talk to me. What’s going on?”

His feelings. Nevermind, that is what this is about. He waves her hands away.

They don’t budge even an inch. “Come on, I’m here. Were there, uhm, too many zombies on your way here? Those can uh, they get to me too sometimes.”

The way she clumsily broaches the topic reminds him of the clumsy way his parents tried to tell him about their divorce. He’s not– he doesn’t need to be talked down to like some scared child. He can handle what's out there.

The issue is what’s in his head.

Alyx continues to stare at him.

“Was it,” She stumbles through more guessing. “The Hunter-Choppers? Were they too loud, or just too much? Oh or– I bet it was– nah, you don’t really see bull-squids these days. And you shouldn’t have run into any ant-lions on your way here, either. Was it–”

Rather than feebly try and wave her off again, he shrugs to weaken her grip and steps back, steps free. They don’t need to have this conversation, especially because he probably won’t be able to talk in it. He gestures to his throat, hoping that’ll be enough to convey how one-sided this chat would be.

“Wh– oh. Oh! You think– ah, ha, no. Please,” She snorts, holding back laughter with each word. He’s not at all sure what’s got her so amused but– “You think I didn’t learn sign? Barney suggested it, like, forever ago and the moment my dad and your dad caught wind of–”

He chokes on nothing. His– his dad would not like Alyx, that much he knows. How does she know him??

“–the idea, well of course they– okay, Gordon, don’t know if you’re listening but I did just say you can use your words. I know ‘em, no worries!” Alyx elbows him in the arm, as if that’d egg him into speaking.

‘How–’ His hands fumble through the word, and he tries again. ‘How do you know my father??’

“How do I–? Gordon, he’s, like– I mean he’s basically my dad too, y’know? It’s– that’s not awkward or anything, right? I’ve just– he’s been around my whole life, and he’s so close with my dad, maybe a little suspiciously close actually, have you noticed anything about that or is it just me?” He can not, for the life of him, keep up with any of this. It’s almost as bad as what he was subjected to with his… with them, except at least he was pretty sure he didn’t have any clue what they were talking about.

Alyx is exclusively referring to people he knows, and he should know what she’s talking about. He does not, however.

“Like, the way he calls him Izzy, does that sound a little weird to you? Not a– not a bad weird, I mean, but like a–” Izzy? Izzy? Who is Izzy–

‘Kleiner??’ There’s. There’s no way that’s who she– no. But–?

She pauses to level him a look that just screams ‘duh’, though it’s a lot softer than that would usually imply. “Who else would I mean?”

‘He’s not my dad??’

“Is that what all this is about? Did something happen between you two?” She sets another hand on his shoulder, and he’s just too flabbergasted to shrug it off.

‘No??’

“Oh. Are you sure? Or is this more like, an old sort of Black Mesa thing that you just don’t want to address?”

‘Kleiner is not my actual, biological, father,’ He clarifies, because he has a feeling that’s the issue.

“Well, yeah, I get that. But like–” She shrugs, like that explains everything. It, in fact, does not.

Freeman shakes his head. ‘He’s not my adoptive father, either. He is not, in any way, a parental figure for me, nor has he ever been.’

Alyx crosses her arms, like she has an ace up her sleeve he won’t see coming. “He has a photo of you on his desk back in his hideout in 17. Called it a graduation or something like that?”

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t–

“Oh I’m– I’m sorry Gordon…! I didn’t mean to–” This time, he makes sure his waving her off is much kinder, gentler. He’s not… trying to avoid this. But he’s not sad crying, he’s…

Going through a lot of emotions right now, honestly.

He slides to the ground again, and Alyx follows, leaning against the door to the… the closet. That’s where they are. He didn’t even think to worry about it. It feels… quiet, in here. Private. He’s still not entirely sure why Alyx rushed them in here the way she did.

He could always ask, come to think of it. ‘Why?’

“Why… what?” Out of seemingly nowhere she’s apparently manifested a ball, a faded red one. She bounces it across to him, and he catches it.

Freeman bounces it back. ‘Why did we come in here? You made it seem… more serious than it is.’

“Mental health is plenty serious!” Alyx bounces it back. “But to answer your question… you’re kind of like, a legend, around here. The vorts talk about you all the time, and of course everyone knows about Black Mesa, how you saved everyone. I just… thought I’d protect your image, or whatever. I guess I did get kind of stupid about it, huh?”

He inspects the ball in his hands while she talks. “Aperture Science”. Not those guys. Honestly, he’s a bit surprised they didn’t open the world-ending portal first.

He bounces the ball back to her.

‘I needed the privacy. Thanks,’ He tries so hard to ignore the rest of her statement. It doesn’t sit right with him. ‘I didn’t save anyone, though. For the record.’

“Uhm– excuse me? Gordon, you fucking– you don’t care if I swear right?” She actually waits for his confirmation. He nods, absentmindedly. “You fucking saved everyone! I know I already said that, but that’s because it’s true! You’re the one who cleared the way so others could escape, and– and you helped the people in the Lambda Lab launch their rocket straight into Xen, which stopped more aliens from coming through, and who killed the Nihilanth? That’s right, it was you, Gordon! You saved everyone. For the record.”

She huffs and glares at him, challenging him to argue. ‘They were fleeing too.’

“Just because they’ve been hurt doesn’t give them a free pass to continue the cycle of abuse. The Gordon Freeman everyone talks about wouldn’t stand for that,” She pauses, looking at him. Through him. “And I think the one in front of me, the one my dad knows, the one Kleiner and Barney know? I don’t think he’d sit by and let that happen either.”

Alyx bounces the ball back to him. He doesn’t try arguing further. He doesn’t know how to word what is wrong with him, with what he’s done. It doesn’t sound like she’s willing to listen, either.

“I’d like to know him too, that Gordon Freeman.” He bounces the ball back. She bounces it. Then he does. In silence, for a while.

He’s emotionally exhausted. Maybe she is too.

“So, do you wanna talk about it now?” Alyx avoids looking at him, continues passing the ball between them. Like she’s afraid if she actually acknowledges him, he’ll refuse.

It’s a fair assumption. He might, if pressed any harder. If there’s any judgment, external to his own thoughts and undeniably real, finally confirming everything he’s thought about himself… he might not be able to take it. He might finally, finally break.

A sigh. He passes the ball.

‘I didn’t get here alone,’ He starts innocuously.

“Really? No wonder you beat my time then, you had a few friends helping!” She’s obviously trying to keep it lighthearted, but he can hear the tension in her voice, the way her shoulders hunch, like she knows what he’ll say next. The ball bounces higher as she passes it back, too much strength put into it. “Anyone I might know?”

Freeman laughs, the first real laugh in however long. ‘Sort of?’

“Sort of? Okay, now I’m really intrigued. Tell me about thy friends, sir Freeman!” With a bow, she gestures for him to continue. He’d bow too, but he’s not sure how she made it work so well while sitting down. He certainly doesn’t have that confidence.

‘They were…’ Insane. Obnoxious. Loud. Annoying. Mean. Provocative. Scary. ‘The only reason I made it as far as I did.’

“What… happened to them?” She asks it like she knows the answer. He’s glad, at least, that what she’s thinking isn’t the case.

‘We avoided talking about something serious. It tore us apart.’ Sort of like what he was trying to do earlier, when Alyx kept asking what was wrong. Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, or however the saying goes.

“Oh, that’s it?” Alyx sounds… a mix of relieved and disappointed.

He gapes at her. ‘What do you mean, that’s it?’

“I just mean– they’re not dead or anything! You guys just gotta shoot the shit, y’know??” She sends her hands out in either direction, like that’s supposed to help her point.

‘Shoot. The shit??’ It feels weird even just saying it. He stumbles over the phrase.

“I– it was a saying I heard from Barney once, okay! I’ve been dying to use it!” Alyx brings her hands back in, hugging herself defensively. “What I mean is, just friggin talk it out man! It’s not final unless you let it be final!”

The fight dies out of him because… that’s fair. She’s not wrong, on any account. If he wants to fix things, it’s on him. He holds the power for change.

But change is scary, and he’s very, very scared.

‘Gone,’ He says instead, because that’s also true. They left, and even if he thought he could talk to them, he doesn’t know where to find them.

“Repeat that one more time?”

‘Gone?’

“I… don’t know that one.”

Ah. There it is. He’s sort of surprised that out of all the words he’s gone through, this is the first one she doesn’t recognize. He makes a fist and points one finger out to the side. ‘G.’ Rests each fingertip on his thumb. ‘O.’ Makes another fist, this time sticking his index and middle finger over his thumb. ‘N.’ Resets his fist one last time, keeping his thumb resting where his nails would be, were the gloves not in the way. ‘E.’

“Oh! Gone. Repeat the sign one more time?”

He rests a palm face up in front of him, his other hand’s palm pointed towards his chest while it sits on his other hand. He then pulls the hand facing him away, closing it into a fist as he does. ‘Gone.’

Alyx repeats it. ‘Gone.’

Then she grows somber, realizing what he meant.

“Oh…” It’s said so dejectedly that he can’t help but feel bad for even mentioning it, even if it’s true. They are gone, and he might never see them again. “Well… I don’t know what you’ve been up to all these years, but– I sure know my way around here. I could help you find them, if you want.”

Freeman grimaces. He’s… not sure how well that’d go. They never outright hurt any of the rebels they ran into, but… Freemind sure seemed ready to. So did Gorgeous. And he feels like Streamer might if the others did. Martini would be a coin flip, really.

“You don’t have to decide just yet. Just, uh, think about it. They seem… pretty important to you, so I can only imagine how important you must be to them. Maybe they wanna make up too, y’know? Can’t hurt to try, at least?” Alyx hopefully reassures him, climbing back to her feet and offering him a hand.

He takes it.

“Let’s try not to keep my dad waiting any longer. You have no idea how excited he was to see you were back– out of everyone, he was the most sure you could get here, on your own even!” Alyx doesn’t let go, leading him out of the closet and down a few corridors to an elevator. This ride lasts longer than the one he’d met her on, and offers more interesting sights on the floors they pass through. He was aware the vortigaunts were helping the resistance, but he didn’t expect to see any hacking up a headcrab in some kitchen. “Though, I guess he was wrong there. You didn’t make it here alone.”

She squeezes his hand, belatedly realizing it might be a little too soon to bring that up. He squeezes back. It’s nice, having support like this. He wonders, had they all stayed together, would things have gotten like this? Maybe. Maybe not.

“Tell me more about them?” Quite the loaded question, although she doesn’t know that yet. He’s not sure how to broach the whole… Multiverse Thing™ just yet, so for now…

He’ll keep it vague. ‘They were all strong. Stronger than me.’

“Stronger than you? I find that a little hard to believe.” She leans back against the wall of the elevator, with her newly freed hand. He takes the opposite wall. “Were they other Black Mesa survivors?”

Technically… yes. He waves his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture.

Alyx hums, clearly confused, but also oddly amused. Too much so to ask for elaboration at the moment, evidently. She instead just gestures for him to continue.

‘They were… unique.’ She doesn’t make a comment this time, probably waiting for him to get into actual details. He can do that. Vaguely. ‘There were seven of them. They argued a lot.’

“And that’s why you split?”

He shakes his head. ‘No. About stupid things.’

“Ah. Sounds like my kinda people. On a scale from one to ten, how entertaining would you rate them?”

‘Negative eleven. They were very headache inducing. Would not recommend.’

“Yeah, in the moment maybe. Retrospectively, where would you rate them?”

‘...Seven.’

“Eh, I feel like you’re still hung up on the headache thing. Be honest?”

‘I am the pinnacle of honesty.’

“Right now you look like you’re full of shit.”

‘Real mature.’

“It’s just– spewing outta your mouth man!”

‘Gross.’

“You’re telling me.” She snickers. He, resolutely, does not. Out of principle, truthfully.

The elevator comes to a stop with a ding, and– and he didn’t expect to be here already. Eli and Dr. Mossman are talking, and some vortigaunt is in the room too.

“Hey dad! Look who I found!” Alyx slings an arm around his shoulders, once again dragging him along for the ride as she takes him to see her father. Before he can even sort out his brain and all the things he wants to say, he’s shoved forwards by Alyx–

And caught by Eli in a bone crushing hug. Seems like time did nothing to erode his strength. Back in Black Mesa, most scientists would track down security when they needed something moved or grabbed for them. Eli? Only ever called for a conversational partner to accompany him as he helped deliver materials from one lab to the next. Breen had always hated when he did that, because Eli was one of their best and he shouldn’t have been “wasting” time away from his desk like that.

He missed this.

“Gordon Freeman!” Eli’s voice is flowing with pride. He breaks the hug to hold Gordon out in front of him, and he’s able to notice that Eli’s… missing a leg. Could he have done something, if he were around? “Let me get a look at you man! My god, you haven’t changed one iota! How do you do it?”

He… probably means it as a joke. If only he knew the truth of the matter.

“Now, let’s see,” Eli says with a grin, bringing a hand up to his chin like whatevers on his mind is a real thinker. “Last time I saw you, I sent you up for help after the Resonance Cascade. Never thought it’d take you this long to get back to me!”

Alyx muffles laughter behind him.

“I found him in the airlock not too long ago. I’m surprised he made it here so quickly!” Dr. Mossman informs. He’s… while he’s grateful he was left a moment to himself, he’s sort of wondering where she went in that time. Thoughts for later, he supposes. “Alyx, aren’t you supposed to be on watch?”

“The vortigaunts relieved me so I could come see Gordon,” Alyx explains, pulling a ladder down from the wall and climbing it to work on… something. What he wouldn’t give for a full day in here, just getting to relearn the ins and outs of what Eli’s got cooking up this time around. “Anyway, I should be in here, working on the portal.”

Dr. Mossman crosses her arms. “I have the repairs well in hand. Someone misjudged the capacity of the Combine thyristor–”

Alyx chuckles dryly. “Are you blaming me?”

She jumps down from the ladder to confront Dr. Mossman face to face and…“No, not at all! It was a calculation error, not a mechanical problem.”

“Then maybe you should let me do the calculations next time.” He’s heard this conversation before. Not literally, of course, he can’t travel through time or anything. But, this sounds just like the arguments he would have back in Black Mesa, complete with the thinly veiled contempt that’s laced onto words said just carefully enough that they were still technically innocent, because they never explicitly said what they so obviously meant. “As well as installing it.”

Twenty years have passed, and yet this is exactly the same.

How disappointing.

“Alyx really…! Sometimes I think you deliberately misunderstand me.” And there it is. That exact phrase. He’s sort of glad he can barely remember anything about Mossman, despite definitely knowing her. She’s just… not very pleasant.

He wonders what an argument between her and Freemind would look like.

“Alyx!” Eli butts in, surprisingly… non-combative towards the way Mossman is treating his daughter. He never stood for that sort of treatment towards Freeman in Black Mesa.

What's different?

“Why don’t you take Gordon along and give him some practice with the Gravity Gun?” He’s diffusing the situation, at least. Maybe there’s more he’s missing.

It’ll be a problem the Freeman who does know what a Gravity Gun is can handle. That guy sounds like he’s living the dream.

“Come on Gordon,” Alyx grumbles, already linking her arm with his to drag him off. They stop at a door so she can press a few buttons, then continue. “Let’s go have some fun!”

“The Zero Point Energy Field Manipulator is not a toy, Alyx!” Dr. Mossman chastises as they leave. Alyx scoffs, then speeds up to round the corner and get out of sight. He pats the arm wrapped around his in the best attempt at comfort he can muster. In his defense, it’s been a really long time since he’s had to deal with people drama.

“So, I see you’ve met Dr. Mossman!” It’s a loaded phrase, dripping with a bitter history he feels like he’s already very familiar with. He offers another few pats, and Alyx slides her arm away as they approach another door. Maybe it wasn’t that comforting. “She’s one of the main reasons I spend so much time outside.You should hear her drone on about how it should’ve been her in the Black Mesa test chamber that day.”

Oh.

Oh.

It should’ve been her, huh? She’d prefer to have been the one to destroy the world? She wants the blood on her hands? Or does she just think things would’ve gone differently, if she’d been the one in there instead?

There’s a few comforting pats on his arm, which has once again been linked with Alyx’s. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding much more genuine than she had earlier. “I shouldn’t be talking behind her back.”

He snickers, immediately picking up what she means. What she really means. Don’t stoop to her level.

“It just gets a bit… claustrophobic down here.” She shrugs to the tunnel they’re in. Is… is that– another who understands the true, hidden, buried evil of the tunnel empire? Does she know of the anguish, the pain they cause?

They pass by a suspiciously darkened tunnel, quickly. He… feels like that's for a much more serious reason than his own grievances.

“That’s the old passage to Ravenholm. We don’t go there anymore.” Alyx sounds… too somber, and he’s once again properly reminded of where they are, the world they live in. The life she and everyone else around here has had to live. Because of him. “Come on.”

She stops him at yet another door, and as it slides open he realizes this is another “airlock”, another exit. There’s no extensive scanning process this time, at least.

Sure enough, the next set of doors let them back out into the open world– or, as open as it can be with a chain link fence blocking them in and an imposing watch tower hovering over them. “So, here we are! The scrapyard.”

Yeah that… that perfectly describes where they are, what with all the junk and other seemingly forgotten trash and treasures left behind.

Alyx drags him to the wall by the door, releasing him once more to mess with the panel on the wall. His attention, however, is fully on the glass case keeping him away from whatever the Gravity Gun is. It also being called the Zero Point Energy Field Manipulator is also implying some interesting things.

Freeman thinks she might be able to read minds, if the evil, smug smirk on her face was telling of anything. She knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“This is the Gravity Gun my dad was talking about. You can call it the Zero Point Energy Field Manipulator… if you want.”

He can see the heft of it as she carefully lifts it out of its case. He can practically feel it in his hands already. He’s sure he looks like a kid in a candy store, told he can pick out whatever he wants.

“It’s designed for handling hazardous materials… but we mostly just use it for heavy lifting.” For some reason, he’s very suddenly reminded of Feetman and Freemind again, their conversation of being “based” and the question of what on. He just as suddenly forgets said conversation as Alyx presents the Gravity Gun to him. He’s never been so ready for something in his life.

Sure enough, it is as heavy as it looks.

“The primary trigger emits a charge, you can punt stuff and send it flying.” This just keeps getting better and better. “I’ve found it handy for clearing minefields.”

Alyx gestures for him to approach some scrap heap to try the gun out on. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

While he was just trying to fling a can behind her, he sort of misjudged his aim. The crate it’s on goings flying instead, which Alyx finds endlessly amusing. “The secondary trigger lets you grab things. Try picking something up and then throwing it.”

He’s too excited to hold that against her right now, so he lets it slide in favor of picking the crate he just flung back up. It floats a few inches in front of him.

Facing just past the watchtower where there’s more space, he tries the main trigger. The sudden jolt as it gets flung is… scary the first time, fun the second. And third. It’s fun every time, honestly. Alyx waves him into a new area, and they’re now in a larger area, one that’s probably fitting the “scrapyard” title a lot better.

“Y’know what? Lemme call Dog, he loves to play fetch.” She has… a dog? It’s not… she does seem like the type. He’s just surprised one would’ve survived this long. “Dog! Come!”

The ground beneath him rumbles and shakes as something distinctly not like a dog rushes out from a shed, straight for them. It suddenly drops into a roll towards them–

“Good Doggy!” Alyx takes its… face, in her hands. She coos and gushes at it for a few more seconds before returning her attention to him. “Gordon, this is Dog. My dad built him to protect me when I was a kid. First model was about… yay high. I’ve been adding to him ever since.”

And that honestly… explains a lot. Dog is some amalgamation of parts that's certainly impressive considering the world they live in and the lack of resources. Not to mention, it seems genuinely intelligent, which is a feat they hadn’t accomplished back when they had actual labs dedicated to progress.

He waves to dog. He likes this little guy– well little’s not the most accurate description. Dog’s taller than him and Alyx, even hunched over like he is.

Dog shoves his face into Freeman’s raised hand, and he’s left awkwardly patting his face plates.

“Alright Dog, let's play catch with Gordon. We need to get him used to using the Gravity Gun.” She pats Dog’s side, gesturing for Freeman to pick something up. “Go ahead Dog, throw!”

Oh, nevermind, she was gesturing for Dog to throw something. He may have never had a dog before, but he feels like this version of fetch is a little backwards.

For a minute, Freeman thinks Dog is about to throw an entire dumpster at him, which is something he’s definitely not ready for– but no. He takes some crates out and launches those at Freeman instead. Much more tolerable. Much more doable.

Alyx cheers from her perch on something like a generator, or maybe a ventilator, swinging her legs as she raises her arms.

Freeman flings the crate back at Dog, whose face the crate breaks on. He’d feel bad, but then Dog is beeping and raising its… hands in the air too, evidently also cheering.

“Great catch Gordon! Throw another, Dog!” He’s sure if there were popcorn around, Alyx would be munching on some right about now.

Dog does in fact throw another, and this time Freeman waits just a little longer before catching it. The crate is automatically adjusted to be at the same distance at the previous one, rather than the actual distance he caught it at. Useful to know.

“Awesome!” Alyx cheers as he flings that one, this time away from Dog. Its broken pieces have barely hit the ground before there's another crate flying for his face.

This one, he slides out of the way of to catch it. He wants to get used to moving and using this now, while things are calm and the stakes are low.

“Hey Dog, go get your ball!” Oh, now things are getting interesting. The stakes are rising, it seems, as Dog barrels past him and removes a rock from atop a big spool of cables, wound up like twine.

That, apparently, is not the ball. Which is fortunate, because it’s not very ball-like. Dog lifts that up too, and under it is… something also questionably ball-like. It’s very… polygonal. Too many parts jut out awkwardly, but it still rolls about like it’s perfectly round all the same. Dog lifts his arm out, and an orange current draws the ball to his palm. How interesting indeed.

Dog chucks the “ball” to him, and he tosses it like he had the crates earlier. It doesn’t break upon impact, so it’s already an improvement of their previous toys.

The ball actually purposefully rolls towards him, which is convenient. It makes a weird sound whenever the Gravity Gun picks it up, but that's no real issue.

Eventually, Dog starts throwing curveballs at him, forcing him to work to catch the ball. “When I told you Dog likes to play fetch, I didn’t tell you who’d be fetching, did I?” Oh she absolutely knew what she was doing there. Freeman launches the ball a few feet above her head, to make his point. She just laughs, because he’s very clearly still losing this. Whatever it is.

Is this why they were always fighting? Because it was pointless? Fun? Pointless fun? Probably the best kind of fun, in his opinion.

“Okay Gordon, let’s try something else.” He notices a hoop, just a little higher above Alyx than he’d been looking. He launches the ball up so it falls down through it. “Throw something bigger.”

Bigger, according to Dog, is the dumpster. Freeman feels… questionably more ready for this. He steadies his stance and readjusts his grip on the gun. He doesn’t really feel–

“No– no boy! Down! Put that down!” Alyx frantically commands, and– yeah. Okay, that’s probably for the best, really. Dog, apparently, does not see it that way. He bashes at the ground, equally frantic but much, much– “What is it boy?”

They’re in something like a valley. He’s been aware of that fact the whole time, hard not to with the towering, unclimbable cliffs surrounding them.

He’s doubly aware of that now though, with the way the world shakes.

He can hear those breathing beeps again.

______________________________________________________________________

“Eight…? EIGHT??” He asks, appropriately horrified, in his opinion.

“That's– yeah, that's what octuplets are,” Matt confirms, focused on the wrong thing.

“I KNOW THAT!! What the hell do you mean there were– EIGHT?? Of them?? He doesn’t have any siblings to begin with, let alone seven!!” He’s trying so, so very hard not to freak out right now, but he feels like he’s learning less about whatever mess Gordon is in right this minute, when he’s supposed to be learning more.

“Are you sure? They looked, like, it was dark, okay? But they looked, like, identical. All of them. Like twins, but there were more of them.”

“Eight, right, yep, yeah.” He breathes in. He breathes out.

“They were like the Power Rangers!” The. The what now?? “Color-coded and everything in those fancy suits of theirs.”

“They were wearing HEV suits too? All of them?” Kleiner sets a gentle, firm hand on his shoulder, probably to keep him from freaking out again. Every new word added to this conversation feels like they’re taking one step forward and two steps back.

“If that’s what you’re calling them, I guess so.” Matt shrugs.

“What happened when they passed through here? Please, tell us anything you can. It’s terribly important.” Kleiner squeezes reassuringly, and, yeah. Okay. He’s got to, got to get things together. They’re here for Gordon. That’s what matters most right now. Nothing else.

“Sure sure, right, so uhm, they cut through, I waved ‘em in of course, railroad’s always dangerous but it got worse around the time they rolled around. This one guy, the purplish one, I mean the really purple one not the, like, sort of blue sort of purple one–” Barney glares him back onto the topic at hand. “Right, purple guy, he drops a shitload of supplies off, right, then the tunnels get flooded with hoards of Manhacks.”

Matt even gestures to the supplies still there, though Barney is far more focused on the second thing. “Hoards, huh? Glad you pulled through, at least. And, uh, Gordon?”

Of course Gordon kept this guy safe while he was around. But did he keep himself safe? Did his…seven “identical” pals keep him outta trouble?

Or is he hurt, and still pushing on to Eli’s?

“Well, I sure as shit wouldn’t’ve if it weren’t for that guy and his group or whatever.” Matt leans against the table by his “shitload” of supplies. Which, it is a lot, there. That, at least, seems like a good sign about this group with Gordon; they’re competent, and helpful.

“They handled the Manhacks?” He asks.

“Each and every single one!” Matt exclaims, apparently excited to share this story. “There was the guy who whipped out two pistols, and the guy who shot as quickly as if he had two pistols, and that guy with the fucked up arm– he actually climbed up there and smacked one down– and there was another guy just smacking them around!”

The visuals are… interesting, to say the least. Gordon seems like he might, actually–

“And then there’s what the orange guy did! He shot one down, sure, but then he picked it up and did something to it, and now look at it!” Matt rushes behind him, removes some boards for a chain link fence, and reveals a Manhack– one that doesn’t immediately fly at them. Where there used to be red lights, there are now green. “Check this out!”

Matt then kicks one of the old dirt walls, and a cockroach scuttles out. The Manhack practically flings itself at it, slicing it in two. It floats above the body after that.

A… hacked Manhack?

“Oh my word…!” Kleiner sounds ten times more impressed than he feels, so it really must be something then.

“You think that’s cool, you should see this thing when it finds a headcrab! Or–” Matt reaches a hand out and grabs it, the propellor blades stopping in record time so they don’t slice his hands up. This… really is something. “See! And they just left this here with me!”

“How did you say they hacked this, again?” Kleiner asks, reaching out to take the Manhack– the hacked Manhack– into his hands.

“He just, touched it, I think.” Matt shrugs with half confidence.

“That’s– that’s not how that works?” Kleiner half argues.

“Well, it’s how that worked.” One step forward, two steps back.

Chapter Text

Breath in, breath out. In, then out. Easier said than done, but it’s all he can think of to stay calm. His head hurts. His chest hurts. He can’t move. He can’t breathe.

But panicking won’t help. He has to stay focused.

He wiggles around a little, hoping to loosen whatever’s on top of him, whatever’s trapping him.

…What happened?

Come to think of it, everything’s a bit hazy. There’s blood where his head was laying just a second ago, before he woke back up, which at least answers one question. He’s probably got a concussion from that.

Think; what does he remember? He remembers… his name; Gordon Freeman. He remembers… that he's a scientist— was a scientist— at Black Mesa. He’s at Black Mesa— East— too. Eli was there, but not with him. And Alyx, she was there— she was with him. There was a ball, a… faded red one, but it wasn’t very ball-like? But it was? Maybe there were two balls…?

None of that’s important. Think. There was… something coming. Alyx said as much. Then there were sirens, and gunfire, things falling from the sky and red lights shining in the darkness—

The rubble above him shifts as he moves it, and he just barely rolls himself out before it crumbles, crushing the ground where he’d just laid.

Okay. Okay. That’s– that’s good, he’s free and he’s alive.

Above him, the ceiling creaks and crumbles ever more. He doesn’t have time to move before it falls.

He doesn’t have to.

Dog– not a real dog, but Alyx’s dog– is holding all the rubble just above his head, staring at him with its lone red eye. Freeman gently pats his face, shuffling out from under the very dangerous concrete threatening to kill him. Dog drops it the moment he’s out, and turns to just… watch him.

There’s no one else around, and the tunnel– he shudders– is collapsed entirely on one end. He’s only left with one way to go, unless he wants to try and get Dog to clear a path out for them– but that could go very wrong, very quick. There’s no telling what parts are acting as supports to stop more of the tunnel from falling apart.

A faint orange glow captures his attention briefly. Ah, if it isn’t the Newton’s Apple of his eye; the Gravity Gun. It’s stuck under a bit of rubble, and as he pulls it out something gets caught and pulled— a strap. How useful. None of his other weapons came with any convenient, handy-dandy ways to carry them; no, the suit supplied that. The Gravity Gun, already ranked first place in his head (—in his mind) rises even higher on its pedestal of perfection. He slings it over a shoulder, letting the gun find some place behind him to bounce around.

So, he turns down the dark, not blocked off path. Dog follows behind him, leisurely but purposeful.

Each twist and turn down the ruinous tunnels— maybe halls is a better word?— makes him a little more anxious that things are far more wrong than they seem. There’s no one else besides him and Dog, and these tunnels look abandoned.

If he listens closely enough, he can hear faint gunfire. And actual fire. And far too many other worrying sounds, muffled by the mounds of mountain above him. The walls around him still shake with the strain of what has to be a fight. A fight he’s not a part of, for whatever reason.

He hurries down the tunnel— maybe corridor fits?— desperate to find—

An elevator, apparently. It’s another old one, that has gates blocking it off instead of doors, like the one he rode with Alyx however long ago now. Notably, said gate is missing. Even more notably, the elevator itself is missing. Torn out, if the twisted metal and ripped up walls are anything to go by. How… horrific.

What happened here?

As far as he can tell, there’s nothing else he’s missing, nothing extra he can remember. Was this tunnel already like this?

“That’s the old tunnel to Ravenholm,” The Alyx of his memories reminds him. “We don’t go there anymore.”

They could have other abandoned tunnels, or he might’ve even been out longer than he thought. Something deep down adamantly tells him that neither are true, that this is the tunnel to Ravenholm. It’s… concerning, given all of the other weird, unexplainable things going on with him. Is this too related? Is it just one of those gut feelings?

Is he just going insane?

Something nudges him towards a ladder in the elevator-less elevator shaft— Dog, probably. He’s not alone, he remembers. It’s… comforting, though he finds himself a little disappointed that Dog won’t be able to talk. He liked the back and forth Alyx had, and his alternates were… a little entertaining. Only a little, though. Even seven was generous of him, and not at all reflective of the many migraines they did give him. No sir.

For some reason, barely halfway up the ladder is a chain link fence gate, blocking him from the ladder. He can still climb up, it’s just like hopping a fence or whatever, which he has… no experience with. How hard can it be?

Very hard, he finds out immediately, his legs dangling down a drop that definitely shouldn’t kill him but definitely should hurt. The only reason he’s even still able to hold on is that the gloves of his HEV suit really do have a strong grip.

Okay, okay. This is great. Cool, even. He’s got this. Just gotta— reach one leg up, then the other—

Dog, who just moments ago was waiting at the bottom of the ladder, suddenly has a hand dug into the wall just above Freeman’s head. His other hand comes up under Freeman, and while it’s not big enough for him to stand on entirely, he does get good enough footing to climb back up, this time being much, much more mindful of where he places either foot. Dog continues to climb beside the ladder.

Freeman wonders if Alyx sent Dog with him, so he wouldn’t be alone again. It seems like something she’d do, although that might mean she’s alone.

He hopes not.

The top of the ladder comes out to… what he sort of thinks might be an attic. The creaky old wooden floorboards, the random forgotten boxes filled to the brim with whatever, they remind him of all the times he’d sneak away from family reunions and neighborhood barbecues to read someplace quiet. Someplace alone.

When did that change? When did he start wanting that companionship?

Why can’t he ever seem to keep it?

Dog appears just behind him, then in front as he lifts himself up over Freeman so he’s no longer hanging above the shaft. The floorboards groan under the pressure, but otherwise seem to hold–

Honestly, for the heartache the sudden drop causes, the few inches that Dog actually fell down feels very anticlimactic. Not an attic then, if the grass peeking out of the new opening is to be believed. Then again, grass is evil, scratches and irritates his skin, so maybe it isn’t to be believed.

Faint light, moonlight, seeps out from down a hallway and behind a corner. Anything’s better than a tunnel, so he follows the only path available. Yet again.

The first thing he notices is the fog, an ever so slight blue and green tint to it that seems scarily unnatural. The second thing he notices is a sign lying on a pile of leaves, the oranges and yellows much more vibrant than the faded paint letting him know he’s in Ravenholm. The third thing he notices is how quiet and dead the very air feels around him, how empty the town before him is. He’s never felt more unwelcome somewhere in his life.

A crow lands before him– no, two– five, actually. Some peck at the ground, some waddle around. One stares right at him, tilting its head like he has some breadcrumbs for it. Do crows take breadcrumbs, actually? Or is that just a goose thing? Is he thinking of pigeons, actually?

He steps forward, scaring all the birds off at once. He’s getting sidetracked, he needs to find some way back to Black Mesa East, or at least to Alyx or Eli, to find out what happened and how he can help. He can’t do any of that from here.

There’s light coming from a shed just up ahead, and it's the only light, besides the moon and the fog, so that’s where he goes. It's boarded up, but now he has something for that.

Sliding the Gravity Gun by its strap until it's back in his hands, he easily breaks the boards away with the burst of energy the gun shoots out.

This shed suddenly feels like the wrong place to be, what with all of the rusty saw blades and blood splatters across the walls and floors. Maybe he should… find a different way around.

Unfortunately, Dog is right behind him, and doesn’t seem to grasp the idea of backtracking in the slightest, so forwards he goes instead, into the creepy murder shed. He’s got a giant robot dog on his side and a gun that literally defies gravity. That should be more than enough to deal with whatever might be hiding in this ghost town, right?

Not if it's ghosts, the Barney he’s apparently manifesting in his mind tells him. At least he’s a little less alone, and only at the cost of some of his sanity! It’s questionable how much of it really remained intact to begin with. Ghosts defy gravity too y’know, Gordon.

Ghosts aren’t real, he argues back at Mind Barney. Mindney, if you will– no, that just sounds stupid. Mind Barney is a perfectly acceptable and completely accurate name.

Woah there Mr. Smarty-Pants-PhD, wanna cite your sources? Can’t just make a claim like that and not back it up, Mind Barney counterpoints, and he can just imagine the grin on his face– well so he is in Freeman’s head. Technically he’s imagining all of this. But if he were Real Barney, he’d definitely be grinning right now, because he’s once again used his trump card in these kinds of conversations; proof. There’s just not enough proof, not for ghosts, not for aliens– or there wasn’t, anyways–

My deepest of apologies, Sir Barnibus, he mentally bows, the same way Alyx had in the closet. Except mentally he's standing up. And physically, too, but that's not super relevant when it comes to the conversation in his mind. Is this what it's like for Freemind?

Look out–! Mind Barney warns, and he just barely stops himself from walking straight into some saws sticking out in the middle of a doorway. The worst he would've done was gotten a nasty cut on his face, really, maybe tetanus given just how rusty those saws are. Definitely nothing worth the fuss Mind Barney kicked up. There's even a table in the way, making it impossible for him to have ever even tried crossing through. It's fine. He's fine.

There's groaning coming from the otherside of the blocked off doorway, and he realizes, as the zombie shambles on through the room just out of reach, that maybe this murder shed wasn't used for killing things that were still alive.

Aiming the Gravity Gun at a saw blade on the wall, he picks it up and points it toward the zombie. He’s had enough practice just picking things up and throwing them apparently, because he’s graduated to using that in a fight. How fun.

Only, he misses. Sort of. Rather than cut through their head like he intends, to make sure it doesn’t get back up again, he hits their stomach, cleaves it in two. Which, allows it to claw and crawl its way towards him, now short enough to rush under the table. Straight to him.

With a stomp, he deals with that problem. The thing barely even peels or scrapes any of the paint off his suit.

Dog leans all the way down to the ground to get a look at the now dead zombie. Is that term correct, actually? Or is it contradictory?

He slides onto the table and under the blades to the other side. Zombies are naturally— or unnaturally, really— dead things risen. The alive returned, the dead walking. Can you kill something that isn’t alive? The dead dead sounds incredibly stupid— Dog breaks the table while trying to mimic Freeman’s own movements— and redundant sounding, though the meaning still carries, ultimately.

Now that he knows to listen, he can hear— he launches a blade at another zombie as it rounds the corner at him— a lot more of them roam the area. He’s… starting to sort of get an idea of why the rebellion doesn’t go to Ravenholm anymore. He doesn’t like the implications.

Something grabs at his leg— another zombie, of course, but one he’d assumed was already dead— and he quickly shoots it through the head with his… pistol. Hm. Come to think of it, with no Combine actively chasing him and no rebels to potentially run into, ammo will probably be scarce. Better not to waste a single shot, then.

A lone crow glides through the shed, down and around the corner. He… tries not to think of Freemind, as he and Dog follow the path it took.

There’s less fog out in… wherever the murder-shed led him. There’s a big ol’ tree! And a whirring spinny thing of death, which may sound childish, but it is accurate. Especially the death part, what with all of the blood pooled under the thing, some of it dry. Some of it… not dry. Whoever built it probably has something to do with the murder-shed.

And may even own the voice of whoever he’s hearing in the building just past the whirring spinny murder thing of death. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but he’s honestly just relieved to know he’s not actually alone in this place. Talking must also mean that there’s at least two people here, which is even better. Three heads are better than one, as the saying goes.

Pretty sure the saying is two heads, actually, a Mind Martini (heh… not that funny, actually…) apparently also manifesting. This is– he is– he’s getting worse, isn’t he? Talking to an imaginary Barney is… maybe a little questionable, but he’s lonely, he likes Barney, and he’s sort of going through a lot right now. Not the most insane thing ever.

He and Martini… he and Feetman didn’t leave off on so great terms, same for the rest of the group. He shouldn’t– he doesn’t miss them, so… why is he still thinking of them?

Still stuck on them?

Is it the mystery? The idea of the Multiverse, the allure of other worlds to explore? Were they too interesting to completely forget? Too loud for him to expect them to suddenly quiet in his brain? Or does he just miss being understood in a way he never thought would’ve been possible, given everything about him?

Freeman ducks under the whirring spinny murder thing of death, ignoring the real last question on his mind. He should– he should get out of Ravenholm first. Introspection can wait. There’s still no guarantee he’ll ever see them again, anyway.

No guarantee they’ll even want to see him again, either.

Dog’s clattering, ground-shaking steps are the only companionship he needs right now.

He stumbles down an alley, trying his hardest to focus on just launching any loose object he can at the zombies that roam around every corner, hiding in every nook waiting for him to slip up and prove that whatever happened in Black Mesa was a fluke, that he really shouldn’t have survived.

There’s too much light. He can barely see, past the weirdly bright fog, or the fluorescent lights coming from one direction mingling with the much more yellowed light of that street lamp.

One of the “loose objects” in question is apparently explosive, maybe another one of those barrels, if he had to guess. He’s not focusing all that well, evidently.

Closer now, he thinks whoever he’s hearing must be… preaching. Everything they say, they say with conviction, and they still remain uninterrupted. A bit like a monologue, but the words themselves sound more like a speech… directed at the zombies. He can make out a few things here and there, the word “deliverance,” the phrase “human no more,” some mindless screaming– no, that last one is the zombies.

He thinks that might be new.

The laughter is also new, and distinctly not from the zombies. The only light down this alley is a fiery mix of reds and oranges and yellows, the flames roaring high up and blocking off most of the alley. A singular, brighter yellow backlights the silhouette of a man, though that's all he can make out. If his eyes don’t get a break soon, he thinks he might go blind.

“But, who is this?” Calls a much more cheerful, perhaps jovial voice than he was expecting. He also wasn’t expecting the thick accent– Russian, maybe? “Another life to save?”

The man laughs some more, and Freeman is able to catch a glint of something gold around their neck. Dog barrels on ahead, down an alley that is completely on fire. Freeman, who cannot do that, opts to put the fire out first, seeing as there’s a large propane tank right next to the alley very clearly acting as the source of the flames.

He spares one last glance at the only other survivor around right now. He couldn’t’ve been… talking to himself, had he? That’s… holding a mirror straight up to his face, a sight he really doesn’t want to see right now. “I’ll keep my eye on you! More than that, I cannot promise!”

And with that, as suddenly as he appeared, and as brightly in all honesty, the man disappears, back into his potentially burning building. Freeman follows after Dog.

At least he isn’t alone, right?

Before he knows what's happening, Dog is suddenly lifting him up and dropping him off on the other side of some chain link fence. He probably could’ve climbed over it himself, were it not for the electrical current dancing along it and threatening the life of anything stupid enough to touch it. Dog grabs onto the wall next to it and lifts himself over as well. He’s not exactly sure what would happen to Dog, if he did touch it, but it’s probably for the best that they don’t purposefully try to find out.

Rather than climb over the other fence to exit to some different, equally zombie infested street, Freeman pulls down the fire escape of the building next to them and climbs up that instead. He’d like to get a lay of the land, a feel for how big this town really is, before he heads any deeper into it. Plus, there’s the added bonus that they probably won’t run into much trouble up here.

The building isn’t actually all that tall, the closer to the top he gets. The fire escape also doesn’t reach the top, either, evidently broken a third of the way up. Lovely.

There is, however, a convenient ledge sticking out of the building neighboring his own. You can guess where he jumps to– the gap isn’t even all that intimidating. Nothing like the dangers of navigating Black Mesa– before the Resonance Cascade even.

It’s honestly a wonder they ever passed a single safety inspection. Maybe Breen was paying people off?

“Well done brother!” Bellowing chuckles echo out of the broken, slanted roof of another neighboring building. The man from before walks out, much more visible in the moonlight, though the fog still works to obscure a few details here and there. “Make free use of my traps, but take care not to fall in them yourself!”

Ah, that explains… everything, going on down in the streets. Such as the whirring spinny thing of death! And the–

“Behind you!” He just barely ducks out of the way as the man points his– his shotgun directly at Freeman. There’s no gunshot, though, as the sound of something slams squishy into the wall with a disgusting squelch, the building shaking and groaning as Dog joins him up here, finally. The man just laughs, not at all phased by Dog’s presence and or his existence. “In Ravenholm, you do well to be vigilant!”

With that, he leaves, ducking back into the building he emerged from. What an… interesting character. How long has he been here, to have set up traps around the town? Why is he still here?

Freeman jumps down to some planks stuck between the two buildings– walkways, though he can’t say for certain if they were set up by Trap Guy, as he shall be dubbed for the time being, or if they were here when Ravenholm was still a place the rebels went to.

Dog beeps and hums at him, a bit frantic, and he realizes these planks probably aren’t going to be strong enough to hold his weight. He…

…decides he’ll be fine, for the moment, and points Dog after where Trap Guy went. He has to gesture a second time before Dog actually leaves him.

The planks lead him to a hole in an entirely different building, and from there he’s dropped back down onto the street. So much for seeing the whole town. Next time, maybe.

Something like a lever sits in between him and the exit to the alley he’s just stopped in. Of course, he pulls it, and a car comes flying down into the street below.

Ah. He gets it now.

The car is slowly lifted, and he waits for some of the many zombies in the street to wander his way before crushing them with the newly discovered trap. He doesn’t wait a second time, mostly because the pulley system is very slow, but also because the path is clear enough anyhow.

Just up ahead is a second car trap, although this one seems permanently triggered, the car remaining on the ground instead of being held up high.

Because it’s an elevator, Mind Barney and him both realize– or, he realizes it and since Mind Barney is in his– this is probably bad for him and his mental health. Whatever.

He spots and then subsequently pulls a different lever, hopping up onto the car as it raises into the air, stopping at some more plank-made walkways.

“Better and better!” Trap Guy is on another roof, just above him. Dog peers around from behind him. “I am Father Grigori! You have already met my… congregation!”

Trap Guy– or, Father Grigori, now that he has a name– laughs. A lot. He… he seems to do that a lot. This time Freeman disappears first, heading along the planks and into a building.

There’s a sudden thud behind him, and he turns to see Dog has once again rejoined him. He– he should probably go with Grigori– Freeman will be fine on his own–

Dog shuffles on past him, and apparently that's that. They push down the hallway, Dog clearing a path for them while Freeman handles any stragglers that come out of the various doors in the hall. He even opens a few before something can bust the doors down, just to get the jump on them.

One such “jump” nearly earns him several bullets to various places in his body, Grigori having shot a zombie down through a window from his own building just next door.

“Ah, it is you brother!” Grigori waves, as if that’ll help the fact that he very nearly seriously injured Freeman. “I apologize! But, no harm done! My bullets are the least of your concerns.”

He then gestures to a ladder a building or two up the block, before turning and disappearing once more. Is that… where he’s supposed to go next?

With a shrug, he climbs out the window and manages to scale down to the street below, easily making it to said ladder. Maybe by the end of this, he’ll be able to do all that acrobatic stuff that… Freemind could…

Dog makes some sort of humming, whirring noise, peeking around his shoulder and at his face. He steps aside so Dog can once again take the lead for them. There’s… some thinking he needs to do, some introspection he finally needs to grapple with. The ball is in his court, or however the saying goes. Change is up to him.

“Although they call me crazy, I care not, for thou art my helper, my strength, and my savior!” Grigori calls to… the heavens, probably. It doesn’t sound directed at Freeman, so it’s not something he’ll worry about. There’s… a lot of other things higher up on the priority list.

Mind Barney snorts, humourlessly. Like talking ‘bout those new friends a’yours?

Freeman snorts, derisively. They aren’t my friends.

They were. What happened Gordon? You can talk to me.

I can’t. You aren’t really here.

Try anyway.

He stops for a minute. Sighs, drags a hand slowly down his face. Try anyway floats around in his brain because– that’s what he’s been doing, the whole time, hasn’t he? He shouldn’t have survived Black Mesa, but he tried anyway. He shouldn’t have beaten the Nihilanth, but he tried anyway. He shouldn’t have made it this far in a world so different to the one he knew yesterday, but he has, because he tried anyway.

Despite all of their differences, all the things that should’ve torn them apart, the distrust and the lying, the violence and the insanity, he and seven alternate versions of himself stuck it out, made it work, because they tried anyway.

It all fell apart when they stopped, when they gave up, when they walked away.

Try anyway, but it’s not Mind Barney’s voice anymore. He doesn’t dare identify this one.

And then there was green, not from him or his suit this time, but from the floorboards, peeking and pushing between the cracks and crevices. It’s the exact same shade, same hue, same whatever, but there’s still something… unfamiliar about it. He knows it, but he doesn’t–

The world shakes, all of a sudden, Freeman falling to the ground as Dog falls to– through the floor. He doesn’t hear any impact, scrambles to the edge of the jagged hole, to see just how far down–

Creaking– groaning– falling. It all happens so quick it may as well have been one sensation. He lands far too quickly, and is– he’s alone, save for the–

Save for the many, many zombies ambling on towards him, like they have all the time in the world.

They pile and pile onto him, crushing, clawing, gnawing, scratching, biting— the Gravity Gun tumbles just out of reach, strap broken in two. He can’t get to any of his guns, and Dog’s gone and he’s all alone.

He did this to himself. That’s really all there is to it. The world is in ruins, like a flame burning and burning until it slowly, suddenly dies out, and it’s his fault. All of his friends are suffering the fallout of his mistake, trapped here, in this fire losing fuel, and the ones he cares the most about don’t even have the heart to blame him.

Green. Green.

Green green green green green green green green green green green green green green green green—

All it EVER is is that GREEN— always chasing— always haunting him— never leaving the way they did, even though for once it’s what he wants more than anything—

It explodes out of him, sending the dead every which way— proper corpses once more. He’s left slowly climbing back onto his knees, back up—

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Freeman doesn’t need to look up to figure out which one that is.

Still, he glares up defiantly at Freemind all the same.

His forehead meets cold steel, the barrel of a gun lazily aimed for his brain. If only the HEV suit came with a helmet.

Freemind glares right back, though there’s something… missing, in it.

“How about we have that chat now?” He crouched down to Freeman’s height, gun just barely still pointed towards his head. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

That green rises up in the crevices again, inside of him again, ready to for another—

And he lets it die again.

Yeah, he can… he can cooperate. If it means they’ll stay together, at least for a little while… he missed them, if not this. One of them is better than—

“Oh for— get that out of his face!” The gun is suddenly slapped away, Martini stepping between them as much as he can, which is… very little. It’s the thought that counts, or whatever. He’s just happy to see him too.

“I thought I told you to stay in the other room. This could get ugly, and you clearly can't handle that,” Freemind sneers, standing back up. He glares at Freeman until he does too, and he’s… already feeling very lost, and it hasn’t even been a minute since they’ve been back together. At least that hasn’t changed.

“‘This could get ugly and you can’t handle that,’” Feetman parrots back mockingly. “God, you are SUCH an asshole, you know that?”

Oh. Oh no.

“At least I’m not some goddamn coward like you! Or some secretive fucking liar!” Not hard to figure out who Freemind means there. This is— this is worse than he thought. They can be mad at him, sure— but—

“Oh, like you’re so fucking brave? The pinnacle of honesty? Get real, everything you hate about the rest of us, you hate about yourself too, jackass!” And that just… isn’t true. Not to Freeman. There are a lot more things he hates about himself, and a lot less he ever hated about them.

“At least I’m not the one who makes it fucking everyone else’s problem!”

“This is what you call not making it anyone else’s problem?? You—“

That’s enough. He thinks about shooting his gun, to get their attention. He thinks better of it, though. That’s… not the way to end the argument. Instead, he does the next best thing.

Channeling the energy of Kleiner, in the quiet moments after some other argument with another scientist about Freeman, Eli before he blew up at Magnusson or some other self-absorbed asshole, or Barney when he discovers Freeman at his desk again after another late night… or Alyx, when for a minute she maybe could’ve sensed he was about to try that conversation again…

He sighs, so incredibly disappointed he’s sure everyone in a ten mile radius suddenly feels ashamed of themselves and their actions leading up to now.

Freemind and Feetman both shut the hell up, at least.

‘You wanted to talk, so let's talk.’ He brings his hand up to his chin, resting his index against it as he wiggles each finger, a bit aggressively, really, but it gets the point across. ‘Talk.’

Chapter Text

Arc 1 Cont.
Chap. 10
Me, Myself, and I

Turns out actually talking it out like adults might be a bit difficult. His talk with Alyx had made it seem… smaller. Far more manageable than the awkward, threatening silence they have going on. Honestly, pointing guns at one another again might actually lower some of the tension. Maybe. Possibly.

He doesn’t try it, however. He doesn’t want to resolve this with violence of any kind, not if he can help it. It sets a bad precedent for the future. They’re going to do it right this time. He won’t let what happened at the dam happen ever again.

Only, it seems he might be the only one with that opinion. Martini’s off to the side, stacking up boxes to barricade them in. Freeman’s gaze climbs up to the hole in the ceiling, briefly. While it’d be nice to know they wouldn’t be interrupted for once, that’s not entirely guaranteed at the moment.

Freemind, meanwhile, is sitting on a crate across from him, and while he’s not pointing the pistol in his hand directly at Freeman, the way it loosely hangs is a threat enough. He gets the feeling if they’d been able to find ropes or something similar, he’d be tied to his own crate right now.

It almost feels like he’s living out an overly dramatized PSA right now, what with how extreme the situation seems, having snowballed from just god-awful communication skills. Then again, they’re alternate versions of not just the same person, but the person who single-handedly ended the world. Maybe royally fucking up to this degree is just… an intrinsic part of who he is? Whoever that may even be at this point… they don’t even all have the same name!

”Are you even going to question him? Or just glare him to death?” Martini asks, turning his attention away from the world’s most boring game of Tetris.

”I thought you didn’t want any part in this?” Freemind barks back, glare turned to him. Part of Freeman can’t help but wonder… is there that kind of anger in himself? It’s certainly possible, they are the same person. It’s just… he’s so angry. Constantly. Freeman’s new to the whole multiverse thing, but there has to be a reason, right? A reason why Freemind is like that while the rest of them aren’t?

Martini throws his hands up, a nasty look of his own directed at Freemind for a minute, before he turns back to his boxes and crates.

Mind turns back to him. “He’s right, though. It’s clear it doesn’t matter how long we sit here, you aren’t going to tell me shit unless I start things. So,” he taps the barrel of the gun against his leg, and Freeman can imagine him sorting through his questions, looking for the most pressing ones to ask first, lest time be against them. It’s certainly how he would look at things. “Why did you bring us here? And how?”

’I didn’t,’ he signs.

Freemind seems to wait another moment, as if expecting more of an answer. His glare deepens when he realizes there isn’t. “Really? I mean, sure, it’s possible,” he throws his hands out, the image evoking the memory of Martini doing the exact same, several times over, “the Combine certainly have the technology to open portals to other universes, hell, they do it all the time! It’s how they got here, to your world, and mine, and his, and—“

”The Combine aren’t in my world?” Martini interrupts, noticing the brief second Freemind had pointed at him.

”Bullshit,” Freemind deadpans.

Freeman can’t think of what to say to that, although in his mind he recalls having hypothesized exactly that. Mental fist pump to the air! Minor wins are still wins! Mind Barney agrees cheerfully.

“Even if they aren’t there now, they’ll come for you soon, just like they did the rest of us!” Freemind declares, waving the gun around in a very concerning display. Freeman’s glad he only has Mind Barney accompanying him right now, because Real Barney might have a heart attack at this blatant disregard for gun safety. “And that’s not even my point, anyways!”

‘Ever heard of Chekov’s Gun?’ he asks instead, gesturing to Freemind’s own gun that he hopefully at least still remembers is in his hand. It’s maybe not the best way to persuade him to show better gun safety, but then again not only is Freeman not all that good with social interactions, but he’s also (dubiously) got 20 missed years of practice, mountains of stress, and a myriad of other problems he’s been more focused on.

Surprisingly enough, his comment… actually works. Freemind, albeit very notably begrudgingly, does put the gun down at his feet, pointed off to the side where an accidental misfire won’t hit anyone. “There,” he groans, “it’s out of sight, out of mind. So, while technically possible, why in the WORLD would the Combine want to bring six versions of you here? Y’know, the guy who presumably is a known hero among what’s left of humanity and stopped the previous alien invasion? More of you means more of a problem!”

A very good point. ‘So then it wasn’t them.’

”Oh good, we agree! So then I ask you, who else could’ve?” Freemind claps his hands together, a manic look in his eye.

‘The… Resistance…’ his hands freeze before he can say anything more, something finally dawning on him.

”Oh, a very good guess, because they have the exact opposite motive of the Combine and would like more you’s running around, even if they got us instead!” His hands hit his own chest a little too hard, and wow, if that isn’t telling. Given all the other crazy stuff he’s seen them manage to do, he’s once again drawn to the question of whether or not they can read minds. Any of them.

He knows what it's like to not measure up to people’s expectations— he knows the feeling all too well. But— well, he’d always hated that he could never quite argue back in a way that would truly make him feel heard. But for someone like Freemind? He can see a different issue, one that may even be more damaging; his hot-headed temper and rather loud personality dragging him further down. His impulsive violence making things worse, not only proving that he’s not what people wanted or expected him to be, but that he’s as far from it as possible. It’s… literally what happened here. The other members of the railroad were afraid of him, almost in the same way they were afraid of the Combine! Hell, even Freeman himself doubted Mind and his intentions, his motivations, his character!

And yet, all the evidence was right there. Freemind still fought the Combine, aimed to take their lives before they could kill those in the resistance. He showed remorse for the dead, concern for the health and well-being of anyone around him, even if he didn’t actually try to voice it all that much!

Now that he’s thinking about it, he can picture a lot of that applying to Martini too. He’s always so anxious, so loud, and always seemingly so preoccupied with how the people around him viewed him. It seems like an odd thing to prioritize, especially in this particular setting, but…

He sees it now. With the violence out of sight, the adrenaline waning, he can actually focus. They’re just… him. They have been the whole time, just coping differently. Not just with the stress of the literal end of the world, no, he would’ve figured it out sooner then. They’re coping with just… life. Like everyone is. And he refused to trust them because they were doing it differently from him. It had seemed odd because they were him, so he expected them to be the same.

Well, at least he gets it now. Or, he thinks so, at least. But that’s not what Freemind’s asking him about.

‘Actually…’

”…because of course it would just make sense! Except, they can’t have been behind this, because for something this elaborate, they would’ve had way more planned, and we wouldn’t have been following you around like chickens with our heads cut off now, would we? Hmm?” Oh god, has he been going on this whole time? His ranting just seems to be riling himself up more. At least when Freeman does this himself, it’s all trapped inside his head so no one else is subjected to his derangement.

”Alright! Shut up! We get it, you don’t think the resistance did this on their own! Just accuse him already! You sound insane!” Martini yells, exasperated.

This feels like it’s brewing up to be the dam argument all over again. Maybe he should… mediate? That’s sort of what Mercy did. Then again, Mercy’s way is what seemed to incite them to actually split apart. Whether that was for better or worse is another story.

“At least I’m actually WILLING to say what I’m thinking! You just let it fucking fester and fester until you explode on someone who’s just trying to HELP you!” Freemind stomps up from the crate, attention fully turned on Martini now.

“You call dragging me along for your conspiracy bullshit help?? All you wanted was someone to yell to on and on about how you never should’ve trusted anyone! Hell, you kept a gun pointed at me for like, most of the trip here! And for what? Are you getting the answers you wanted? Were you proven right yet? That this is all some trick just to kill you, or something, you paranoid psychopath?” Martini marches over, fists balled. Which… at least one of them isn’t a gun. Yet.

“Don’t act like I’m not clearly onto something here! I mean, why us? Why now? Why here? The rest of you are insane for not questioning things more! Do you think if you just shoot enough ‘bad guys’ that some angel’s going to come down and thank you for diligently trusting in the blood you’ve spilt? Explain how this was all just some test and send you on your way?” Freemind becomes more animated as he yells, and it sort of looks like a mirror image, the two of them arguing.

Freeman steps up, looking for something he can make noise with. His eyes land on the pistol Freemind left, and… no. Not like that. Not again.

“You’re acting like weirder shit hasn’t happened before! I mean, you’ve literally confirmed aliens invaded your world! They’ve invaded mine! There’s three of the same person in this room, and a handful more out there somewhere!! Is it really so crazy to believe that if we fight and survive and get the hell out of here, that we wouldn’t finally find some answers?” He’s all but yelling now.

“Except that’s just it! You’re not even looking for answers! You’re just expecting them to come from fucking NOWHERE!!” And he may as well just be yelling now.

“Just because the rest of us aren’t insane enough to point fingers at anything that moves doesn’t mean we aren’t questioning the same things you are! God, do you really have to be the smartest in the room even when the only other people around are literally you?”

“I can’t help if the other versions of me are defective!” Freeman winces, even if that comment wasn’t directed at him specifically.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean??” Martini demands.

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? I’m smarter than the rest of you assholes! I’m the only one that’s trying to figure out what the hell is actually going on, and I'm the only one that’s actually going to find a way home!”

“Oh, back to your war-torn hellworld! How exciting for you! I’m sure all your friends are just dying for you to finally come home!”

“You know, ever since I first met you I’ve been wondering how in the hell you could’ve survived not one, but two invasions. Now I know, you didn’t! You needed help to even get through one! And I get to live on in my ‘war-torn hellworld’ while you’ll die within the first hour of the war. Which, by the way, is a generous estimate.”

Freeman takes a deep breath, forcing both of their voices out of his head for a brief second. There’s no point in going into this angry. It’d just make the situation worse. He wanted an actual conversation between them. Technically, he is getting that, and it’s definitely… not leaving anything left unsaid. Besides all the important information they’re arguing over knowing and not-knowing, that is. But, whatever. They had to start somewhere, and they’ve decided this is how they want to start things.

It’s just up to him to guide the conversation to something… constructive? Informative? Genuinely helpful?

He tunes back in just in time to catch a brief pause, the short moment between them where the other takes over hurling insults. In all honesty it’s a very polite way to argue, what with the lack of talking over one another. He’d be… impressed, maybe even proud, if the situation was far less tense and had fewer stakes.

Freeman sets a hand on either shoulder. At first, he’d been thinking of covering their mouths, but… that didn’t feel right either. He doesn’t want to silence them, he just wants their attention, their focus so that they can actually figure things out, rather than all this.

“Oh, finally got something to say?” Freemind asks.

“Why don’t you just keep quiet like you have the rest of the time?” Martini complains.

Freeman takes a deep breath in, willing for this to work like he hopes it will.

“Please. Sit. Down.”

His voice is raspy, and it’s incredibly difficult to get it much higher than a whisper. And yet…

Without so much as (another) snide comment, the two slowly back away, dragging their jaws with them until they each find a crate somewhere behind them they can slump down on.

Freeman himself drags his long forgotten crate back over so they’re not talking to each other from other ends of the room. That worked… better than he expected it to. He’s actually a bit proud of himself.

‘Now then,’ he signs, noting how their eyes lock onto his hands immediately. There’s no expression to read on their faces at the moment, and he decides to continue pretending that doesn’t unnerve him. ‘I think I might know how you got here.’

He expected to hear a “Finally” from Freemind, mixed with him slouching over with his arms crossed as he stared away from them for a second. Or maybe, for Martini to shoot Mind some triumphant look. Instead, he gets… nothing. Nothing except their continued blank stares.

Do they expect him to explain this out loud now? He doesn’t think he can do that, and that’s assuming he even wants to! Which, he does not. That feels… torturous. Now that he’s tried just three words his throat feels all scratchy and he’s reminded that he hasn’t had clean water in… a concerning amount of time. Or food, now that he’s thinking about that, or sleep. All the moments he’s had of peace have still been busy, sorting through what to do now, talking through his feelings, and other mentally taxing tasks that haven’t freed him up to get into even a slightly better shape than he’s currently in. And now they’re expecting him to talk because he just did and everybody always assumes after he does that he just can and that he should be–!

“Well?” Martini asks, the expressionlessness falling away to concern, or at least something adjacent to that.

Avoiding eye contact, he continues. After all, they can’t urge him to speak with just strange looks if he can’t even see them, right? ‘Before I– right before you two had shown up, I had been– they had tried to send me to Eli’s lab, and I ended up– we met there in the trainyard because it failed and I think–’

He’s losing track of what he’s saying. It’s hard to talk when that happens.

“Alright! Alright,” Freemind interrupts, holding his hands up in a mock surrender. Freeman slowly turns to properly face them again. “You were sent through what I’m assuming was supposed to be a portal? Or something along those lines? Except it went wrong, sent you to a trainyard instead of a lab, and you met us?”

‘Not a portal,’ he slowly manages to sign out, hoping the shaking will stop sooner rather than later. No one from Black Mesa had plans to ever create a portal again. Not to mention, a portal going wrong like the teleport did would likely have far different consequences.

“So more like they were trying to teleport you there. And you’re thinking that it… dragged us along for the ride?” Martini guesses.

“How would that even work? Why grab us specifically? Why intermittently?”

“Who said we had to show up at different times?”

“Uhm, the fact that those other asshats didn’t show up until sometime after we did?”

“That doesn’t mean they entered this world later, that just means we didn’t see them until then. The world doesn’t revolve around you y’know.”

“No, you’re right! Apparently it revolves around him, since he’s the oh-so special messiah sent to save all of them, and also who someone, specially, brought all of us here too!” Freemind mockingly bats his eyelashes at Martini. “Don’t you think we would’ve heard if the other us’s had been around? They’re not exactly quiet. Or stealthy.”

“They are literally dressed in big bulky colorful suits.”

“Oh, so now you agree with me?”

“I’m not trying to argue with you! I’m trying to have a civilized discussion about how the fuck we got here! Stop trying to pick a fight with me!”

“What? Too scared to fight back? God, I can’t believe in your world I’m such–”

Freeman stomps, glaring. It’s like herding cats. They only want to listen to their own whims, and cause as much misery and mayhem while they do it. ‘When the teleport failed I saw… something?’

“Right… something,” Martini nods along, like a parent praising a child’s ‘drawing’.

“He’s implying that something was us, or something related to us, dipshit.” Mind rolls his eye. “Learn to read subtext.”

“Do not act like that was 100%, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what he meant when he said that!” Martini points.

Freemind ignores him. “So you’re telling me it’s just a random coincidence we got brought here? I mean come on, ‘why us’ is still a perfectly valid question!”

‘Maybe you were drawn here because your universes are closer than others?’ He hazards a guess.

“What the fuck does that even mean in this context?” Freemind throws his hands up into the air.

“Actually, wait, hold on a second,” Martini says to himself, hand to his chin in a stereotypical display of contemplation. “If we’re assuming everyone here had shown up at the same time–”

“We’re not.”

“And that we just didn’t know where they were until they ended up right in our faces…” Martini trails off, looking up at the both of them. Clearly, he sees the realization in both of their eyes, though he continues on anyway. “Who’s to say… that we’ve found every other version of us here?”

Freeman feels a shiver go down his spine, even though in theory they’re just talking about more versions of him running around, and that, in theory, shouldn’t be a problem.

It definitely feels like one, to have a bunch of alternates of him running around. Unaccounted for. Oh god.

“Except we shouldn’t just assume that! Because science is not built on unfounded assumptions–”

“Who says it’s unfounded? Jackass.”

“It’s built upon completely grounded and factually backed theories!”

Even if it wasn’t intended to be, Freeman does find that moderately comforting. Putting a hand to his chin, he throws out a quick ‘thank you’ to Freemind.

He doesn’t at all expect for Freemind to hold his open hand up and touch his thumb to his chest twice; ‘It’s fine.’

Freeman blinks. Once. Twice. ‘You know sign?’

“Uh, duh? How the hell else would we have understood you the whole fucking time? Being the same person doesn’t make us psychic, or whatever.” Freemind stares at him, dumbfounded. Freeman feels about the same. He’d just– it had never really come up, whether they actually understood him, like that, or not. He’d just… at some point he’d maybe started to assume it was just another effect of the… other weird stuff going on with him. His eyes land on the cracks in his suit, and the green just barely visible deep within when he stares long enough.

“Actually, I have been wondering about that. I get why you know sign,” Martini gestures to Freeman, “but why do you know it?”

“Hello? It’s a completely silent language! Knowing it is a tactical advantage.”

“You’re a scientist?? What kind of tactical advantages do you need? Do you work in a prison??”

“May as well be with the quote en quote ‘food’ they give us,” Freemind says with an eyeroll. “Now stop controlling the conversation and explain why you know ASL.”

“Controlling the–? Nevermind.” Martini pushes his hair back, evidently swallowing a lot of frustration. Which is an improvement from earlier!! A win is a win! He hears Mind Barney cheering in the back of his mind with him. What a healthy coping mechanism this is. “My Joshie’s selectively mute. I got a book on ASL for the both of us so he could still try and communicate when he gets stressed– that’s when he stops talking. Sometimes I can’t get him to shut up…”

He trails off with a fond laugh, one that hurts to hear, knowing…

“Who?” Freemind asks rather bluntly, and wow, it’s clearly someone important and right this second is maybe not–

“My son? Or– our son? God this is confusing…”

…His. What?

“No fucking way.”

“Wait, do you guys not have…? Oh. I… am not sure what to–”

“I WAS RIGHT!! ALL ALONG!” Freemind exclaims, climbing onto his crate.

Martini and Freeman both just stare at Freemind. This is a very weird rollercoaster of revelations that Freeman is less and less interested in being on by the second.

“YOU REALLY ARE A DIVORCED DAD! HA!!” He cheers, from atop his crate. He might fall, with how much of his balance is just being pushed… up.

“Is that really what you’re focusing on right now?”

‘Wait you are divorced?? When were you even married?’ Freeman turns all of his focus on Martini. Who would he have even married? Was it before or after he started at Black Mesa? God he’d be really young either way, especially to have a son old enough to not only be able to talk (sometimes) but to need to learn an entire second language (in some sense) to continue to communicate when stressed (is he old enough to go to school? That can certainly be a stressful time.)

“Good god slow down! I can only answer… so many… questions…” Martini stares at him, something like a haunted look at his face.

Oh good, so at least they’re both on the same page. What the FUCK??

“What’s going on with you two? I don’t think I even remember him signing that fast. Or that much,” Freemind asks, suddenly standing (on the ground) between the both of them.

“You didn’t hear him?” Martini whips his head around to question, sounding non-too-conspicuous. Surely not. Certainly. Definitely.

“Just… now?” Freemind guesses, eye darting between the two of them.

Martini shrugs. Suspiciously.

“I can’t say… that I did…” Freemind crosses his arms, his judgemental gaze now solely locked on Martini. In all honesty, Freeman isn’t even sure why they’re… what, trying to hide it? Aren’t they supposed to be breaking down the walls and finally talking things out? Truthfully?

Actually, that’s right… he lifts a hand up to stare at the cracks, at the green. He should… probably tell them about that. It might even– no, it definitely is related to whatever keeps letting… Martini hear him, even when he’s not talking. Which is often. Nearly all of the time.

As if just thinking about it fed into it, the green glow intensifies, enough to actually be noticeable now. The hand he’s holding up actually has the green bolt around like lightning, jumping from one crack to another. There’s a sort of humming that accompanies it now, one that’s very difficult to liken back to anything he’s familiar with.

Both Freemind and Martini look over then, and their eyes widen comically at the sight.

To be fair, if Freeman hadn’t had a front row seat to whatever bullshit this is, he’d likely be just as taken aback.

‘I don’t know either,’ He signs quickly, before they can ask. ‘It’s just… been here. Like this.’

“Since that vortigaunt?” Freemind questions, and like a lightbulb just lit up above his head, Martini leans forward too. Conversely, Freeman isn’t even sure which of the vorts he’s referring to.

“Wait, yeah! That happened back then too! We– I remember– god that feels like so long ago. I think I even remember us trying to talk about this earlier on.” Martini approaches, slowing down the closer he got, as if the green might lunge out at him. It might, really. Hell if Freeman knows what to expect at this point.

Although… he actually does remember Freemind and Martini pulling him aside from the rest of the group, after… they’d just destroy a bunch of Manhacks. He’d gotten a hold of one, the green reacted, and he hurried them out of there. He never actually saw what, if anything, happened to the Manhack.

The memory… brings up a different question for Freeman.

‘Why do you two want to stay with me?’ He asks, a bit bluntly now that he thinks about it.

“What does that mean?” Martini asks, glancing at Freemind as if to see if he understands the question.

‘Back then, you two kept coming back to me and deciding between the three of us if we should leave or not. You even came back now, even after things ended! Why?’ He signs out slowly, getting more confident the more he says. It’s something that’s been bugging him this whole time. Come to think of it, Mercy, Streamer, and Cicero had been their own little trio back when they first met up. Or, at least they had seemed like one. Are they all together now?

He hopes so.

“Because I can actually see myself in the two of you,” Freemind says easily. It’s actually a bit surprising. He’d really thought this might be a bit more of a hassle.

“I mean, you’re an asshole, and Gorgeous is an asshole. Is that not a good enough similarity?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He barely even sounds angry. Well, he did admit he was self-aware enough earlier to know he could be a real jerk sometimes.

Martini rolls his eyes. “Anyways, my answer’s about the same. You two seem like actual, real people I could meet in like, my daily life and whatnot. The others… less so.”

‘You and Streamer seemed to understand each other just fine?’ Genuinely, he’s been wondering about that this whole time. Both would randomly bring up some term or word he’s never heard in his life! Yet they would both know it instantly, and act like it was a perfectly normal thing to say.

“I mean… he just talks like he’s terminally online. That’s not particularly special. If anything, it just reminded me of a headache from my own world. I would like the record to show, however, that I never once voted for us to ditch the others. That was all this guy!” He points both hands at Freemind, while staring Freeman down as if to challenge him to argue the truth of that statement.

“Don’t act like it wasn’t a good or perfectly justifiable idea! Not only were they crazy, but their crazy could’ve very easily turned against us!”

“See, there you go again assuming they’d betray you and planning their own betrayal instead! Notice how they might not actually be the problem here?”

“First of all, only idiots let themselves get betrayed first. Second of all, I also meant that their bullshit could’ve easily gotten us hurt. I literally saw Mercy fire an RPG right at the ground, where he was standing!” Freemind slaps his accusatory fingers away. “I fucking DARE you to try to tell me I’m not the least bit justified in thinking maybe we don’t want to be too close to someone like that!”

‘He did WHAT??’

“When the hell did that happen? Is he okay?”

‘Are his legs still attached? How long ago was this? Can we still get to him?’

“Both of you chill the fuck out! It was back when we had like, a dozen Hunter-Choppers on our ass. Asses? Anyways, you both saw him right after! He was fine!”

Freeman blinks. Is that… how he flung himself up into the air at the Chopper? How would one even be able to do that safely?

“Oooh, like TNT Jumping in Minecraft.”

“Okay, what in the HELL is ‘mine craft’? Don’t you DARE dodge the question this time or I swear to all that is unholy I will strangle you to DEATH!” Freemind grabs Martini by the collar of his HEV suit, shaking him back and forth as he demands answers.

“Okay– OKAY!! It’s a fucking VIDEO GAME!! God damn!” Martini shoves him off. “Jesus Christ!” He throws his arms in the air.

Ah. That makes a bit of sense. ‘Like a Nintendo?’

For a single second, Martini just stares at him. Blankly. He almost tries to explain what he means– what that is, only before he can even start, Martini turns around. He kicks one singular box, and the stack he’d created falls away. Not a single crate hits him, which is great because he doesn’t seem like he’d dodge at the moment.

Once the entrance is clear enough, he turns around the corner and disappears.

Not even a moment later, there’s an anguished, disturbing cry. Freeman and Freemind only spare a glance as they dart out the building, after Martini.

Who’s just… leaned against a wall, head first, gaze pointed firmly at the ground. It’s a bit sad, actually. Is he okay?

He looks to Freemind (Martini can’t exactly see him at the moment), and asks ‘Is it something I said?’

Freemind shrugs. “I don’t know! Barney was the one into that nerd shit, not me.”

‘You’re literally a scientist? You have a PHD?’

“I fail to see how that correlates.”

‘See, using the word ‘correlates’ is just more evidence to the contrary, in my opinion.’

“‘A Nintendo’? A fucking ‘Nintendo’? Who calls it that?” Martini mutters to himself, heartbroken.

There’s a loud crash somewhere further beyond. Seeing as Martini’s distress is… not very dire, Freeman turns to go investigate the new noise instead.

“Aw shit, I only have one now,” Freemind complains, two steps behind him.

‘Only one…’ He peeks further behind himself, seeing the pistol in his hand. Oh. Oh woe to him. How tragic that he cannot duel wield. What a shame that he is relegated to only using one pistol! Or, worse yet, the shotgun strapped to his back! Oh the humanity!

“Go fuck yourself. It’s not my fault you’re too stupid to try shooting with more than one gun,” Freemind argues. He continues walking, even as Freeman stops.

Did he even notice?

“Wait…” He suddenly looks back, gobsmacked.

A sudden, sickenly mix of a splat and a crunch sounds somewhere behind Freemind, and they both look to find a zombie crawling towards them– or, half of one. Its legs aren’t missing, however. They’re just a short bit away, seemingly having been severed from being thrown which would explain the crunch. Not that the zombie seems all that concerned. Freemind shoots it in the headcrab. Once. Twice. It stops moving.

They both spare one more glance to Martini, who’s evidently still staring off in the distance in horror. Freeman only feels marginally guilty, on account of not even knowing what he said. Or even if what he said is the issue. It might not be.

With that, they both silently agree to trek further for the moment, to investigate what made the noise. He’s really hoping it's just one of Father Griggori’s traps.

Running down some stairs, they turn around a corner down into the alley the zombie came from. More corpses litter the sides, both old and new blood splattering the walls. None of them are moving, at least. There aren’t any obvious traps, though. Which means whatever did this is either hidden, or on the move. Either option seems less than ideal. Should they still…?

Distant and muffled, he hears a very familiar… almost beeping sound.

Freeman rushed down the alley, pushing open a door that was already slightly ajar and, now that he’s closer, clearly misaligned. Something big likely pushed through, and now he thinks he knows what. Freemind sputters from somewhere behind him, some question he can’t make out as he rushes through the building. It looks like he’s in the back room of some store. Through another door, broken just like the previous one, he hears a wet sounding thumping. Without hesitation, he pushes that door the rest of the way open too.

He’s as relieved as he is shocked to find Dog in the main part of the store, what must’ve been a zombie falling apart in his hand in a chunky, mushy paste. Dog looks to him the moment he opens the door, and lets out what sounds like a cheery, gleeful sort of beep.

For a second though, he swears their eye is green. He blinks, though, and it’s the usual red it’s supposed to be.

He’s not sure what to believe, but his gut tells him he wasn’t just seeing things, and he’s inclined to trust it.

“What the HELL is THAT??” Freemind chokes out, immediately placing a hand on Freeman’s shoulder and shoving him out of the way. Freeman has barely even a second to react, pushing the pistol up just in time for it to fire at the ceiling, instead of Dog. Freemind glares at him incredulously.

‘That’s Dog. He’s a friend,’ Freeman explains, extra slowly to really drive the point home.

“That is not a fucking dog. Do not fucking lie to me,” Freemind points accusingly at him. With the hand holding the gun. Freeman pushes the pistol back down.

‘Not ‘a dog’, his name is Dog,’ Freeman deadpans.

Dog beeps affirmatively.

Freemind flips him off. “You’re not part of this conversation!”

Freeman slaps his hand back down. ‘It’s literally about him?’

“I fail to see how that changes anything.” Freemind crosses his arms.

A zombie beats at a window at the store front, and Dog darts for the window, previous zombie forgotten as he thrusts a hand through the glass and crushes the head crab of the new zombie.

And then Dog looks back at the two of them, as if checking to see if that was right.

Something seems wrong. Freeman gives a tight lipped smile, just barely managing a thumbs up—

“OH! Who’s a good boy? Who eviscerated that zombie? You did! That’s right! That’s right!” Freemind claps his hands, approaching Dog easily and patting his faceplates. Freeman almost can’t believe how quickly he changed his tune. Almost.

Figures he’d like the big intimidating, zombie-killing robot.

Dog sets two hands on either side of Freemind, the back two legs beating at the ground in excitement, before Dog suddenly turns around entirely and lunges out the window. Freemind cackles madly as Dog takes on more of the… ‘Congregation’, as Father Griggori called them.

“Y’know, I can’t say I haven’t always wanted a robot minion to destroy all my enemies with! Where’ve you been hiding that thing anyway?” Freemind rubs his hands together in… well the only word that truly feels fitting and appropriate is ‘schemily’, turning to face Freeman again, although his head stays pointed outside, as if the idea of missing a second of the carnage Dog is unleashing upon the streets is impossible.

‘Not mine,’ Freeman shakes his head. At Freemind’s questioning look, he continues, ‘A friend sent him with me.’

“You have friends?” If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was a kneejerk reaction. A reflex, of sorts. He doesn’t even bother with a proper response, just frowns at him until he says something of actual substance. “You’re right, stupid question, you don’t know people outside of our group.”

‘Barney??’ Freemind has literally admitted to being friends with Barney. Does he think that’s something exclusive to him?

“Pshh. He barely counts. He’s friends with everyone! I bet he could make friends with, like, a fucking cockroach or something!” Freemind throws his hands up.

‘We saved a beetle together once.’

“My point exactly!”

Freeman crosses his arms. Outside, another zombie goes flying through the air. At this point it seems more like Dog is hunting them down than anything. At least it means they’ll have a safer time traveling through the town.

Oh– that’s right. He’d been so focused on just making up with Mind and Martini he’d completely forgotten about trying to actually progress through the town– and by extension, getting out of here and finding Eli and Alyx! He still has no idea how they are, or if they even escaped! Shit!

Shit! Shit! Shit–

“Jesus! Calm down!” Freemind says, pulling Freeman’s hands down from where they’d been scratching at his neck fervently. “What– what happened? You look like you just got caught sneaking out of the house for the first time!”

‘I– we need to go. Quickly,’ he frantically signs, grabbing Freemind’s wrist and dragging him back out the way they came. They need to regroup with Martini– snap him out of whatever rut he’s in– and find a way out of the town. Sooner rather than later. He has no idea if time is on their side or not at the moment, and the longer he takes to find out, the worse things will probably end up being, what with his luck.

“Alright, alright! I don’t disagree! I just– do you know something I don’t? Are we like– getting bombed in two minutes or something? Keep me in the loop here!” Freemind calls out to Dog just as Freeman pulls him through the back door, into the alley once more.

Right. That’s– that’s right. If he keeps him– keeps them in the loop then the dam won’t happen again. ‘I don’t know where they are!’

“Well– DUH! They left us! That’s sort of par for the course,” Freemind says, freeing his wrist and speeding ahead to get to Martini. At least he’s still taking him seriously, even if he doesn’t get what Freeman is really trying to say here.

Martini is, thankfully, no longer staring listlessly off at nothing in something that’s probably not actually as dramatic as agony– whatever. Now, he’s crouched on the ground, hand ever-so-slightly reached out to a– a crow. He looks up as they approach.

“There you two are. I was beginning to wonder if you were even gonna come back or just– leave.” Martini rubs a hand behind his neck, looking off to the side. That’s– that’s insecurity if he’s ever seen it.

‘Never,’ he says instantly. He’s not sure if he should be surprised or not, just how much he really means it.

“Right,” Martini agrees, a nervous grin slowly forming.

“Apparently we need to go. Now,” Freemind states, glancing back at him as if to check that’s still the plan.

‘I made it to Eli’s lab. It got raided. I need to find Eli and Alyx again, I need to make sure they’re okay,’ he explains, hoping bringing Eli back up around them won’t incite such a divisive argument again.

Freemind opens his mouth, an argument clear as day on the tip of his tongue– but it dies just as quickly. He looks away pensively, which is as much of a win as he’s willing to believe he’ll get at the moment.

“Eli… who? I know we talked about him earlier, but the name doesn’t ring a bell at all,” Martini asks, and he’s not sure if he meant that to be an offer for Freeman to plead his case or not, but he’ll certainly take it as one.

‘Eli Vance. He’s a good friend of mine, practically family. I trust him completely, and more importantly, if I’m right about what brought you all here, he’s the key to getting you home,’ Freeman signs quickly, although he hopes he’s not so quick they miss any of his words. Now that he knows they’re actually interpreting him, he’s a bit self-conscious on how quickly he talks from time to time.

“He was also there that day, at Black Mesa,” Freemind states, although there’s just the slightest lilt to it that makes it sound like a question, so Freeman nods in agreement. It… also sounds a bit like an accusation.

‘I saw him and Dr. Kleiner right after the–’ he’d never come up with a sign for ‘Resonance Cascade’, he realizes. There had never been a time prior to it where he’d had to say the name explicitly, getting away with indirect references in important meetings where they discussed the possibility of it, as well as safety measures they could put in place to prevent one, and procedures they could plan out in case of one happening anyway– for all the good that did, anyhow. And… after the incident, he hadn’t exactly been jumping at the opportunity to create one. It just felt… wrong. Like– like creating a sign for it would be letting it in to something it was never supposed to be apart of– like an invasive species– or–

“Like, when you left the chamber?” Martini asks, the angel that he is. Freeman nods.

‘He sent me to get help– at first I thought I’d just be going to another sector– security, maybe.’ Freemind rolls his eyes, although for once it feels less directed at him, less hostile. Just… a reminder not just that it all went wrong– horribly wrong– but that it did for all of them. And they’re all bitter about that.

Martini crosses his arms, seems to think to himself for just a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. I’m game. We find your Eli and see what we can do about getting home. I… honestly, it feels like a huge weight off my shoulders that we actually have a plan for the future for once.”

“What!?” Freemind barks out. “You don’t even know the guy! You barely have any info on him! You can’t just trust–”

Martini holds up a hand. “Can and will. You’re forgetting that I escaped with a group from Black Mesa. If anything, just sort of knowing that the guy is from there and presumably helped Freeman get out is enough for me.”

“Why??” Even if Martini’s argument is for Freeman’s case, he can’t exactly… say he’s not wondering the same thing Freemind is.

“Because I just– it’s hard to really put into words! Hell, I barely really get why. It just… it’s familiar. It’s something I can picture having happened to me back then, and even if they didn’t escape together, I imagine that just surviving builds the same kind of bond that I have with my family.”

Freeman blinks. As does Freemind. “Your… family?”

“What?” Martini looks at them both confused.

“You said you and your… family escaped?”

“What? I did not!” He looks between the both of them, like they’re crazy. Subtly, so as to not further poke the bear, he chances a quick glance to Freemind, just to make sure they did both hear the same thing. They totally did. “I said friends! Friends! Me and my friends escaped Black Mesa together.”

‘You did not.’

“You definitely said family.”

“Jesus Christ…!” Martini facepalms, then drags that hand back down his face slowly. He mumbles to himself too, as if Mind and him are no longer there, or at least no longer listening, “...the gaslighting! The gaslighting! It’s always the fuckin’ gaslighting!”

Freeman doesn’t even need to sign to ask Freemind if they should just change the topic. They both silently agree with a nod.

Mind coughs into his hand.

“Okay, so let’s just lay out the plan and get the hell out of here already,” he says, turning towards Freeman. Apparently… he’s in charge? It’s– well it is what they had been doing before– to some degree, deferring to him– he’s just surprised they’re back to that, after the dam.

Not that he’s arguing. ‘Leave here, find the others, reunite with Eli and Alyx.’

“Pass,” Freemind says immediately. So much for being in charge.

“What the hell is your issue now??” Martini asks, clearly done with Mind’s constant combative interruptions. Which… fair. Freeman is too. But he’s more than happy to let someone else confront it.

“Well, beyond the fact that he never explained who Alyx is–” Martini opens his mouth, and Freeman starts to bring his hands up, to which Mind holds both hands up, “which I can already see myself being persuaded into ‘trusting’ as well, or whatever, stubborn asses, my ‘issue’ is the whole ‘find the others’ bullshit. They left us. Of their own volition, and– mind you both we’ve established I’m an asshole, so this should really mean something– in quite possibly the meanest, most bridge burning way they possibly could’ve! I’m putting my foot down on this! They made their choice, and they can live with it. Fours a crowd, remember!”

“Again, the saying is threes a crowd.” Freeman facepalms. That was not what they should be spending their energy arguing on.

“Well if we used that one I’m pretty sure you two dicks would just leave me in the dust!” Freemind chuckles humorlessly, hands in the air in a mock cheer.

‘Never,’ Freeman reiterates, because apparently it wasn’t implicit enough that he had no intentions of abandoning either of them.

“Oh,” Mind says, face going blank. He just stares at Freeman for several seconds, before turning his gaze to Martini.

Martini nods, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’re– listen, you’re an asshole, but so are the rest of us, really. And you’re not even enough of a jerk for us to just leave behind like that, anyhow–”

“Christ you suck at this!” Freemind laughs, shrugging Martini’s hand away.

“Well fuck you too! I don’t–” Martini struggles between giggles of his own, “I’m not used to fucking– having to comfort alternate versions of myself!”

‘Wouldn’t that theoretically be the easiest person to comfort? Who else would know how to better?’ Freeman chimes in, his shoulders shaking with his own quiet chuckles.

“My therapist??” Martini shrugs.

“You have a therapist?” Freeman glares preemptively at Mind. Mental health is a serious matter, he will not have him laugh at someone for taking care of it.

“No!” Martini throws his hands up in surrender.

“Explains a lot.” Freemind shakes his head in mock sympathy. Freeman can’t even be mad– Mind technically hadn’t made fun of someone for taking care of their mental health.

“I walked right fucking into that one.” That is also true. He very much did. Freeman pats his shoulder.

“ALRIGHT!” Mind suddenly throws both arms out to the side, palms out. “We’ve fucked around doing jackshit for long enough now. I guess I can agree to the plan for now, at least for the sake of actually doing something finally. I feel antsy. I don’t like just– standing around like this! We really might get bombed if we linger too long. Especially since it sounds like you might be getting–”

Freemind cuts himself off. Freeman looks around, but he doesn’t see anything that could’ve made him freeze up. They’re still just outside the building they’d first come from, where Dog had disappeared and the two of them reappeared and–

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” Martini screeches, one arm raised over his face, and the machine-gun-arm-thing forming and aimed straight towards–

‘Oh, that’s Dog,’ he explains, trying to pull his arms back down, as well as keep him balanced since he’s only still standing on one leg too– it’s actually a bit cartoonish, the pose he struck immediately upon seeing Dog.

“That is NOT a dog, do NOT lie to me–!” Martini argues. Dog lets out a long, deep beep that just sounds… sad.

“That’s what I said!” Mind agrees. “But, uhhh, nevermind that. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

Just then, there’s… what he can only think to describe as an awful mix of howling and wailing, drawn out and thankfully distant.

“I swear to god if this ghost town is an actual GHOST town I’m going to lose my shit,” Martini pulls at his hair. Freeman quickly pulls his hands out of his hair and drags him along, heading into a different building just across from them. He doesn’t even actually know where he’s going, but he thinks if he can find a way to get to high ground, he can have the other two ask Father Griggori for directions.

Fortunately, the stairs are right down the only hallway they can even go down once inside. Unfortunately, there’s a zombie hobbling down them. Extra fortunately, now is the exact moment that Freeman once again remembers the sweet, glorious Gravity Gun strapped to his back still.

Excited to get even more practice with possibly the greatest thing to exist since sliced bread, Freeman whips it back into his hands and grabs the nearest loose object; a random box that turns out to be an ammo crate, given that a bunch of clips of ammo get flung from the zombie as the crate smashes into its head. Headcrab? He’s not sure what’s the more appropriate way to refer to it, actually–

“What. The. Fuck.” Freemind puts a hand on his shoulder. It feels like the calm before the storm. Because it is. It definitely is. Mind lunges around him to try to swipe the Gravity Gun from his hands, repeating a mantra of “gimme gimme gimme gimme…!”

Freeman only sees one way out of this. He just hopes Martini can find it in himself to forgive him.

With a swift kick to Freemind’s shin, he’s bought himself just enough time to sign it.

‘Race.’

He bolts up the stairs, turning up and up them until he finds a door that must lead to the roof. Better yet, he can hear familiar, body shaking laughter just outside.

Sure enough, Father Griggori is gunning down zombies from a balcony just across from him. He grins, a bit madly in Freeman’s opinion, right at him, beckoning him towards the ledge. Which… seems like standing still, which is not how you win a race. He taps his wrist, momentarily slinging the Gravity Gun away.

Griggori sweeps his hand out, leading Freeman’s gaze toward a vat of… just plain water? Well, it’s just low enough from where he is he should be able to run and make it.

“Here, brother! You’ve stirred up Hell! A man after my own heart!” Griggori laughs to himself, watching as Freeman leaps into the water. He quickly searches for the ladder he remembers spotting and climbs it with as much speed as the extra weight of the water and HEV suit will allow.

“Catch!” Griggori exclaims, just as Freeman makes it onto some precariously placed planks on the edge of the vat. A shot gun flies through the air, just barely close enough for Freeman to grab. “A more suitable gun for you. You’ll need it. Keep it close, my advice to you is: aim for the head!”

“Uh… duh??” Freemind exclaims, prepped and ready to make a jump of his own. It prompts Freeman to ascend the rest of the way up the building, fitting the shotgun onto his suit quickly to free up his hands.

Griggori makes no comment on the appearance of another. “There is no rest in Ravenholm. Move on and I will meet you at the church! And hush! They come!”

Seeing no further way down, Freeman shoves the door open to the building he’s on. Inside is an elevator, one of the older ones that has the door you have to push and pull open yourself. This race is on a really bad course. He’s not a quitter, though. And, now they have a finish line too! He hits the button several times with a fist, as if that’ll encourage it to come up faster.

A zombie that’s practically skin and bones bursts through the door he’d just come from, lunging at him with a speed that he’s never seen the others come even remotely close to. It gets one good scratch at his arm, tearing through the fabric where his joint is and breaking through the skin too. He manages to kick it away, not unlike how he did to Freemind not even two minutes ago, and uses the Gravity Gun to launch a tank of some sort of gas at it. The gas explodes into flames upon impact. The zombie, now on fire, is not so easily cowed.

The elevator dings, and Freeman launches one more box at its head before rushing inside and slamming the door shut. That… that can be Freemind’s problem. Or Martini’s. Maybe his racing spirit will finally be unleashed upon them all.

He snickers. Wouldn’t that be a sight?

“This feels like cheating,” Freemind laments, sounding almost like a scolding parent. He stands with his arms crossed on the other side of the elevator, which is descending. At. A. Snail’s. Pace. It’s just barely far enough down to discourage Mind from trying to pry the door back open and join him.

Freeman shrugs. Finders keepers, losers weepers, or something.

Freemind flips him off, before he’s out of sight completely.

A second or two later, Freeman realizes two things. One, the exit to the elevator is on the other side. Two, the door for the other side is missing, meaning the gap that’s now growing bigger and bigger is perfect for him to slip through immediately.

His boots hit the ground with a satisfying clank.

A not so satisfying clank follows, and he finds Mind has found his own way down. From the roof. Him and his stupid parkour. Martini stares down at them from said roof, looking angrier than ever.

Oh well. Not his problem.

Freeman sprints off, running up a board balanced between a car and a chain link fence. He’s not even completely sure where he’s going, still, but the only other two ways are either backwards or straight into fire.

Freemind runs straight at the fence and, using the top as an anchor point, flips over it. The two rush to keep ahead as they push past another fence (one they thankfully don’t have to get over, at least) and take a sharp right. They ignore the doorway lacking a door in favor of the pitch black alleyway, which leads them to a different street. With more fire! Hooray!

They of course go in the opposite direction of the fire, which does unfortunately lead them to a fork in the path. And two bodies that are… he’d rather not think about that.

He doesn’t get the chance to agonize over that much– or which direction he should go in. Dog bursts through a wall just up ahead and barrels towards the both of them, sweeping Freeman up in a carry before sharply turning and leaping up onto a building.

“OKAY THAT IS DEFINITELY CHEATING!!” Freemind angrily shouts from the ground like a loser who’s just bad at races. Freeman sticks his tongue out at him, although once he’s out of sight he pats at Dog’s arm, which thankfully does prompt him to put Freeman back down.

Dog tilts his head, as if confused on why they had to stop, and points to what looks like a warehouse, or maybe a factory, what with the smoke-stack chimney popping out of it. It’s actually maybe a hop or two across these roofs away. It doesn’t exactly scream church, but maybe the church is just on the other side? Or at the very least only visible from there? Regardless, it’s plenty easy to get to from here. He pats Dog’s faceplates with an easy smile, before turning and making a running jump towards the next roof.

Dog’s heavy, rumbling footsteps accompany him, and he feels way safer making these big jumps now. He’s still not actually sure if Alyx sent him with Freeman, or if Dog just happened to get trapped on the other side of the rubble and stayed with him, but either way he’s glad to have him. Him and Freemind and Martini. He’s not sure how he was ever supposed to do this alone.

He jumps at the sound of a sudden scream– but it’s quickly silenced by a loud… thud, maybe? It’s too loud to really qualify as a thump, too forceful to be a thunk. He looks around, but he can’t see anything nearby. Maybe one of the other two– really just Mind is in the running for having made the noise. He imagines Martini is probably rebelliously taking extra time to slowly catch up to them. Maybe complaining the whole time too. He might feel bad. Then again…

What does a winner have to feel bad for? Finding an ever so convenient fire escape on the side of the building coincidentally closest to the factory-warehouse-thing he’s trying to get to, he hops down onto it and practically glides down the stairs.

On the way he catches a glimpse of red. Once. Twice. Freemind flies through the air from where he must’ve been swinging on a pipe or something. Freeman skips the rest of the fire escape, vaulting off the railing to hit the ground. He still has the advantage here, at least. Freemind only knew to come over here because he was able to see Dog leaping this way, but that doesn’t mean he actually knows where he’s trying to go.

Freeman, on the other hand, darts straight for the stairs on the warehouse-factory-thing, smiling to himself as he hears Freemind curse somewhere behind him.The stairs wind and wind up the side, leading to a door which opens up to reveal… more stairs. If he wasn’t busy being in the middle of a race, he’d probably be a bit annoyed at just how much climbing he’s been forced to do today. However long ‘today’ actually is. He’s not even entirely sure if ‘today’ is still also (at least from his perspective) the Black Mesa Incident or not. He should… he should probably ask about that, next time he sees Eli or Alyx or Kleiner or Barney or…

With one hand still clinging to the ladder at the top of the stairs, he pushes the hatch open, feeling a bit melancholic. There’s a chance he won’t ever see them again. That Eli and Alyx got captured in the raid on Black Mesa East, and he never reunites with Barney or Kleiner because they don’t even know where to look for him– if they even want to look for him. He’s been gone twenty years for them. He may as well just be a footnote in all their lives at this point.

He crosses his arms as he stares off the ledge, back at the rest of Ravenholm. What’ll happen when his alternates leave? Will he just… be alone? He meant what he said earlier, about Eli being like family. Barney and Kleiner too! And if Alyx wants, he’s got a place for her in it too. It sounds like Martini is in the same boat too, with a family he’s built up– a forged family, maybe. Certainly has a nice ring to it. But…

But he hasn’t disappeared from their lives for twenty years, or at least he hasn’t mentioned it. They’ll be waiting for him back home. Probably glad to see him again, given how sudden his coming here must’ve been! And Freemind… at least has one friend waiting back home. Which is good for him, probably a very big achievement, even if he thinks being friends with Barney is as easy as breathing.

Where will that leave him?

CAH-THUNK goes the hatch, and Freemind grumbles all the way out. Freeman swipes a hand across his face, checking for wetness– which the suit sort of prevents him from being able to feel, come to think of it– and turns around.

‘I–’ win, he’s about to sign, only he finally notices Martini, sprawled across the roof like a ragdoll, right up against the wall where there’s a noticeable indent as well as a bunch of cracks, all suspiciously Martini shaped. Like the person, not the drink.

Freemind stares at him too, equally as flabbergasted. Well… that explains the screaming. And the… subsequent lack of screaming. Is he even conscious–?

“What the hell is on your hand??” Freemind gasps, sounding disgusted as he points to– to–

A barnacle is latched onto Martini’s hand– or maybe shoved is a more appropriate wording for it, considering it’s not the mouth that’s attached to him. The tongue of the poor thing– god he never thought he’d actually sympathize with one– is lolled out on the ground. It looks exhausted. “Look Gordon! Ropes! We can use these for big pits!” Martini mumbles into the ground, heavily muffled. Freeman’s not even sure he heard him correctly.

“Oh god, he’s talking in the third person again…” Mind groans, physically shuddering. Is… is he missing something here?

‘He’s done this before?’

“‘Gordon sprint.’” Freemind cryptically says instead.

Martini raises a hand– the one with the– eugh– barnacle on it. Now that there’s not much going on, he can hear a quiet humming sort of whir, and he realizes, as the barnacle explodes into nothing, that that must be the sound of the arm-machine-gun-thing firing up. It detransforms just as quickly, though Freeman is more distracted by the lack of gore and viscera that should’ve been spread from the barnacle's demise. All that’s left is dust, which gets quickly carried away by a light breeze he hadn’t noticed ‘til now. Then again, they’re quite high up, especially given the hill this building is on.

“Ah, there you all are!” Father Griggori calls from somewhere behind them. Sure enough, he’s on the other side of a chain link fence, standing on some platform a ways away from what’s probably actually the church. He waves at them fairly enthusiastically.

Given that even on the off chance Griggori knows ASL, he wouldn’t really be able to make out anything Freeman might try to say, he instead leaves Freemind to the responsibility of socializing (for better or worse) and grabs one of Martini’s hands to help him back up.

“At last!” Griggori continues. “I will send the cart for you brothers! It will be but a moment!”

“I’M NOT SURE WE’LL HAVE A MOMENT!!” Freemind shouts back, far louder than he needs to. He keeps glancing off the edge of the roof, back down where they’d come from. Freeman doesn’t see Dog around, so he’s willing to bet he’s somewhere down below, probably making sure they don’t have company at the moment.

“Patience brother! Guard yourself well!” And with that, Father Griggori turns around and disappears past the rocks and shrubbery.

“Who the hell even is that guy?” Freemind asks, staring back at him in disbelief.

‘FATHER GRIGGORI’ he spells out with one hand, the other intermittently patting Martini on the back from where he’s doubled over, hands on his knees.

“Does winning even give me, like, bragging rights?” He asks, sounding breathy, or maybe wheeze-y? Well, now they know what happens when he ‘unleashes his racing spirit’. If only the others could’ve seen… whatever he even did to beat them.

“Who says you won?” Mind taunts.

Martini whips straight up, his glare venomous. “You piss me off. So. Much.”

Freemind grins. Evily. “Thanks, I try.”

“I’m going to fucking get you,” Martini threatens. Promises? Unclear.

“Step into the cart!” Griggori instructs, and only now do any of them notice that the lift has in fact made it to their side of the gap. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, and he definitely doesn’t like how it creaks and groans under their combined weight, but it doesn’t seem to have any further issue as the rickety old thing carries them over to the church.

“This is surprisingly peaceful,” Martini remarks.

“That’s probably because he’s doing all the work,” Freemind gestures down to Dog, who coincidentally then leaps up into the air, hands raised in fists, as he comes down upon a whole clump of zombies scrambling up onto a roof near where they’d just been.

‘That does tend to make things peaceful,’ he agrees.

Freemind vaults over the side of the cart once it’s past the fence, turning his drop into a roll as he hits the ground. Freeman follows when they’re at a much more reasonable distance from the ground, dropping down on a knee as he lands instead. Martini opts to just wait until the lift stops and takes a ladder down to meet them.

“Greetings brothers! And so we meet at last!” Father Griggori cheers, arms raised up like he wants to pull them face-first into a hug. He gestures to a table of various supplies. “You are to be commended for avoiding my traps! The work of a man who once had too much time on his hands, and now finds time for nothing but the work of salvation.”

Freemind sticks a needle into Freeman’s arm– none too gently, either– but the gash he’d long forgotten about stops aching, so he can forgive it. For now.

“I suspect you have little wish to remain in Ravenholm,” Freemind mutters a ‘you think?’ before both Freeman and Martini smack him in the back of the head, “so I will show you to the mines. As for me… a shepherd must tend to his flock. Especially when they have grown unruly.”

Freemind gives a mock salute, as Father Griggori turns around to lead them out. He then sends a quick sneer at them. Martini rolls his eyes at him, and Freeman just shrugs back. They all move to follow.

“Tread lightly,” Griggori instructs as they pass by the church, “for this is hallowed ground.”

Freemind yanks the shotgun Griggori had thrown to him forever ago off of Freeman, bringing forth the one he’s probably had since the canals to… dual wield. What, the pistols weren’t enough? This just doesn’t seem practical. Whatever. He doesn’t have time to complain, seeing as they all pick up the pace, running through a narrow path in the hills and towards… a cemetery. Howls surround them, though there’s also the ground-shaking steps of Dog slowly gaining behind them.

“I remember your true face!” Griggori exclaims, before shooting off the current face of one of the zombies– another of the skinny quick ones.

Freemind wastes no time firing off both his shotguns, and Martini’s arm once again takes the form of his machine-gun-thing.

Freeman happily grabs his Gravity Gun. There’s a surprising amount of large items littered about the graveyard, perfect projectiles for him and his baby.

In all honesty, it feels like they’ve only just barely gotten into the action when Griggori calls for them, “This way brothers! I will hold the gate open for you, though I fear I deliver you to a darker place!”

He’s not even able to look for wherever Griggori is herding them towards– Dog sweeps him up again, this time lifting him over his head and placing Freeman atop of himself, like a parent might set a child to carry them. He grabs Martini and Mind too, as he races for the gate Griggori holds open for them.

“May the light of lights illuminate your path! Look to your own salvation!” Father Griggori calls, before beginning to cackle madly as he turns around and rushes the zombies still swarming into the graveyard.

Dog comes to a sudden stop, and Freeman sees that’s because a door is in the way. One Dog definitely cannot fit through, at least not with all of them on top of him. Freeman slides down while Dog puts the other two back on their feet. He pushes the door open and continues down the dark hallway. He’s pretty sure he hears an explosion somewhere behind them. He’s… not so sure they should just be leaving Griggori behind like that. Then again, he’s been doing just fine before any of them came here.

Freeman traces a hand along the wall as he continues further inside. He thinks he can hear the other two grunting and groaning as they presumably try to pull Dog through, if the awful screeching and scrapping of metal is anything to go by.

He’ll clear out the path then. Dog’s done plenty by this point.

Turning a corner, he finds that… there may not be all that much building to clear, actually. The only door he finds takes him to a big room, with a giant pit in the center. Well, Father Griggori did say he would take them to the mines. He feels like there should be an elevator or something though, to get down.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing. No buttons, no levers, he can’t even see to the bottom but he doesn’t see any pulleys going up or down that would suggest there’s anything. No ropes or chains or anything up in the room they could use to get down either. Maybe Dog could get them down? Otherwise, they’d have to climb. Which he’d like to avoid, again given that he cannot see the bottom. Not to mention they’ve been doing a lot of climbing already. Running and climbing and hiding and fighting–

God, now that he’s thinking about it– again– and with the adrenaline once again fading, hopefully for a good while this time– he just feels exhausted. He wishes he’d been able to stay at Black Mesa East long enough to take a nap– or eat– or get some nice, clean water.

Instead, he got followed, the base was raided, and now his friends might be captured and on death row or something. He clenches his hands into fists, hoping that might keep him from clawing at his throat again or something worse.

That really is just his luck, isn’t it? That the moment he finds somewhere ‘safe’, the moment he reunites with friends– it all goes to shit. It happened at Black Mesa East, sure, but it happened at Kleiner’s little lab too, didn’t it? The Combine became too active because he wasn’t nearly as careful as he should’ve been, and it forced his friends to try to rush him out of there– and some good that did!

He didn’t even end up outside of the city! Just too far to find them again!

And– and he just dragged a bunch of other versions of him along for the ride too! Versions that already had enough on their plates as is, given that they’re all fucking Gordon Freeman! The man who destroyed the world! Who wrought the apocalypse! Who brought aliens right to their doorstep!

TWICE!!

The green seems to wake up, oozing its stupid green light out of the cracks of his suit, buzzing as if it needs yet another way to make sure he can notice it. Yeah, that might as well happen too! Of course it has to act up while he has a moment to reflect on just how much things spiraled out of control! What’s one more problem, on top of the insurmountable mountain of them! It’s great! It’s great!! Why don’t some more just fall onto him too, while they’re at it!

As if the universe itself, in its annoying, unyielding cruelty and hatred for him specifically, was listening in on his pity parade, a barrel suddenly falls onto its side, slowly rolling away from the group of them he hadn’t noticed coming in, idly making its way on over to him. One of the flammable ones that always explodes into flames instantly.

Should he even count it as luck? That it didn’t explode upon impact? Or is it just more misfortune and misery for the rest of the world? That the one person that keeps screwing it all up is still alive, stupidly lucky when it comes to not dying. He’s at least not too vain enough to consider it skill. The only thing that kept him alive when so many others died back in those accursed halls was luck. Luck and maybe the universe trying to find a self-destruct button, maybe.

Or maybe it was him–

The barrel rolls to a stop right before him. Inches away from his feet. He sneers down at it, and kicks an orange and green boot– lightly, of course–

Freeman barely has a chance to even take in that a tiny, barely even there little lightning bolt of green dances its way down his leg and onto the barrel.

Then all he sees is white.

.
.
.

Ears ringing, head rattling, and blood dripping into his eye, he thinks he sees something like a pink, high-heeled boot inches from his face, out of place among the rocks and the…

And the black. There’s just black.