Agent G-Man
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Intriguing......what'll happen next?
Malign Contingency II
- Thread starter Edcrab
- Start date
Bob_Marley
Tank
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Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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Delayed update, but a full chapter this time :O
Got new competetion with the likes of Samon, but hey, it's never put me off before
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s some sort of gun. Don’t know what kind, but-”
“No, I mean this thing…”
Quarir recognised that sloshing sound. Very promising, and above all alcoholic.
“It’s a… flask…?”
“Damn right! What’s a Combine spy doing with a hip flask?”
That was also familiar. Quarir had half a mind to print “Domarian” or perhaps “Good Guy, You Idiots” on the back of his coat. He sat up, but slowly, in case this new batch was just as trigger-happy as the first group he’d encountered.
“Looks like the guy’s coming around.”
“Keep him covered.”
Shifting his position, Nalore was about to yawn, or perhaps sigh- something so he could pretend he’d been out cold for longer than he had been, or something to strongly imply that he was sick to the back teeth with suspicious Earthmen. Instead, what passed his lips was a grunt of pain.
He felt like he’d been pulverised. What had happened back at the gate…? Come to think of it, why was he surrounded by paranoiac Resistance members again? Hadn’t they just come here?
“Heh, the freaks got him pretty good.”
“Surprised a man could take that kind of punishment.”
“Means he ain’t a man, if you get me.”
“Heh.”
Pushing the pain to the back his mind, Quarir took in the stubble, their raggedy uniforms, their battered guns. Had Quarir had any knowledge of Earth’s history of war- or perhaps of their motion pictures- he’d have likened the two to jaded Vietnam vets.
Instead he wondered if Nuri, as an experienced rebel, had met these two before they’d left their world.
Not that it made sense that two lambda-bedecked reject guerrillas would even be on Delta 33 in the first place.
Realisation dawned, but very nearly set again when pain intervened. Wait, Nuri! Pyotr! Even Dunamis! What happened to them all…? Why is it so hard to think?
“He’s looking a bit panicky,” said the tanned blond one with the moustache.
“Probably knows he’s in trouble,” said the black, bald one. “Can you talk?”
“Sure I can talk,” Quarir snapped, slightly more irritably than he’d planned (because the bald guy looked like Dunamis’s human equivalent).
The two men exchanged glances. “Didn’t understand a word of that.”
“Neither did I.”
The blond unscrewed the lid off the flask and took a cautious sniff. “You speak any English? This stuff safe to drink?”
“It’s safe to drink, but it happens to be mine- uh oh...”
English? His bionetwork chip! It had failed! It took far more power to relay a translation signal to chipless individuals then it did to translate audio input… hence why it wasn’t fully functional yet, since it hadn’t had enough time to recharge.
He could understand everything they said, but to the duo, Quarir was talking gibberish. But Pyotr could speak Domarian, couldn’t he? So all the Vorts could! And Vorts and the Resistance went hand in hand!
“Vorts?” Quarir began. “You got Vortigaunts? They can understand me! The ‘Gaunts can speak Domarian, you get me? Vortigaunts?”
The moustached one blinked. “What the hell is he trying to say?”
The bald one frowned. “I don’t get it. The Combine never have different languages, you get me? Sure, the slugs are telepathic, but they never bother making their grunts bilingual for crying out loud-”
“What? Vortigaunts! How come you can’t understand that? I…”
But they were worlds apart, weren’t they? What if the Domarian word for Vortigaunt was radically different to the English term? He’d never heard the English word for it because every word the Earthmen spoke was translated for his benefit.
There’d be Vorts somewhere.
He stood up. “Vortigaunts! Yo! Anyone understand me? Get these guys to-”
“Shut him up!” Moustache hissed.
Baldy pushed him backward onto the lumpy roll-out mattress they’d dumped him on. “Stow it, buddy. What you trying to do?”
“He’s trying to attract attention to us. You think we need to knock him out?”
Quarir shook his head rapidly.
“Hang on, he understands us…”
Quarir nodded. “Yes. Look, I know you can’t understand me, so I know I don’t have a chance in hell of trying to explain this to you, but hey, maybe you can get the gist from my tone-”
The bigger man thumbed his own nose. “He must be a Legionary.”
“It’d explain the weird clothes and this silver gun he’s got,” the other man agreed, producing Quarir’s photon pistol.
Quarir gaped. “You know about the Legion? How do you-? Oh screw it, I keep forgetting you can’t understand me…”
“How come he knows what we’re saying then if he doesn’t speak English?”
“Maybe he does,” Blond said thoughtfully, “and he’s just doesn’t want us questioning him.”
Quarir sighed, and it hurt just like the first time. “Not again. Why are you people such untrusting bastards anyway?”
“No point talking, man, we don’t get a word you’re saying.”
“Yeah. Now get walking. We want to get you back before Shephard turns up.”
“And that guy is a real hardass, know what we’re saying?”
---
Got new competetion with the likes of Samon, but hey, it's never put me off before
Chapter Eleven: Language Barrier
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s some sort of gun. Don’t know what kind, but-”
“No, I mean this thing…”
Quarir recognised that sloshing sound. Very promising, and above all alcoholic.
“It’s a… flask…?”
“Damn right! What’s a Combine spy doing with a hip flask?”
That was also familiar. Quarir had half a mind to print “Domarian” or perhaps “Good Guy, You Idiots” on the back of his coat. He sat up, but slowly, in case this new batch was just as trigger-happy as the first group he’d encountered.
“Looks like the guy’s coming around.”
“Keep him covered.”
Shifting his position, Nalore was about to yawn, or perhaps sigh- something so he could pretend he’d been out cold for longer than he had been, or something to strongly imply that he was sick to the back teeth with suspicious Earthmen. Instead, what passed his lips was a grunt of pain.
He felt like he’d been pulverised. What had happened back at the gate…? Come to think of it, why was he surrounded by paranoiac Resistance members again? Hadn’t they just come here?
“Heh, the freaks got him pretty good.”
“Surprised a man could take that kind of punishment.”
“Means he ain’t a man, if you get me.”
“Heh.”
Pushing the pain to the back his mind, Quarir took in the stubble, their raggedy uniforms, their battered guns. Had Quarir had any knowledge of Earth’s history of war- or perhaps of their motion pictures- he’d have likened the two to jaded Vietnam vets.
Instead he wondered if Nuri, as an experienced rebel, had met these two before they’d left their world.
Not that it made sense that two lambda-bedecked reject guerrillas would even be on Delta 33 in the first place.
Realisation dawned, but very nearly set again when pain intervened. Wait, Nuri! Pyotr! Even Dunamis! What happened to them all…? Why is it so hard to think?
“He’s looking a bit panicky,” said the tanned blond one with the moustache.
“Probably knows he’s in trouble,” said the black, bald one. “Can you talk?”
“Sure I can talk,” Quarir snapped, slightly more irritably than he’d planned (because the bald guy looked like Dunamis’s human equivalent).
The two men exchanged glances. “Didn’t understand a word of that.”
“Neither did I.”
The blond unscrewed the lid off the flask and took a cautious sniff. “You speak any English? This stuff safe to drink?”
“It’s safe to drink, but it happens to be mine- uh oh...”
English? His bionetwork chip! It had failed! It took far more power to relay a translation signal to chipless individuals then it did to translate audio input… hence why it wasn’t fully functional yet, since it hadn’t had enough time to recharge.
He could understand everything they said, but to the duo, Quarir was talking gibberish. But Pyotr could speak Domarian, couldn’t he? So all the Vorts could! And Vorts and the Resistance went hand in hand!
“Vorts?” Quarir began. “You got Vortigaunts? They can understand me! The ‘Gaunts can speak Domarian, you get me? Vortigaunts?”
The moustached one blinked. “What the hell is he trying to say?”
The bald one frowned. “I don’t get it. The Combine never have different languages, you get me? Sure, the slugs are telepathic, but they never bother making their grunts bilingual for crying out loud-”
“What? Vortigaunts! How come you can’t understand that? I…”
But they were worlds apart, weren’t they? What if the Domarian word for Vortigaunt was radically different to the English term? He’d never heard the English word for it because every word the Earthmen spoke was translated for his benefit.
There’d be Vorts somewhere.
He stood up. “Vortigaunts! Yo! Anyone understand me? Get these guys to-”
“Shut him up!” Moustache hissed.
Baldy pushed him backward onto the lumpy roll-out mattress they’d dumped him on. “Stow it, buddy. What you trying to do?”
“He’s trying to attract attention to us. You think we need to knock him out?”
Quarir shook his head rapidly.
“Hang on, he understands us…”
Quarir nodded. “Yes. Look, I know you can’t understand me, so I know I don’t have a chance in hell of trying to explain this to you, but hey, maybe you can get the gist from my tone-”
The bigger man thumbed his own nose. “He must be a Legionary.”
“It’d explain the weird clothes and this silver gun he’s got,” the other man agreed, producing Quarir’s photon pistol.
Quarir gaped. “You know about the Legion? How do you-? Oh screw it, I keep forgetting you can’t understand me…”
“How come he knows what we’re saying then if he doesn’t speak English?”
“Maybe he does,” Blond said thoughtfully, “and he’s just doesn’t want us questioning him.”
Quarir sighed, and it hurt just like the first time. “Not again. Why are you people such untrusting bastards anyway?”
“No point talking, man, we don’t get a word you’re saying.”
“Yeah. Now get walking. We want to get you back before Shephard turns up.”
“And that guy is a real hardass, know what we’re saying?”
---
Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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The hybrids had been a surprise.
The Combine knew about headcrabs- mostly the fact that the lurching, near-mindless creatures spawned when the ‘crabs bonded with a host tended to be less menacing than an organised squadron of intelligent, well-trained revolutionaries. Even now the potent cocktail of chemicals and neural impulses was a mystery to the Combine: but the how of the degenerations was of less interest than their potential uses: the Xenian parasites had been recognised as potential bioweapons since the first encounter.
A “zombie” (or “necrotic”, as the Overwatch forces preferred) possessed an incredible pain threshold and inhuman strength, but they lacked the speed- or opposable thumbs- necessary to pose a threat to the Combine’s outposts. To say nothing of the damage headcrab shells caused to enemy moral: massive canisters crashing into the earth, spewing a horde of mind parasites that would immediately set about finding victims to transform into moaning, claw-fingered monsters. Even the rarer fast and poisonous headcrab varieties were quite manageable, especially when compared to the alternative of constant guerrilla attacks.
So when confronted with the indigenous Desz of planet Delta 33, the Combine had decided that headcrab shells would make the perfect counter to the forest nomads’ roving camps. Headcrabs were known to burrow into sand or soil, ready to ambush wandering humanoids- and their strange senses meant the usually stealthy natives could be taken by surprise.
So the clearings that made sites for Desz camps were quickly shelled, regardless of whether any of the creatures were in residence. Later, they’d settle down, be ambushed… and they became hybrids.
And the hybrids had been a surprise. When a headcrab’s mutagens came into contact with the regenerating bacterial symbiote that made up most of a Desz’s bodily fluids, the resulting zombie developed at a rapid pace. “Necrotic” no longer seemed appropriate, as it had come to be associated with the comparatively low threat posed by human zombies.
Hybrids were far, far more dangerous. Even the “normal” headcrabs spawned blisteringly fast mutants, and the Combine lived in fear of what the quick and venomous types might produce should they successfully bond with a Desz: the result being that the shellings, and all future strikes, were hurriedly cancelled in favour of explosive ordinance.
The one in the observation tank stared ahead- unseeing, because Desz had no eyes in the first place, but also because a headcrab covered most of its skull. Hanes shuddered: this immobility was preferable to an insane rampage, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. Eight foot tall, bulging with muscles that would have been distorted and comedic if encountered in other circumstances, random barbs of jutting bone curving from their feet… all very distinctive, but not quite as much as the thing’s hands.
Desz had talons naturally, but headcrabs induced the production of bone marrow in digits (or keratin, if the species of the host allowed for it) in order to supply their new bodies with weaponry: so the former Desz’s razor-edged claws were now a foot long, and quite capable of slicing through metal.
Hybrids were killing machines: and the Union wished they’d thought of them earlier.
Instead wild packs of the creatures roamed the forest, killing indiscriminately. Desz, Legionaries, the Combine’s soldiers- all were viable prey. Not that the hybrids had ever been seen eating anything… or, indeed, doing anything except maiming other organisms.
But if they could be controlled… if they could be controlled…
Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Mind-control had never been an exact science, even to the Combine- and simple propaganda wouldn’t work on such feral beasts.
“This one has already been documented?” Hanes asked.
“Yes ma’am: in addition, I’m proud to announce that we’ve already determined its power-to-weight ratio.” The scientist wasn’t a transhuman yet- but she couldn’t help thinking the man would’ve been slightly more interesting with an emotion-repressing implant or two. “We’ve also had another major find.”
“Meaning?”
“Well… to start with… we don’t think it eats very much. If ever.”
Hanes frowned. “Despite that thing on its chest?”
The scientist glanced at the twitching, horizontally-tilted mouth grinning from the hybrid’s ribcage. “It would appear to be a redundant feature of the subject’s DNA.”
“Ah, you mean like the human appendix?”
“Yes… it’s superfluous to the animal’s current requirements.”
Hanes didn’t think the word “animal” suited this freak, but she let it pass. “So how does it fuel itself if it doesn’t eat?”
“Well, from what we know, the Deszian symbiote-”
“Deszian isn’t the correct usage,” she interrupted.
“ ‘Deszish’, then?”
“No. It’s ‘Desz’ for everything.”
“-uh, of course. I’m not familiar with your language-”
“Evidently.”
He carried on. “The Desz’s symbiote uses electricity- even nerve impulses- to further its development…”
“We know this: but the Desz itself still needs nutrition. The symbiote can power itself by feeding off the Desz’s neural charge, but the Desz can’t produce that charge without sustenance- so why would the hybrids be any different?”
“I… that is, us, uh, we, the department-”
“Get on with it.”
“…think that the hybrids, because of the addition of the headcrab’s genetic material… are a self-sustaining reaction.”
Hanes nodded. “You mean that once they have enough energy to get the wheel turning, so to speak, their nervous systems are active enough to maintain the cycle?”
“That’s what we’ve theorised. They appear to absorb energy so efficiently- no doubt thanks to the strands of DNA drawn from the Xenian metabolism- that light can fuel their bodies.”
“So that’s why energy weapons seem to be so ineffectual.”
“Yes…”
Hanes lost interest in that topic. “Have you observed this one growing, then?”
“Oh, they don’t grow that fast, ma’am. But the outer defences report seeing a significantly larger specimen- at least a foot taller than this one, or so I’m lead to believe…”
“If they’re growing at the rate determined by the headcrab life cycle,” she said thoughtfully, “and driven by the Desz’s frankly unparalleled regenerative abilities… is there even a limit to the size they could reach?”
“If the food source- I mean, ah, energy source- was large enough, we think their growth would be uncapped. We haven’t fully profiled them just yet, but all signs point to-”
“Hmm. You can’t find anything else from this hybrid?”
“Well, as I say, we haven’t mapped-”
“I meant if you needed the hybrid itself. Not if you needed more time to examine the samples you’ve already taken.”
“Oh… no. No, I wouldn’t think so, but I’d have to run it past my team-”
“Destroy it then.”
The scientist was aghast. “It’s quite sedate, really, seems perfectly at home in that tank-”
“Because it is much smarter than you give it credit for. Have it atomised.”
Hanes walked out, leaving the scientist to grapple with his conscience. The door closed with the kind of dramatic, ear-piercing rattle that the doors back home could only replicate after hours of work with a big bucket of grit.
There had just been an altercation between an Overwatch patrol and a small contingent of Legionaries- only for the two sides to retreat in disarray when a mere handful of hybrids entered the scene. Hanes vowed never to underestimate the creatures- even if she was sending a whole platoon of Super Soldiers into the fray with Strider support, she’d be fully prepared to fall back if necessary.
Delta 33- or CXABV 432310 to use its Union-assigned identity- was a battlefield in perpetual balance. Enemy bases of unknown location, separated by vast swathes of dense, hybrid-infested forest that had become a hellish no-man’s-land. Even if one of the sides acted- deigning to take their forces out of their heavily defended HQs to lead an assault on their opponents- there was every chance that the hybrids would come from nowhere and butcher the lot of them. When one side got the upper hand, mutants, the climate, or irate natives conspired to set them back down a notch.
When rain wasn’t pelting her increasingly irate troops, or when lightning wasn’t setting fire to her outposts, random energy fluctuations came from nowhere and disabled technology in the immediate area- including the transmitters that might have finally allowed the Combine forces to locate and eradicate the opposition. Delta 33 wasn’t exactly destined to be a tourist resort when a victor finally emerged.
Fortunately, the Legion also suffered. Their recon drones were more than a match for the Combine’s Shield scanners, and the heavier Security Enforcement Drones usually came out on top in a straight fight with a Super Solider- but their technology seemed to be even more vulnerable to the particle oscillations. Hanes personally held the infamously fickle intranet to account- so much the better for the reign of the Universal Union…
Head to the departure lounge.
Hanes winced and put her hand to her head. “What?”
Head to the departure lounge.
“You… want me to leave?” She didn’t understand.
The device can work in reverse. I require you to meet the Delta 33 chapter’s latest arrival.
Hanes much preferred it when her Advisor had courtesy enough to trigger the “incoming transmission” alarm before making contact- but the news must have been urgent, prompting it to speak to her without forewarning.
Although they never stooped to mere verbal discourse. They preferred telepathy to the point that they seemed incapable of audible dialogue.
Her peers had explained that Delta’s Citadel was significantly smaller than those on Earth, at only a third of the size: but it was certainly big enough to serve the Union’s purposes. Fortunately the departure lounge was part of the Citadel’s research suite (as the faculty liked to call the few dozen rooms) and so it was only a brief elevator ride away from the laboratory.
The glass-floored lift began its ascent. If even the Advisor had considered the situation urgent, then this new arrival must have been of some import. More Hunters? An expert of some description? The Quad she’d requested to support the Striders?
Of course, she knew Hunters or a Quad couldn’t possibly fit inside the lounge… but she could think of nothing else that could help the war effort.
A pair of Elites- two of the thirty she had access to- saluted stiffly when she passed by. She didn’t respond- after all, they weren’t made to care about her politeness.
The lift stopped completely, treating her to a view of the lounge. Hanes frequently thought that the Combine’s teleporters were… odd. But considering how far ahead they were in every other aspect of development, she seldom commented on this belief.
She realised that the teleportation stack had already been active: sparks crackled over the pylons far above her head, and the transit platform- no doubt with her new guest standing atop it- was slowly lowering itself back to floor level.
“I’m Enid Hanes,” she called, walking towards the device. “I’m the Domarian representative for the Delta 33 assimilation effort.”
The newcomer nodded.
After a moment of hearing nothing but the humming of draining power conduits, Hanes realised her knew guest wasn’t going to be more forthcoming. “And you are?” she asked, frowning.
“I am Forty.”
The Combine knew about headcrabs- mostly the fact that the lurching, near-mindless creatures spawned when the ‘crabs bonded with a host tended to be less menacing than an organised squadron of intelligent, well-trained revolutionaries. Even now the potent cocktail of chemicals and neural impulses was a mystery to the Combine: but the how of the degenerations was of less interest than their potential uses: the Xenian parasites had been recognised as potential bioweapons since the first encounter.
A “zombie” (or “necrotic”, as the Overwatch forces preferred) possessed an incredible pain threshold and inhuman strength, but they lacked the speed- or opposable thumbs- necessary to pose a threat to the Combine’s outposts. To say nothing of the damage headcrab shells caused to enemy moral: massive canisters crashing into the earth, spewing a horde of mind parasites that would immediately set about finding victims to transform into moaning, claw-fingered monsters. Even the rarer fast and poisonous headcrab varieties were quite manageable, especially when compared to the alternative of constant guerrilla attacks.
So when confronted with the indigenous Desz of planet Delta 33, the Combine had decided that headcrab shells would make the perfect counter to the forest nomads’ roving camps. Headcrabs were known to burrow into sand or soil, ready to ambush wandering humanoids- and their strange senses meant the usually stealthy natives could be taken by surprise.
So the clearings that made sites for Desz camps were quickly shelled, regardless of whether any of the creatures were in residence. Later, they’d settle down, be ambushed… and they became hybrids.
And the hybrids had been a surprise. When a headcrab’s mutagens came into contact with the regenerating bacterial symbiote that made up most of a Desz’s bodily fluids, the resulting zombie developed at a rapid pace. “Necrotic” no longer seemed appropriate, as it had come to be associated with the comparatively low threat posed by human zombies.
Hybrids were far, far more dangerous. Even the “normal” headcrabs spawned blisteringly fast mutants, and the Combine lived in fear of what the quick and venomous types might produce should they successfully bond with a Desz: the result being that the shellings, and all future strikes, were hurriedly cancelled in favour of explosive ordinance.
The one in the observation tank stared ahead- unseeing, because Desz had no eyes in the first place, but also because a headcrab covered most of its skull. Hanes shuddered: this immobility was preferable to an insane rampage, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. Eight foot tall, bulging with muscles that would have been distorted and comedic if encountered in other circumstances, random barbs of jutting bone curving from their feet… all very distinctive, but not quite as much as the thing’s hands.
Desz had talons naturally, but headcrabs induced the production of bone marrow in digits (or keratin, if the species of the host allowed for it) in order to supply their new bodies with weaponry: so the former Desz’s razor-edged claws were now a foot long, and quite capable of slicing through metal.
Hybrids were killing machines: and the Union wished they’d thought of them earlier.
Instead wild packs of the creatures roamed the forest, killing indiscriminately. Desz, Legionaries, the Combine’s soldiers- all were viable prey. Not that the hybrids had ever been seen eating anything… or, indeed, doing anything except maiming other organisms.
But if they could be controlled… if they could be controlled…
Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Mind-control had never been an exact science, even to the Combine- and simple propaganda wouldn’t work on such feral beasts.
“This one has already been documented?” Hanes asked.
“Yes ma’am: in addition, I’m proud to announce that we’ve already determined its power-to-weight ratio.” The scientist wasn’t a transhuman yet- but she couldn’t help thinking the man would’ve been slightly more interesting with an emotion-repressing implant or two. “We’ve also had another major find.”
“Meaning?”
“Well… to start with… we don’t think it eats very much. If ever.”
Hanes frowned. “Despite that thing on its chest?”
The scientist glanced at the twitching, horizontally-tilted mouth grinning from the hybrid’s ribcage. “It would appear to be a redundant feature of the subject’s DNA.”
“Ah, you mean like the human appendix?”
“Yes… it’s superfluous to the animal’s current requirements.”
Hanes didn’t think the word “animal” suited this freak, but she let it pass. “So how does it fuel itself if it doesn’t eat?”
“Well, from what we know, the Deszian symbiote-”
“Deszian isn’t the correct usage,” she interrupted.
“ ‘Deszish’, then?”
“No. It’s ‘Desz’ for everything.”
“-uh, of course. I’m not familiar with your language-”
“Evidently.”
He carried on. “The Desz’s symbiote uses electricity- even nerve impulses- to further its development…”
“We know this: but the Desz itself still needs nutrition. The symbiote can power itself by feeding off the Desz’s neural charge, but the Desz can’t produce that charge without sustenance- so why would the hybrids be any different?”
“I… that is, us, uh, we, the department-”
“Get on with it.”
“…think that the hybrids, because of the addition of the headcrab’s genetic material… are a self-sustaining reaction.”
Hanes nodded. “You mean that once they have enough energy to get the wheel turning, so to speak, their nervous systems are active enough to maintain the cycle?”
“That’s what we’ve theorised. They appear to absorb energy so efficiently- no doubt thanks to the strands of DNA drawn from the Xenian metabolism- that light can fuel their bodies.”
“So that’s why energy weapons seem to be so ineffectual.”
“Yes…”
Hanes lost interest in that topic. “Have you observed this one growing, then?”
“Oh, they don’t grow that fast, ma’am. But the outer defences report seeing a significantly larger specimen- at least a foot taller than this one, or so I’m lead to believe…”
“If they’re growing at the rate determined by the headcrab life cycle,” she said thoughtfully, “and driven by the Desz’s frankly unparalleled regenerative abilities… is there even a limit to the size they could reach?”
“If the food source- I mean, ah, energy source- was large enough, we think their growth would be uncapped. We haven’t fully profiled them just yet, but all signs point to-”
“Hmm. You can’t find anything else from this hybrid?”
“Well, as I say, we haven’t mapped-”
“I meant if you needed the hybrid itself. Not if you needed more time to examine the samples you’ve already taken.”
“Oh… no. No, I wouldn’t think so, but I’d have to run it past my team-”
“Destroy it then.”
The scientist was aghast. “It’s quite sedate, really, seems perfectly at home in that tank-”
“Because it is much smarter than you give it credit for. Have it atomised.”
Hanes walked out, leaving the scientist to grapple with his conscience. The door closed with the kind of dramatic, ear-piercing rattle that the doors back home could only replicate after hours of work with a big bucket of grit.
There had just been an altercation between an Overwatch patrol and a small contingent of Legionaries- only for the two sides to retreat in disarray when a mere handful of hybrids entered the scene. Hanes vowed never to underestimate the creatures- even if she was sending a whole platoon of Super Soldiers into the fray with Strider support, she’d be fully prepared to fall back if necessary.
Delta 33- or CXABV 432310 to use its Union-assigned identity- was a battlefield in perpetual balance. Enemy bases of unknown location, separated by vast swathes of dense, hybrid-infested forest that had become a hellish no-man’s-land. Even if one of the sides acted- deigning to take their forces out of their heavily defended HQs to lead an assault on their opponents- there was every chance that the hybrids would come from nowhere and butcher the lot of them. When one side got the upper hand, mutants, the climate, or irate natives conspired to set them back down a notch.
When rain wasn’t pelting her increasingly irate troops, or when lightning wasn’t setting fire to her outposts, random energy fluctuations came from nowhere and disabled technology in the immediate area- including the transmitters that might have finally allowed the Combine forces to locate and eradicate the opposition. Delta 33 wasn’t exactly destined to be a tourist resort when a victor finally emerged.
Fortunately, the Legion also suffered. Their recon drones were more than a match for the Combine’s Shield scanners, and the heavier Security Enforcement Drones usually came out on top in a straight fight with a Super Solider- but their technology seemed to be even more vulnerable to the particle oscillations. Hanes personally held the infamously fickle intranet to account- so much the better for the reign of the Universal Union…
Head to the departure lounge.
Hanes winced and put her hand to her head. “What?”
Head to the departure lounge.
“You… want me to leave?” She didn’t understand.
The device can work in reverse. I require you to meet the Delta 33 chapter’s latest arrival.
Hanes much preferred it when her Advisor had courtesy enough to trigger the “incoming transmission” alarm before making contact- but the news must have been urgent, prompting it to speak to her without forewarning.
Although they never stooped to mere verbal discourse. They preferred telepathy to the point that they seemed incapable of audible dialogue.
Her peers had explained that Delta’s Citadel was significantly smaller than those on Earth, at only a third of the size: but it was certainly big enough to serve the Union’s purposes. Fortunately the departure lounge was part of the Citadel’s research suite (as the faculty liked to call the few dozen rooms) and so it was only a brief elevator ride away from the laboratory.
The glass-floored lift began its ascent. If even the Advisor had considered the situation urgent, then this new arrival must have been of some import. More Hunters? An expert of some description? The Quad she’d requested to support the Striders?
Of course, she knew Hunters or a Quad couldn’t possibly fit inside the lounge… but she could think of nothing else that could help the war effort.
A pair of Elites- two of the thirty she had access to- saluted stiffly when she passed by. She didn’t respond- after all, they weren’t made to care about her politeness.
The lift stopped completely, treating her to a view of the lounge. Hanes frequently thought that the Combine’s teleporters were… odd. But considering how far ahead they were in every other aspect of development, she seldom commented on this belief.
She realised that the teleportation stack had already been active: sparks crackled over the pylons far above her head, and the transit platform- no doubt with her new guest standing atop it- was slowly lowering itself back to floor level.
“I’m Enid Hanes,” she called, walking towards the device. “I’m the Domarian representative for the Delta 33 assimilation effort.”
The newcomer nodded.
After a moment of hearing nothing but the humming of draining power conduits, Hanes realised her knew guest wasn’t going to be more forthcoming. “And you are?” she asked, frowning.
“I am Forty.”
Agent G-Man
Newbie
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Awesome. I need more.
Bob_Marley
Tank
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Holy ****! Forty! He's back!
I cant wait for the next installment.
I cant wait for the next installment.
Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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Looks like poor old Forty was sitting on ice for a month
“I know when I’m being mocked,” Griggs muttered.
“Sir?”
“Oh… nothing. Go check the perimeter, I’ll catch up.”
The Legionaries saluted and made their exit, leaving Acting-Commander Griggs with his base’s latest novelty. A ten-ton paper weight.
It looked like a sed- but Griggs knew how to spot the differences. Same colour scheme, same ludicrous size, but the torso-mounted nameplate was platinum-rimmed.
“ ‘Dunamis’,” he read for the umpteenth time. “You online yet?” He rapped his knuckles below the mech’s eye socket. “Huh? Any sensory input? Anything?”
The machine’s dim lens continued to stare at the ground, its body slumped forward like a discarded toy (albeit one with WMDs for accessories). Griggs sighed, tried to remember which piece of plating concealed the master access terminal- although, since he couldn’t remember if the Enforcer variants still had manually settable controls, he didn’t risk trying to pry the plates off. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.
“I’m sent an Enforcer mech,” Griggs growled, “and you’re broke. Broke! God damn…”
“Uh, boss? You going to talk to this chick?”
Griggs whirled round. “I’m on it- and I’m not a technician! You call me ‘sir’! Go away!”
The soldier mumbled an apology and backed out.
The Acting-Commander wasn’t used to this- he’d started this expedition as Corporal Griggs, but several violent encounters later and the Domarian presence on this world had a severe lack of officers.
Combine. Resistance. All bastards. The Combine force was the biggest, but they were hopeless at finding their way through the forest- it was the Resistance, those mindless backward guerrillas, who were the trouble.
Backward… urgh. They used combustibles, so the ion fluctuations on this screw-up planet had little effect on their ramshackle vehicles- their engines would merely cut out for a moment before recovering. Of the three sides, it was the Resistance who had the most reliable technology! How did that make sense?
Case in point… the super-heavyweight sleeping beauty in the corner. God alone knew how long it’d take for the mech to come back online, if ever.
“Griggs? We really need someone to see this prisoner-”
“Are you the same guy from before?”
“Um. No?”
“I’m coming. And it’s sir.”
He left the module. Behind him, Dunamis’s eye rose up and watched him go out.
“Well? I’m thirty-six. I’m sure that’s nothing to boast about.”
“Forty is my designated project number. My age is not relevant and neither is yours.”
Hanes folder her arms. “So what is relevant? You’re a lone soldier randomly delivered to my facility with no notice and no explanation.”
The teleporter’s platform met the deck noisily, and Forty stepped off it. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“I… see.” Hanes took a step back, and craned her neck. “You’re… awfully tall for an Elite.”
“I am not an Elite.”
“Evidently,” Hanes hazarded. “What are you here to do? We’ve managed to set up a basic combination between an intranet receiver and a standard radio wave transmitter, so you’ll be able to communicate with the other-”
“I have been instructed to ignore you.”
“Interesting. I can’t say I’m thinking much of your social skills.”
“It is not your concern. I have been assigned a task and I intend to complete it.”
Hanes watched Forty’s retreating back. Parts of it looked like plating- like chitin. “You’re not human, are you?” she thought aloud.
Forty turned round suddenly and walked back towards the Domarian. The two Elites guarding the door would have apprehended any member of Hanes’s staff who demonstrated such aggressive behaviour, but they merely watched the towering Forty with wary eyes.
“I am one of the Benefited,” the giant announced.
Hanes was taken aback. “You don’t look it.”
“I am one of the Benefited.”
Hanes sighed. “Yes. Of course you are.”
“Yes. I was one of the projects developed before the fall of Earth’s Primary Citadel. Specifically, I was created to counter Gordon Freeman.”
“I don’t even know who he is,” Hanes replied, clearly unimpressed.
“Gordon Freeman is the most resilient and resourceful human that the Union has ever encountered.”
“Very interesting. And did you ‘counter’ him?”
“No. I did not get the chance. The Union’s forces were distracted and misdirected through various guerrilla tactics, resulting in my substandard deployment and ultimate failure to locate Freeman. Had I ever met him, the man would no longer pose a threat.”
“Poor you.”
“You are not displaying sufficient reaction considering the Union’s glorious feats,” Forty rumbled disapprovingly.
“And I thought you were meant to be ignoring me?”
Forty nodded. “Your reminder is accepted. Begone. Do not follow me.”
The Commando turned on his heel, and the two Elites cautiously sidled away from him as he swept down the corridor. Delta 33’s Citadel was built to a non-standard layout, so it was slightly odd that the newcomer seemed to know his way around…
We informed him of this Citadel’s architecture.
“It would have been nice if you had informed me that you were sending that… obstinate Synth,” Hanes responded readily.
Part Synth, her Advisor corrected. Project Forty combines a myriad of technologies in order to produce a viable Commando.
“He doesn’t look special to me,” Hanes muttered, brushing past the guards and feeling glad that that they were conditioned to know that she wasn’t talking to herself.
Regardless, Project Forty was responsible for the destruction of the ACS Glorious.
“Well, my forces have-” Hanes paused. “Wait. An Arcadimaarian Sunspear? That… he…” she shook her head in disbelief. “This Forty destroyed a Sunspear? Alone?”
Yes. The Arcadimaarians brought him aboard in error. As a result, he failed to apprehend Quarir Nalore and his associates, but had the opportunity to defeat the craft’s entire crew.
“I find it hard to believe-” Again, Hanes paused. “Nalore? Did you just say Nalore?”
Yes. This name is of interest to you?
“Before the Union found me, I had dealings with him...”
How remarkable.
Hanes felt she was being led on, though failed to notice the parallels between her response to Forty and her Advisor’s condescension. “What does Nalore have to do with Earth?”
I shall explain at a later opportunity. For now, please elaborate.
“More specifically,” Hanes frowned, “he cost me five years funding, and came close to shattering my reputation.”
A tragedy for a moral scientist like yourself.
She nodded, not caring if the Advisor was being sarcastic.
So this Nalore wronged you?
“You could say that.”
How did you react to this slight?
Hanes sniffed. “I had him killed, naturally. So I’m assuming that this Forty of yours worked in Domarian space quite some time ago.”
Alternatively, Enid Hanes, you were conned.
“What?”
I hope you choose more successful assassins in future. Quarir Nalore is still active.
“You’re pretty calm about all of this.”
Nuri smiled. “I could say the same about you.”
Griggs shrugged. “Yeah? But this is my home dimension- and probably the same galaxy. Earth is, hell, Earth must be six factors away.”
“Factors?”
“Heh, I don’t know what they mean either. Scientific types always talk about ‘dimensional factors’ as if they’re a unit of measurement. Hanes always…” Griggs trailed off. “Yeah,” he swallowed. “Science.”
“You’re a lot friendlier than I expected, too.”
“My men aren’t! They’re all convinced you’re a spy or something. You turned up wearing that suit, but you’re Earthborn. They think you’re undercover, and they never stopped bugging me to interrogate you. Me? I say turning up with an Enforcer droid vouches for you in a big way. And having your planet invaded and leaving it behind in one lifetime… I reckon you’ve gone through enough.”
“I think that the Vortigaunts went through more.”
“The sentient Xenians? Yeah, haven’t had much experience with them. But I reckon their jump was the biggest.”
Nuri nodded slowly. “Still no news on my friends? They really should have come through with us-”
“You and that mech. That’s all we found at the gate. And, believe me, it was easier to carry you back than that Enforcer.” And blood, Griggs added silently, we found lots of blood.
“I don’t remember much…”
“I reckon phaseshifting screws with the mind, especially if the technology powering it isn’t up to scratch. Come on. I think you’ve stewed in this goddamn box for long enough.”
“Already? But your guards said I’d-”
“They’re not my guards- half of the useless bastards are contracted.” Griggs opened the door a little wider, and Nuri heard approaching footsteps. “Besides, someone says they want to meet you. Again.”
“Glad to see you’ve faired so well,” said Yuza.
Nuri looked at the woman leaning against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow. “No. Never seen her before in my life.”
Overseer Hanes will appreciate your deployment in due time. We shall prepare.
“Very well.”
The main computer lab is on the thirtieth floor. Utilise this elevator.
“Affirmative.”
Of the myriad species that the Advisor had dealt with in its “career”, Project Forty was the most refreshing. Instant compliance was a welcome break to the quibbles and complaints of its unaltered liaisons. Of course, that was the beauty of a specially commissioned hybrid.
A few design flaws lingered- Forty was insane, by all standards, because there was an irreplaceable, tortured human component nestled somewhere amongst his synaptic implants- but all that meant was that the Synth could get genuinely, and ingeniously aggressive.
However, he lacked all the really inconvenient emotions. Forty didn’t shy from monotony or ever feel guilt and he never let judgement or morality get in the way of his orders. This Project, of the hundreds that the Advisor had overseen, had been one of the most successful, especially considering the fragility of the original species.
Breen was right- humanity had a lot of potential. It was such a pity what was happening on Earth.
Fortunately Forty lacked the capacity for that most quintessential human failure- boredom. He didn’t say a word during the ride to the upper floors.
The high-security door slid open at the Advisor’s command.
Stand before the central terminal and I will interact with the program.
“Affirmative.”
The three dark monitors flared into life, swarming with Combine glyphs.
SUMMARY EDUCATION PROTOCOL, the middle screen briefly read, PERTAINING TO THE UNION’S EFFORTS TO ABSORB ASPECTS OF THE DOMARIAN CIVILISATION DURING THE INITIAL CONTROL PERIOD OF PLANET CXABV 432310.
You are aware of this planet’s state?
“Please remind me.”
Planet CXABV 432310 is currently disputed territory. We have encountered resistance both from the indigenous humanoids- Desz- and the various hostile factions who also seek to establish forward outposts. The Domarian presence is logical, as it was inevitable that their foray into dimensional exploration would lead them to a world so close to their own. What is less apparent is how Earth’s Resistance forces managed to send their own personnel to this world- those that we have harvested demonstrate little understanding.
“That would explain why this Citadel contains members of both civilisations.”
Indeed. Regardless, all factions appear to be hostile to each other. There is no evidence of co-operation, although prior to our crackdown a few Desz tribes attempted to ally with the Resistance.
An image appeared onscreen- a Desz. Humanoid, taloned, big-teeth, eyeless. Of little interest to Forty.
Regrettably, our efforts to pacify the Desz population resulted in the creation of the Desz/Headcrab Hybrids.
“Elaborate?”
I will do so later. Here on CXABV 432310 we utilise crisis-rated units, unlike the peacekeeping contingents you worked alongside on Earth.
“Greater Synth.”
Yes. Here you will have access to dozens of Striders despite the world’s low population, and significant Hunter support. Super Soldiers- arguably your precursors, Project Forty- are here to serve as intermediates.
The Desz was replaced by a Super Soldier- a broad, bipedal Synth that was typically deployed whenever a Strider was seen as being overkill.
“What quality are the Domarian Overwatch forces?” Forty asked.
Due to their genetic alterations, the Domarians have proved to be far more suitable for augmentation than Earth’s natives ever were. Many of their military staff came pre-installed with bionics.
“Convenient.”
Indeed. In addition, we intend to produce a combinational rifle to arm them for best effect.
“Pulse weapons have served the Combine well in a thousand dimensions.”
Yes, but ammunition creates a severe restraint on a world that lacks a cohesive transport network. We are examining plasma-based weaponry in order to produce a standard armament that doesn’t make our forces so reliant on supplies. It also makes good use of the freely available native technologies to be found with the colonial presence. Far better foundations for development than those of Earth.
“What else have the Domarians granted the Union?”
We recently began production of a new wave of Hunter-Seekers. These new skimmers, powered by photon drives and shielded with ionic fields, have proved far more resilient than their rotorcraft equivalents on Earth. They have even resulted in the lessened application of Gunships.
“Impressive.”
Indeed. On this world their uses are limited due to electromagnetic phenomena, but beyond CXABV 432310 we believe they will have great potential. We have especially high hopes for the Domarian Security Mechs- a most promising class of machine.
Forty sensed that the lesson was almost complete. “Will I be armed with any of our great discoveries?”
Not just armed, Project Forty- updated. Please continue to the installation laboratory in the adjacent room.
“Affirmative.”
We have evidence that the Arcadimaarians are also active on this planet, so your new additions will feature counters for every predictable outcome. The Domarians, for example, have themselves been dabbling in monofilaments…
Chapter Twelve: Reinforcements
“I know when I’m being mocked,” Griggs muttered.
“Sir?”
“Oh… nothing. Go check the perimeter, I’ll catch up.”
The Legionaries saluted and made their exit, leaving Acting-Commander Griggs with his base’s latest novelty. A ten-ton paper weight.
It looked like a sed- but Griggs knew how to spot the differences. Same colour scheme, same ludicrous size, but the torso-mounted nameplate was platinum-rimmed.
“ ‘Dunamis’,” he read for the umpteenth time. “You online yet?” He rapped his knuckles below the mech’s eye socket. “Huh? Any sensory input? Anything?”
The machine’s dim lens continued to stare at the ground, its body slumped forward like a discarded toy (albeit one with WMDs for accessories). Griggs sighed, tried to remember which piece of plating concealed the master access terminal- although, since he couldn’t remember if the Enforcer variants still had manually settable controls, he didn’t risk trying to pry the plates off. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.
“I’m sent an Enforcer mech,” Griggs growled, “and you’re broke. Broke! God damn…”
“Uh, boss? You going to talk to this chick?”
Griggs whirled round. “I’m on it- and I’m not a technician! You call me ‘sir’! Go away!”
The soldier mumbled an apology and backed out.
The Acting-Commander wasn’t used to this- he’d started this expedition as Corporal Griggs, but several violent encounters later and the Domarian presence on this world had a severe lack of officers.
Combine. Resistance. All bastards. The Combine force was the biggest, but they were hopeless at finding their way through the forest- it was the Resistance, those mindless backward guerrillas, who were the trouble.
Backward… urgh. They used combustibles, so the ion fluctuations on this screw-up planet had little effect on their ramshackle vehicles- their engines would merely cut out for a moment before recovering. Of the three sides, it was the Resistance who had the most reliable technology! How did that make sense?
Case in point… the super-heavyweight sleeping beauty in the corner. God alone knew how long it’d take for the mech to come back online, if ever.
“Griggs? We really need someone to see this prisoner-”
“Are you the same guy from before?”
“Um. No?”
“I’m coming. And it’s sir.”
He left the module. Behind him, Dunamis’s eye rose up and watched him go out.
---
“Well? I’m thirty-six. I’m sure that’s nothing to boast about.”
“Forty is my designated project number. My age is not relevant and neither is yours.”
Hanes folder her arms. “So what is relevant? You’re a lone soldier randomly delivered to my facility with no notice and no explanation.”
The teleporter’s platform met the deck noisily, and Forty stepped off it. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“I… see.” Hanes took a step back, and craned her neck. “You’re… awfully tall for an Elite.”
“I am not an Elite.”
“Evidently,” Hanes hazarded. “What are you here to do? We’ve managed to set up a basic combination between an intranet receiver and a standard radio wave transmitter, so you’ll be able to communicate with the other-”
“I have been instructed to ignore you.”
“Interesting. I can’t say I’m thinking much of your social skills.”
“It is not your concern. I have been assigned a task and I intend to complete it.”
Hanes watched Forty’s retreating back. Parts of it looked like plating- like chitin. “You’re not human, are you?” she thought aloud.
Forty turned round suddenly and walked back towards the Domarian. The two Elites guarding the door would have apprehended any member of Hanes’s staff who demonstrated such aggressive behaviour, but they merely watched the towering Forty with wary eyes.
“I am one of the Benefited,” the giant announced.
Hanes was taken aback. “You don’t look it.”
“I am one of the Benefited.”
Hanes sighed. “Yes. Of course you are.”
“Yes. I was one of the projects developed before the fall of Earth’s Primary Citadel. Specifically, I was created to counter Gordon Freeman.”
“I don’t even know who he is,” Hanes replied, clearly unimpressed.
“Gordon Freeman is the most resilient and resourceful human that the Union has ever encountered.”
“Very interesting. And did you ‘counter’ him?”
“No. I did not get the chance. The Union’s forces were distracted and misdirected through various guerrilla tactics, resulting in my substandard deployment and ultimate failure to locate Freeman. Had I ever met him, the man would no longer pose a threat.”
“Poor you.”
“You are not displaying sufficient reaction considering the Union’s glorious feats,” Forty rumbled disapprovingly.
“And I thought you were meant to be ignoring me?”
Forty nodded. “Your reminder is accepted. Begone. Do not follow me.”
The Commando turned on his heel, and the two Elites cautiously sidled away from him as he swept down the corridor. Delta 33’s Citadel was built to a non-standard layout, so it was slightly odd that the newcomer seemed to know his way around…
We informed him of this Citadel’s architecture.
“It would have been nice if you had informed me that you were sending that… obstinate Synth,” Hanes responded readily.
Part Synth, her Advisor corrected. Project Forty combines a myriad of technologies in order to produce a viable Commando.
“He doesn’t look special to me,” Hanes muttered, brushing past the guards and feeling glad that that they were conditioned to know that she wasn’t talking to herself.
Regardless, Project Forty was responsible for the destruction of the ACS Glorious.
“Well, my forces have-” Hanes paused. “Wait. An Arcadimaarian Sunspear? That… he…” she shook her head in disbelief. “This Forty destroyed a Sunspear? Alone?”
Yes. The Arcadimaarians brought him aboard in error. As a result, he failed to apprehend Quarir Nalore and his associates, but had the opportunity to defeat the craft’s entire crew.
“I find it hard to believe-” Again, Hanes paused. “Nalore? Did you just say Nalore?”
Yes. This name is of interest to you?
“Before the Union found me, I had dealings with him...”
How remarkable.
Hanes felt she was being led on, though failed to notice the parallels between her response to Forty and her Advisor’s condescension. “What does Nalore have to do with Earth?”
I shall explain at a later opportunity. For now, please elaborate.
“More specifically,” Hanes frowned, “he cost me five years funding, and came close to shattering my reputation.”
A tragedy for a moral scientist like yourself.
She nodded, not caring if the Advisor was being sarcastic.
So this Nalore wronged you?
“You could say that.”
How did you react to this slight?
Hanes sniffed. “I had him killed, naturally. So I’m assuming that this Forty of yours worked in Domarian space quite some time ago.”
Alternatively, Enid Hanes, you were conned.
“What?”
I hope you choose more successful assassins in future. Quarir Nalore is still active.
---
“You’re pretty calm about all of this.”
Nuri smiled. “I could say the same about you.”
Griggs shrugged. “Yeah? But this is my home dimension- and probably the same galaxy. Earth is, hell, Earth must be six factors away.”
“Factors?”
“Heh, I don’t know what they mean either. Scientific types always talk about ‘dimensional factors’ as if they’re a unit of measurement. Hanes always…” Griggs trailed off. “Yeah,” he swallowed. “Science.”
“You’re a lot friendlier than I expected, too.”
“My men aren’t! They’re all convinced you’re a spy or something. You turned up wearing that suit, but you’re Earthborn. They think you’re undercover, and they never stopped bugging me to interrogate you. Me? I say turning up with an Enforcer droid vouches for you in a big way. And having your planet invaded and leaving it behind in one lifetime… I reckon you’ve gone through enough.”
“I think that the Vortigaunts went through more.”
“The sentient Xenians? Yeah, haven’t had much experience with them. But I reckon their jump was the biggest.”
Nuri nodded slowly. “Still no news on my friends? They really should have come through with us-”
“You and that mech. That’s all we found at the gate. And, believe me, it was easier to carry you back than that Enforcer.” And blood, Griggs added silently, we found lots of blood.
“I don’t remember much…”
“I reckon phaseshifting screws with the mind, especially if the technology powering it isn’t up to scratch. Come on. I think you’ve stewed in this goddamn box for long enough.”
“Already? But your guards said I’d-”
“They’re not my guards- half of the useless bastards are contracted.” Griggs opened the door a little wider, and Nuri heard approaching footsteps. “Besides, someone says they want to meet you. Again.”
“Glad to see you’ve faired so well,” said Yuza.
Nuri looked at the woman leaning against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow. “No. Never seen her before in my life.”
---
Overseer Hanes will appreciate your deployment in due time. We shall prepare.
“Very well.”
The main computer lab is on the thirtieth floor. Utilise this elevator.
“Affirmative.”
Of the myriad species that the Advisor had dealt with in its “career”, Project Forty was the most refreshing. Instant compliance was a welcome break to the quibbles and complaints of its unaltered liaisons. Of course, that was the beauty of a specially commissioned hybrid.
A few design flaws lingered- Forty was insane, by all standards, because there was an irreplaceable, tortured human component nestled somewhere amongst his synaptic implants- but all that meant was that the Synth could get genuinely, and ingeniously aggressive.
However, he lacked all the really inconvenient emotions. Forty didn’t shy from monotony or ever feel guilt and he never let judgement or morality get in the way of his orders. This Project, of the hundreds that the Advisor had overseen, had been one of the most successful, especially considering the fragility of the original species.
Breen was right- humanity had a lot of potential. It was such a pity what was happening on Earth.
Fortunately Forty lacked the capacity for that most quintessential human failure- boredom. He didn’t say a word during the ride to the upper floors.
The high-security door slid open at the Advisor’s command.
Stand before the central terminal and I will interact with the program.
“Affirmative.”
The three dark monitors flared into life, swarming with Combine glyphs.
SUMMARY EDUCATION PROTOCOL, the middle screen briefly read, PERTAINING TO THE UNION’S EFFORTS TO ABSORB ASPECTS OF THE DOMARIAN CIVILISATION DURING THE INITIAL CONTROL PERIOD OF PLANET CXABV 432310.
You are aware of this planet’s state?
“Please remind me.”
Planet CXABV 432310 is currently disputed territory. We have encountered resistance both from the indigenous humanoids- Desz- and the various hostile factions who also seek to establish forward outposts. The Domarian presence is logical, as it was inevitable that their foray into dimensional exploration would lead them to a world so close to their own. What is less apparent is how Earth’s Resistance forces managed to send their own personnel to this world- those that we have harvested demonstrate little understanding.
“That would explain why this Citadel contains members of both civilisations.”
Indeed. Regardless, all factions appear to be hostile to each other. There is no evidence of co-operation, although prior to our crackdown a few Desz tribes attempted to ally with the Resistance.
An image appeared onscreen- a Desz. Humanoid, taloned, big-teeth, eyeless. Of little interest to Forty.
Regrettably, our efforts to pacify the Desz population resulted in the creation of the Desz/Headcrab Hybrids.
“Elaborate?”
I will do so later. Here on CXABV 432310 we utilise crisis-rated units, unlike the peacekeeping contingents you worked alongside on Earth.
“Greater Synth.”
Yes. Here you will have access to dozens of Striders despite the world’s low population, and significant Hunter support. Super Soldiers- arguably your precursors, Project Forty- are here to serve as intermediates.
The Desz was replaced by a Super Soldier- a broad, bipedal Synth that was typically deployed whenever a Strider was seen as being overkill.
“What quality are the Domarian Overwatch forces?” Forty asked.
Due to their genetic alterations, the Domarians have proved to be far more suitable for augmentation than Earth’s natives ever were. Many of their military staff came pre-installed with bionics.
“Convenient.”
Indeed. In addition, we intend to produce a combinational rifle to arm them for best effect.
“Pulse weapons have served the Combine well in a thousand dimensions.”
Yes, but ammunition creates a severe restraint on a world that lacks a cohesive transport network. We are examining plasma-based weaponry in order to produce a standard armament that doesn’t make our forces so reliant on supplies. It also makes good use of the freely available native technologies to be found with the colonial presence. Far better foundations for development than those of Earth.
“What else have the Domarians granted the Union?”
We recently began production of a new wave of Hunter-Seekers. These new skimmers, powered by photon drives and shielded with ionic fields, have proved far more resilient than their rotorcraft equivalents on Earth. They have even resulted in the lessened application of Gunships.
“Impressive.”
Indeed. On this world their uses are limited due to electromagnetic phenomena, but beyond CXABV 432310 we believe they will have great potential. We have especially high hopes for the Domarian Security Mechs- a most promising class of machine.
Forty sensed that the lesson was almost complete. “Will I be armed with any of our great discoveries?”
Not just armed, Project Forty- updated. Please continue to the installation laboratory in the adjacent room.
“Affirmative.”
We have evidence that the Arcadimaarians are also active on this planet, so your new additions will feature counters for every predictable outcome. The Domarians, for example, have themselves been dabbling in monofilaments…
Tollbooth Willie
The Freeman
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Indeed. More please.
Bob_Marley
Tank
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Edcrab is not dead/too busy to give us our MC fix! Hoorah!
*does happy dance*
*does happy dance*
Agent G-Man
Newbie
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At least he updated. I been waiting forever.
Cool chapter by the way.
Cool chapter by the way.
Agent G-Man
Newbie
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So.... is it done yet? I'm just trying to keep this thread alive.
Steel.Inferno
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Posting in this thread when there is no new chapter should be punishable by tickling.
Edcrab
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No, it's nowhere near finished. Blah :imu:
“All right,” the Iklo hissed, “so we strike now.”
The Kgh’esz shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No, we do not,” came the affirming response. “Now is not the time.”
The gathered warriors considered this. The campfire- which they’d lit purely for atmosphere rather than for its warmth- had the debate floor to itself as it crackled and spat embers at the dozen-or-so tribesmen.
Eventually, another voice piped up uncertainly: “You sure?”
“Yes. We are sure.”
That really wasn’t what they’d expected. Desz were not warlike: that assumption did a disservice to a species that had peacefully coexisted with various races across their turbulent lifetimes. But when war found them- which happened depressingly often- they never shied away from it. Pacifism was… well… alien to their species: especially to this particular tribe, which rarely interacted with any race other than their own.
An Iklo was second only to a tribe’s chieftain; a sort of head advisor, a lore master, learned in all matters relating to honour and tactics; a Desz who played a crucial role in the nomadic society and held a coveted, respected position.
Unless, of course, the Iklo in question was an amateur adolescent heading a selection of equally amateurish children.
A Desz wasn’t considered to be of fighting age until he or she hit his 130th birthday. They could spar and practise and train, of course, but no Desz would declare a child to be a fully-fledged haest until they’d passed their rites- and even then they would be repeatedly overlooked for battle assignments until they had several years and several victories under their belts.
But necessity had spawned a war band made up of inexperienced youths, and so they had no choice but to grudgingly heed the words of the three Kgh’esz- “respected outsiders”, the closest this xenophobic batch of octogenarians would come to calling foreigners friends.
“Conflict cannot solve all issues,” another of the Kgh’esz continued.
“Seems to work for the Combine,” one of the youngest Desz snapped defiantly. “They’re at it constantly.”
“And you are not the Combine. You lack great armies. You lack their knowledge. You lack their desire to dominate.”
“Yeah, basically you just lack, period,” the Iklo growled. “So shut up and let them talk. You… you lacker.”
The Kgh’esz standing at the centre of the trio- the one the Desz kept thinking of as the head- nodded solemnly. “Indeed. The Desz initiates do, for example, persist in lighting fires when their presence may lure hostile eyes our way.”
The trainee haests shuffled their feet in embarrassment, betraying their young years by stripping back their façade of confidence. “About that,” one murmured, “it holds the unnaturals back, you see…”
“Ah,” the leftmost Kgh’esz began, “you are referring to the Hybrids. The entropic affronts to the balance of the universe that seek only to sever the ties of the sapient.”
“Uh… yeah. I guess.”
“It is true that light appears to dissuade the beasts,” the Kgh’esz on the right admitted, “but it will attract the attention of the Shephard’s scouts.”
“Indeed. Without the guidance of their leader, the humans are increasingly violent and unpredictable. The absence of astute direction leads to the degeneration of their very society.”
“Just so.”
The Iklo grunted. “Whatever you say- I’d sooner take on those soft humans than the unnaturals.”
“Ah, the Iklo would seek to fight those that would be his allies? The learning process is clearly not complete.”
The Desz branded a “lacker” by her leader piped up. “Yeah,” she said snidely, “got to agree with that. You know nothing.”
“I’d like to see you say that again after I slice off your face!”
“We have a long way to go,” the leading Kgh’esz murmured sadly, leaning out of the way of a flying globule of green blood.
“The Void is most prominent here,” another stated, “we should leave this arboreal place and take what sustenance we can from the open air.”
The fight raged on with shouts and the metallic clack of talon on talon- the foreign guests ignored it.
“Even the Void is preferable to the roaming Synth that frequent the plains.”
“But we cannot linger here- it crushes us. Throttles our minds as if we, too, were nothing but machines.”
“We are all machines- some just do not realise it.”
“Our wisest philosopher said thus-”
Another fleshly, distinctly stabby sound. “I’m going to gut you!”
“-yes,” the Kgh’esz confirmed, “but they also said that there is a time when the metaphysical needs to avoid flat reality.”
”Very well.” His peer nodded. “Setting aside our musings on our most horrific ailment, we must move on to a land free of Hybrids, Synth, or the Void.”
“Agreed. We must encroach on the territory of the Domarians.”
“Impossible- our only path lies with the Resistance.”
“We should take our chances in the plains.”
The Kgh’esz gradually realised that they were arguing. Such was the rarity of this that even the nearby Desz had ceased their brawl to look on in confusion.
“This division of the Vortessence,” Pyotr wailed, “it blinds us all…”
“I said you’re a bunch of annoying god-awful scum-licking thugs,” Quarir repeated with a brilliant smile.
The two grunts grinned uncertainly and carried on walking, laden with their bloated backpacks and ammunition.
Fortunately Quarir was too much of a liability to do real work like, say, carrying some of their supplies- so Nalore had found himself a new hobby to pass the time: foreigner baiting. They couldn’t understand a word he said, but careful use of tone and body language meant they could mistake a death threat for a compliment. He hadn’t had this much fun since that time he’d passed himself off as a former mass-murderer turned priest…
“We’re back,” one of the soldiers called out suddenly, “who’s here?”
No reply, and Quarir couldn’t tell who they were addressing.
“Hello?” The other one tried his luck. “Guys? Where’s everyone gone?”
And then Quarir cottoned on- there was a very well camouflaged tarp draped across a few convenient branches. Must have been very easy to hide a camp that only consisted of one tent…
“This don’t bode well,” the taller one growled, cocking his shotgun.
No shit, Quarir told himself, you’re looking at a behind-the-scenes massacre if ever there was one. There’s going to be severed torsos in that tent, believe me.
“Hel… help… who’s there…?”
Told you so. That’s the pained cry of a torso if ever I heard one.
The Resistance fighter with a moustache stepped inside the shelter. When he wasn’t sent flying out again in small bite-size pieces, his comrade risked dragging Quarir inside after him.
“Urgh… I can… barely see…”
Quarir winced. He wasn’t quite a dismembered torso, but the man on the canvas floor was still in bad shape: considering his numerous wounds, it was a wonder that he hadn’t crumbled away into a gooey mess.
But he wasn’t tossed aside like a classical monster’s victim. This man’s injuries had been tended to, and he was currently laid out on a thin mattress, wired up to some primitive machine with flashing lights and a tendency to go “beep” when Quarir least expected it.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded bald-shotgun-wielder, without a trace of sympathy.
“I’m… what does it matter…? We weren’t… supposed… to be here…”
There was a strange rhythm to the man’s words, and Quarir found it both haunting and aggravating.
“What do you mean?” said the other soldier, trying to sound at least a little kinder than his brusque opposite.
Quarir realised the man’s uniform was white. He’d come through the portal from Frost Peak.
“That… that robot… said this would be… Earth…” the man coughed, and retched, and the device arranged beside his bed began bleeping furiously. “This is… not… home…”
And he died. The machine flat lined, mournfully announcing his passage.
“You metal bastard, Dunamis,” Quarir swore under his breath. “What did you tell them all?”
The grunts swallowed nervously. “What the hell is going on? Who was this guy…?”
“A rebel from a different chapter,” someone said. “Timothy’s squad hauled a whole lot of them in, but most of them were DOA.”
A woman stepped in, somehow managing to walk under half an armoury worth of rifles and pistols and ammunition belts. “I’m sorry to see it was already too late for this one,” she sighed sadly. “You two,” she gestured to the exit, “go back to patrolling the perimeter: if you can find him, help him.”
Moustache nodded. “Right, sure, but we brought a prisoner-”
“I do have eyes, Max, and I do have guns: I can watch him and shoot him if necessary. Get moving!”
Soldiers to a fault, the duo obediently vanished.
Quarir’s eyebrows headed skywards again. “Zosia…?”
“Yes.” She beamed. “Hello, Quarir. I knew you’d turn up again.”
“I haven’t seen you since we visited Grassy Knoll!” he blurted out, grabbing her hand and shaking it.
“I know, and doesn’t that seem like it was an age ago? Where’s your Vortigaunt friend- or that woman with the boy’s name?”
“They’re both missing, I was hoping you’d know more about- hang on…”
“You’re wondering how I can understand you, hmm?”
Quarir paused. “Well, no, I just realised that that berk with a moustache ran off with my hip flask, but yeah, I’m curious about that too.”
Zosia sighed again- but this time she sounded more tired than depressed. “It’s a very, very long story.”
“Well, I’m very, very hungry, so let’s down two ships with one missile.” Nalore’s eyes drifted towards the body. “But preferably, we could eat somewhere with a lack of tragic dead guys. There’s a lot I need to tell you.”
“And we have a lot of ‘tragic dead guys’- we’ll have to bury him before the Hybrids pick up the scent of his necrotic flesh. But afterwards, yes, we can eat. Regrettably, it’s much easier to ration everything now…”
Chapter Thirteen: Culture Shock
“All right,” the Iklo hissed, “so we strike now.”
The Kgh’esz shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No, we do not,” came the affirming response. “Now is not the time.”
The gathered warriors considered this. The campfire- which they’d lit purely for atmosphere rather than for its warmth- had the debate floor to itself as it crackled and spat embers at the dozen-or-so tribesmen.
Eventually, another voice piped up uncertainly: “You sure?”
“Yes. We are sure.”
That really wasn’t what they’d expected. Desz were not warlike: that assumption did a disservice to a species that had peacefully coexisted with various races across their turbulent lifetimes. But when war found them- which happened depressingly often- they never shied away from it. Pacifism was… well… alien to their species: especially to this particular tribe, which rarely interacted with any race other than their own.
An Iklo was second only to a tribe’s chieftain; a sort of head advisor, a lore master, learned in all matters relating to honour and tactics; a Desz who played a crucial role in the nomadic society and held a coveted, respected position.
Unless, of course, the Iklo in question was an amateur adolescent heading a selection of equally amateurish children.
A Desz wasn’t considered to be of fighting age until he or she hit his 130th birthday. They could spar and practise and train, of course, but no Desz would declare a child to be a fully-fledged haest until they’d passed their rites- and even then they would be repeatedly overlooked for battle assignments until they had several years and several victories under their belts.
But necessity had spawned a war band made up of inexperienced youths, and so they had no choice but to grudgingly heed the words of the three Kgh’esz- “respected outsiders”, the closest this xenophobic batch of octogenarians would come to calling foreigners friends.
“Conflict cannot solve all issues,” another of the Kgh’esz continued.
“Seems to work for the Combine,” one of the youngest Desz snapped defiantly. “They’re at it constantly.”
“And you are not the Combine. You lack great armies. You lack their knowledge. You lack their desire to dominate.”
“Yeah, basically you just lack, period,” the Iklo growled. “So shut up and let them talk. You… you lacker.”
The Kgh’esz standing at the centre of the trio- the one the Desz kept thinking of as the head- nodded solemnly. “Indeed. The Desz initiates do, for example, persist in lighting fires when their presence may lure hostile eyes our way.”
The trainee haests shuffled their feet in embarrassment, betraying their young years by stripping back their façade of confidence. “About that,” one murmured, “it holds the unnaturals back, you see…”
“Ah,” the leftmost Kgh’esz began, “you are referring to the Hybrids. The entropic affronts to the balance of the universe that seek only to sever the ties of the sapient.”
“Uh… yeah. I guess.”
“It is true that light appears to dissuade the beasts,” the Kgh’esz on the right admitted, “but it will attract the attention of the Shephard’s scouts.”
“Indeed. Without the guidance of their leader, the humans are increasingly violent and unpredictable. The absence of astute direction leads to the degeneration of their very society.”
“Just so.”
The Iklo grunted. “Whatever you say- I’d sooner take on those soft humans than the unnaturals.”
“Ah, the Iklo would seek to fight those that would be his allies? The learning process is clearly not complete.”
The Desz branded a “lacker” by her leader piped up. “Yeah,” she said snidely, “got to agree with that. You know nothing.”
“I’d like to see you say that again after I slice off your face!”
“We have a long way to go,” the leading Kgh’esz murmured sadly, leaning out of the way of a flying globule of green blood.
“The Void is most prominent here,” another stated, “we should leave this arboreal place and take what sustenance we can from the open air.”
The fight raged on with shouts and the metallic clack of talon on talon- the foreign guests ignored it.
“Even the Void is preferable to the roaming Synth that frequent the plains.”
“But we cannot linger here- it crushes us. Throttles our minds as if we, too, were nothing but machines.”
“We are all machines- some just do not realise it.”
“Our wisest philosopher said thus-”
Another fleshly, distinctly stabby sound. “I’m going to gut you!”
“-yes,” the Kgh’esz confirmed, “but they also said that there is a time when the metaphysical needs to avoid flat reality.”
”Very well.” His peer nodded. “Setting aside our musings on our most horrific ailment, we must move on to a land free of Hybrids, Synth, or the Void.”
“Agreed. We must encroach on the territory of the Domarians.”
“Impossible- our only path lies with the Resistance.”
“We should take our chances in the plains.”
The Kgh’esz gradually realised that they were arguing. Such was the rarity of this that even the nearby Desz had ceased their brawl to look on in confusion.
“This division of the Vortessence,” Pyotr wailed, “it blinds us all…”
---
“I said you’re a bunch of annoying god-awful scum-licking thugs,” Quarir repeated with a brilliant smile.
The two grunts grinned uncertainly and carried on walking, laden with their bloated backpacks and ammunition.
Fortunately Quarir was too much of a liability to do real work like, say, carrying some of their supplies- so Nalore had found himself a new hobby to pass the time: foreigner baiting. They couldn’t understand a word he said, but careful use of tone and body language meant they could mistake a death threat for a compliment. He hadn’t had this much fun since that time he’d passed himself off as a former mass-murderer turned priest…
“We’re back,” one of the soldiers called out suddenly, “who’s here?”
No reply, and Quarir couldn’t tell who they were addressing.
“Hello?” The other one tried his luck. “Guys? Where’s everyone gone?”
And then Quarir cottoned on- there was a very well camouflaged tarp draped across a few convenient branches. Must have been very easy to hide a camp that only consisted of one tent…
“This don’t bode well,” the taller one growled, cocking his shotgun.
No shit, Quarir told himself, you’re looking at a behind-the-scenes massacre if ever there was one. There’s going to be severed torsos in that tent, believe me.
“Hel… help… who’s there…?”
Told you so. That’s the pained cry of a torso if ever I heard one.
The Resistance fighter with a moustache stepped inside the shelter. When he wasn’t sent flying out again in small bite-size pieces, his comrade risked dragging Quarir inside after him.
“Urgh… I can… barely see…”
Quarir winced. He wasn’t quite a dismembered torso, but the man on the canvas floor was still in bad shape: considering his numerous wounds, it was a wonder that he hadn’t crumbled away into a gooey mess.
But he wasn’t tossed aside like a classical monster’s victim. This man’s injuries had been tended to, and he was currently laid out on a thin mattress, wired up to some primitive machine with flashing lights and a tendency to go “beep” when Quarir least expected it.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded bald-shotgun-wielder, without a trace of sympathy.
“I’m… what does it matter…? We weren’t… supposed… to be here…”
There was a strange rhythm to the man’s words, and Quarir found it both haunting and aggravating.
“What do you mean?” said the other soldier, trying to sound at least a little kinder than his brusque opposite.
Quarir realised the man’s uniform was white. He’d come through the portal from Frost Peak.
“That… that robot… said this would be… Earth…” the man coughed, and retched, and the device arranged beside his bed began bleeping furiously. “This is… not… home…”
And he died. The machine flat lined, mournfully announcing his passage.
“You metal bastard, Dunamis,” Quarir swore under his breath. “What did you tell them all?”
The grunts swallowed nervously. “What the hell is going on? Who was this guy…?”
“A rebel from a different chapter,” someone said. “Timothy’s squad hauled a whole lot of them in, but most of them were DOA.”
A woman stepped in, somehow managing to walk under half an armoury worth of rifles and pistols and ammunition belts. “I’m sorry to see it was already too late for this one,” she sighed sadly. “You two,” she gestured to the exit, “go back to patrolling the perimeter: if you can find him, help him.”
Moustache nodded. “Right, sure, but we brought a prisoner-”
“I do have eyes, Max, and I do have guns: I can watch him and shoot him if necessary. Get moving!”
Soldiers to a fault, the duo obediently vanished.
Quarir’s eyebrows headed skywards again. “Zosia…?”
“Yes.” She beamed. “Hello, Quarir. I knew you’d turn up again.”
“I haven’t seen you since we visited Grassy Knoll!” he blurted out, grabbing her hand and shaking it.
“I know, and doesn’t that seem like it was an age ago? Where’s your Vortigaunt friend- or that woman with the boy’s name?”
“They’re both missing, I was hoping you’d know more about- hang on…”
“You’re wondering how I can understand you, hmm?”
Quarir paused. “Well, no, I just realised that that berk with a moustache ran off with my hip flask, but yeah, I’m curious about that too.”
Zosia sighed again- but this time she sounded more tired than depressed. “It’s a very, very long story.”
“Well, I’m very, very hungry, so let’s down two ships with one missile.” Nalore’s eyes drifted towards the body. “But preferably, we could eat somewhere with a lack of tragic dead guys. There’s a lot I need to tell you.”
“And we have a lot of ‘tragic dead guys’- we’ll have to bury him before the Hybrids pick up the scent of his necrotic flesh. But afterwards, yes, we can eat. Regrettably, it’s much easier to ration everything now…”
Edcrab
Veteran Incompetent
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And part two, 'cos the damn character limit sliced it off...
A little under an hour later, after digging a shallow but apparently sufficient grave and getting filthy while doing it, Quarir was staring at his food tray as Zosia orated.
“We’ve heard nothing from the Vorts,” she was saying, “they’ve all gone missing. Same thing happened to half the troops we sent here from Earth. But the Combine barely tries anymore; they couldn’t navigate the forest if their lives depended on it. They stumble around, make a hell of a lot of noise, and mostly just stick to killing people who cross their patrol paths rather than actively trying to find us…”
“Hmm,” Quarir murmured absently.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Did you mention how you can understand me?”
“Not yet…”
“Then no.”
Zosia frowned. “You’re not hungry?”
“It’s just that you’ve got such interesting food here.”
“Ah. Yes. We’ve… mostly been made aware of the Domarian/Combine thing. I know you’re not from Earth.”
Quarir nodded. “Right, I noticed how your grunts had heard of the Legion. But this is a standard-issue Legion ration pack. And something tells me you’re not just sharing resources with the Doms.”
Zosia exhaled. “It’s kill or be killed here, Quarir.”
“Right. Sure it is.” Quarir closed the lid on the meal and stood up. “We’re all just, you know, monkeys with varying degrees of dumbassity. We can’t possibly co-operate.”
“Something tells me that ‘dumbassity’ isn’t a word in any language.”
“Let’s stick to the issue of how you’re killing each other and stealing supplies first, shall we?”
“They fire on us when we meet,” Zosia said firmly. “We have to defend ourselves.”
“You know, I’m not sure I believe that. I just came from a really freaking cold place where the Resistance had mistaken the Legion for the Combine. So something tells me,” he continued, mimicking her tone, “that you guys started it.”
“That’s a rather childish viewpoint.”
“Hey, it works for politicians the galaxy over. You start a war, it’s your problem.”
“Really? Well maybe we did. I admit it. We’re broken down into various squads who keep losing radio contact with us and our camps keep getting wrecked by mutant freaks: but this Legion of yours-”
“They are not ‘my’ Legion.”
“-aren’t exactly open to diplomacy. They see one of our squads approach, they open fire. And don’t even think about saying that we should try and meet them when unarmed. The language barrier-”
“Isn’t an issue with you,” Quarir interrupted.
Zosia ignored him, and changed tact. “Do you know what the Hybrids are?”
“Headcrab zombies, right? I’ve heard Vorts call them that before.”
“Possibly. These days we use the term in reference to the headcrabbed natives on this world.”
“Oh? The natives aren’t human?”
Zosia whirled a hand absently. “They’re these bipeds with big talons and mottled skin and huge teeth with no eyes…”
“You mean Desz? Since when can headcrabs bond with Desz?”
“We think they can bond with just about anything, Quarir, but these Desz/Xen Hybrids are… something else.”
“Are they the things that ambushed us at the gate? They managed to wipe out an entire Resistance cell!”
“Ah, so that’s what that thing is? The Combine had been trying to make that work for quite some time. But none of that explains how or why you came through with Resistance members.”
Quarir whistled and leant his head back. “How long you got?”
“Try me.”
“All right. I do my part for Earth, but Maint- uh, my boss doesn’t seem to think that’s enough. So I get dumped on some freezing world called Frost Peak to solve one of their problems. They’ve got a lot of problems, really, but the biggest one they’ve got involves a bunch of Resistance troops who keep bombing their buildings and shooting their loading mechs. So I go down to their camp- with a little help, you know- and we eventually manage to explain things. And since the Combine is the biggest threat for both us, we all go through the gate to this next planet. And here I am.”
“Interesting. From what I’ve heard, all the rebels thought this was going to be Earth. They were promised Earth.”
“Yeah, well…”
“A lot of them were dying,” Zosia continued. “There was blood everywhere. Even though the Hybrids were like nothing they’d ever seen, they still wanted to know this was Earth. They wanted to believe it so badly. So I told them it was. Dozens of them, dead, believing a lie just so I’d feel better. Others lasting only long enough to flee into the deeper forest, where they’re guaranteed to get killed like half of our camps-”
“Look, it wasn’t me who misled them- hell, who lied to them! I heard what the guy we buried said, and it seems to me that-”
“It was some sort of robot who made the false promises. Yes… bizarre as it sounds, I believed there really was a robot and not some group hallucination from the outset.”
“Yeah. I think it was a mech which told them- a big, smart one, one which was more or less doing its own thing at Frost Peak-”
“This just gets stranger, but it proves my point. There’s no ‘good guys’ or ‘bad guys’, there’s just different agendas. All sides are capable of great things and monstrous things.”
Quarir admitted defeat and collapsed onto the mattress. Then he remembered who’d been there before him, and sat bolt upright. “You know,” he continued unabashed, “I remember you being a lot more laid back. And a lot nicer.”
Zosia rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you wondered why this camp has lasted so long, despite consisting of me and just one tent?”
“Yeah. What about it? Either you’ve got lucky or you’ve exaggerated the Hybrid threat.”
“Hah,” she laughed humourlessly, “I’ve fought plenty of them off.”
“See? They can’t be that bad.”
“Listen for just two minutes, Quarir!” Zosia snapped. “Zichekoam and I were… close. Very close.”
He shrugged. “I thought there might have been something between him and at least one of the women in his team, but I don’t see why you’re-”
“Quarir! Think about it. I know what Zyke was. And let’s just say that I had… uh… prolonged exposure to him.”
“Yeah? What’s it matter what he was? He was a great man! He was a Rot, sure, but he… was… oh.” Quarir swallowed. “Oh. So you… Wow. You… contracted the…? Holy shit.”
“Yes. Other girls have to worry about their partners giving them a rash, I get my species changed.”
A little under an hour later, after digging a shallow but apparently sufficient grave and getting filthy while doing it, Quarir was staring at his food tray as Zosia orated.
“We’ve heard nothing from the Vorts,” she was saying, “they’ve all gone missing. Same thing happened to half the troops we sent here from Earth. But the Combine barely tries anymore; they couldn’t navigate the forest if their lives depended on it. They stumble around, make a hell of a lot of noise, and mostly just stick to killing people who cross their patrol paths rather than actively trying to find us…”
“Hmm,” Quarir murmured absently.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Did you mention how you can understand me?”
“Not yet…”
“Then no.”
Zosia frowned. “You’re not hungry?”
“It’s just that you’ve got such interesting food here.”
“Ah. Yes. We’ve… mostly been made aware of the Domarian/Combine thing. I know you’re not from Earth.”
Quarir nodded. “Right, I noticed how your grunts had heard of the Legion. But this is a standard-issue Legion ration pack. And something tells me you’re not just sharing resources with the Doms.”
Zosia exhaled. “It’s kill or be killed here, Quarir.”
“Right. Sure it is.” Quarir closed the lid on the meal and stood up. “We’re all just, you know, monkeys with varying degrees of dumbassity. We can’t possibly co-operate.”
“Something tells me that ‘dumbassity’ isn’t a word in any language.”
“Let’s stick to the issue of how you’re killing each other and stealing supplies first, shall we?”
“They fire on us when we meet,” Zosia said firmly. “We have to defend ourselves.”
“You know, I’m not sure I believe that. I just came from a really freaking cold place where the Resistance had mistaken the Legion for the Combine. So something tells me,” he continued, mimicking her tone, “that you guys started it.”
“That’s a rather childish viewpoint.”
“Hey, it works for politicians the galaxy over. You start a war, it’s your problem.”
“Really? Well maybe we did. I admit it. We’re broken down into various squads who keep losing radio contact with us and our camps keep getting wrecked by mutant freaks: but this Legion of yours-”
“They are not ‘my’ Legion.”
“-aren’t exactly open to diplomacy. They see one of our squads approach, they open fire. And don’t even think about saying that we should try and meet them when unarmed. The language barrier-”
“Isn’t an issue with you,” Quarir interrupted.
Zosia ignored him, and changed tact. “Do you know what the Hybrids are?”
“Headcrab zombies, right? I’ve heard Vorts call them that before.”
“Possibly. These days we use the term in reference to the headcrabbed natives on this world.”
“Oh? The natives aren’t human?”
Zosia whirled a hand absently. “They’re these bipeds with big talons and mottled skin and huge teeth with no eyes…”
“You mean Desz? Since when can headcrabs bond with Desz?”
“We think they can bond with just about anything, Quarir, but these Desz/Xen Hybrids are… something else.”
“Are they the things that ambushed us at the gate? They managed to wipe out an entire Resistance cell!”
“Ah, so that’s what that thing is? The Combine had been trying to make that work for quite some time. But none of that explains how or why you came through with Resistance members.”
Quarir whistled and leant his head back. “How long you got?”
“Try me.”
“All right. I do my part for Earth, but Maint- uh, my boss doesn’t seem to think that’s enough. So I get dumped on some freezing world called Frost Peak to solve one of their problems. They’ve got a lot of problems, really, but the biggest one they’ve got involves a bunch of Resistance troops who keep bombing their buildings and shooting their loading mechs. So I go down to their camp- with a little help, you know- and we eventually manage to explain things. And since the Combine is the biggest threat for both us, we all go through the gate to this next planet. And here I am.”
“Interesting. From what I’ve heard, all the rebels thought this was going to be Earth. They were promised Earth.”
“Yeah, well…”
“A lot of them were dying,” Zosia continued. “There was blood everywhere. Even though the Hybrids were like nothing they’d ever seen, they still wanted to know this was Earth. They wanted to believe it so badly. So I told them it was. Dozens of them, dead, believing a lie just so I’d feel better. Others lasting only long enough to flee into the deeper forest, where they’re guaranteed to get killed like half of our camps-”
“Look, it wasn’t me who misled them- hell, who lied to them! I heard what the guy we buried said, and it seems to me that-”
“It was some sort of robot who made the false promises. Yes… bizarre as it sounds, I believed there really was a robot and not some group hallucination from the outset.”
“Yeah. I think it was a mech which told them- a big, smart one, one which was more or less doing its own thing at Frost Peak-”
“This just gets stranger, but it proves my point. There’s no ‘good guys’ or ‘bad guys’, there’s just different agendas. All sides are capable of great things and monstrous things.”
Quarir admitted defeat and collapsed onto the mattress. Then he remembered who’d been there before him, and sat bolt upright. “You know,” he continued unabashed, “I remember you being a lot more laid back. And a lot nicer.”
Zosia rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you wondered why this camp has lasted so long, despite consisting of me and just one tent?”
“Yeah. What about it? Either you’ve got lucky or you’ve exaggerated the Hybrid threat.”
“Hah,” she laughed humourlessly, “I’ve fought plenty of them off.”
“See? They can’t be that bad.”
“Listen for just two minutes, Quarir!” Zosia snapped. “Zichekoam and I were… close. Very close.”
He shrugged. “I thought there might have been something between him and at least one of the women in his team, but I don’t see why you’re-”
“Quarir! Think about it. I know what Zyke was. And let’s just say that I had… uh… prolonged exposure to him.”
“Yeah? What’s it matter what he was? He was a great man! He was a Rot, sure, but he… was… oh.” Quarir swallowed. “Oh. So you… Wow. You… contracted the…? Holy shit.”
“Yes. Other girls have to worry about their partners giving them a rash, I get my species changed.”
Steel.Inferno
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FEED ME Edcrab.
Steel.Inferno
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It's revenge for last time! MUAHAHAHHAHAHAHA
Edcrab
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Forum changes seem to have screwed up the formatting for the previous posts, and any updates I try to post are met with gibberish. I'm sorry to say I don't really have the time right now to go through every single comma and quotation mark and correct it, so don't expect any updates here for a long time :x
