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Gordon assumed an amateur amputation wasn't a fun experience for anyone, save for those doing the amputating.
An amateur amputation, done by the military, on behalf of some of the only living people he felt safe to call his friends— and also Benrey? The antithesis to the concept of fun as a whole. The antithesis to any sort of positive mental standing, even.
Suffice it to say, he did not go well into the post-trash-compactor adrenaline rush.
Storming through the hallways of the labs in Black Mesa was an endeavor he'd never imagined taking, with guns blazing and blood spattering each unfortunate victim they came across. After all, Gordon had never been the type for violence— sure, he might've grown up with anger issues, and he was undeniably one of the most quick-to-frustration members of the Black Mesa team, but he'd not once dreamed of turning a weapon on any of his coworkers, let alone the inhabitants of an extraterrestrial plane threatening to end the world as he knew it. He imagined those experiences would be where he was out of his element the worst.
That was, until the aforementioned trash compactor. Waking up dazed, on his own, and with a bloodied stump for a hand, Gordon barely felt like himself anymore. His mind became a tsunami of endless questions: who could he trust? What did he do to deserve this? Where had his life gone so horribly, terribly, irreversibly wrong? And since when was he that good at going up ladders?
Finding Tommy was a short-lived relief. The likelihood of Tommy betraying him wasn't awfully high, but it wasn't zero, and if Gordon had learned anything from the Resonance Cascade, it was that 'not zero' wasn't to be taken lightly. Still… Tommy was the human embodiment of pure, distilled sunshine, a walking manifestation of phrases like 'good morning' or 'happy birthday.' He had as much bite as a gentle breeze— but as much lead as a fully-equipped branch of the military, and a trigger finger that took silence as a go-ahead. The others might've taken his beyblade, but as for what might happen if they gave it back, well, Gordon tried his best not to think about it.
The two fell into a rhythm: Tommy up front blasting like there's no tomorrow (which there might not be,) and Gordon in the back trying not to collapse from the lack of blood or the gnawing agony that replaced his right hand. Whatever part of the facility they'd ended up in, he was certain it was the worst part to lose a crucial body part in. Tommy assured him it was all OSHA-compliant, but Gordon had a hunch that OSHA-compliancy didn't necessarily account for getting backstabbed and quite literally unhanded before arrival. His complaints did nothing— the only way out was through. Through the stacks of ominously labeled barrels, through the narrow rusty pipes, and through the industrial-sized tubs of glowing green goop. Great.
They came to a hallway, the first sign of familiar ground in what felt like ages. Or, at least, a familiar structure; Gordon hadn't been to this part of Black Mesa before, hell, he'd never even heard of its existence. He swore the building grew new parts and divisions as they moved, like some kind of hyperconscious adaptive megastructure evolved to be the nightmare of biologists and cartographers alike. Regardless, there was no time to ponder the infinitely unraveling veins of their workplace. Gordon and Tommy had a job to do: get out no matter the cost.
Tommy sprinted down the hallway with one continuous rattle of his gun, stopping to reload like the striking of lightning at the top of a hill. He didn't speak when they were in danger— Gordon assumed it was a symptom of his focus and dedication, but it wouldn't surprise him if Tommy simply forgot that he could speak at all. The man wasn't much of a social butterfly, despite his position of universal adoration. It wasn't Gordon's place to judge. Tommy split hordes of aliens like they were nothing, like he himself had been engineered for the purpose. It reminded him of Bubby. He winced.
"The exit's around here, Mr. Freeman!" Tommy called, fishing Gordon from his misery. He pointed past another corner, where more lights were on the ground, busted and flickering.
"How do you know that?" Gordon asked, only catching up to Tommy when he'd stopped to read another warning label.
"I read the blueprints! It's— it's on page 267, 'the exit to the hazardous storage wing is that door.'"
Gordon coughed. His vision swam in shades of ultramarine. "I… don't think blueprints are written like that."
"The Black Mesa blueprint is!"
He waved his remaining hand. "Okay, sure, sure, I believe you. Lead the way."
Tommy dashed for the door in question, jumping the downed lights with no hesitation. Gordon followed, no argument to be made, no time to think about the world around him. He waited quietly while Tommy tested the handle. Wow. "Hand"-le. Ugh.
Two thunks, a shove. Nothing. Tommy wiggled the handle more, splaying his hand on the door and pushing. It wouldn't budge. "Uh… That's… it's not supposed to do that," he pouted.
"Shoot the handle, I've seen that in movies," Gordon offered.
"Movies aren't real, Mr. Freeman! We'll have to go the long way."
"I really don't think—"
"We'll have to go the long way. Follow me!" Tommy dashed off, leaving Gordon scrambling to stay on his trail. They ended up back in an intersection of hallways, and, as their luck would see it fit, face to face with a line of peeper puppies.
Gordon yelped, jumping behind Tommy. No way his fist could do any damage to the hide on those things, but no way Tommy's shooting alone could take them down. He glanced around wildly, desperate for an alternative, a grenade or something, anything—
His gaze lands on two tall barrels, keenly labeled as explosive. The peeper puppies were closer to those than to him and Tommy, and what's another explosion on top of the hundreds they'd already survived. "Tommy, shoot the barrels, it'll kill them both," he urged.
Tommy didn't comment, only nodded and shot. The barrels went up in an instant, blowing the bloodied peeper puppies to the opposite end of the room. Tommy might not have been trained in waste disposal like Dr. Coomer, but he could sure get the job done.
Gordon bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to think of Coomer. He opened his mouth to congratulate Tommy on his aim, until a horrible groan reverberated down the hall. It spoke to massive proportions, like megafauna downed by an army of their pursuers. From where the barrels rested, cracks bloomed and broke the solid concrete of the walls, sending a hail of pebbles onto the tile. At the end of the opening, the architecture shuddered and began to slump.
"Come on! There's a door that way!" Gordon yelled, pointing with his remaining hand. The ceiling wouldn't hold for long, and obviously not when it was making such a god-awful noise.
Tommy blinked, his feet frozen to the ground— the reasons for which evaded Gordon, and only sent him further into a spiral of desperate pleading. He needed Tommy, he was helpless on his own, why wasn't Tommy listening? Why wasn't he moving? Was this Tommy's way of betrayal?
"Tommy, we have to go! Now!"
The tiles rattled with the clicking of an alien touch, and Tommy didn't flinch as he whirled around and unloaded bullets toward the ground. Gordon stumbled backwards through the threshold, watching the headcrabs patter forth. In a flash of alien blood, two of them collapsed, but the third took little more than smoke to its skin. It skittered past Tommy's shoes, launching into the air as the ceiling gave and the wall collapsed into a pile of rubble.
Gordon yelped, ducking out of the way with no room for error. The headcrab landed square on the floor, turning with an indignant snarl. A cloud of dust blanketed the dark room like dirty snowfall, staining the busted ground in a layer of gray. Gordon's eyes darted toward the ruins— had Tommy survived that? He was out of range, right? He— he had to be. What fingers Gordon had left itched to dig in the broken stones, to cry Tommy's name and listen quietly to see if he'd respond.
The headcrab offered no chances for grief, or god forbid, hope. The headcrab was there to kill, and if it had any say, it'd have gotten Tommy, too. Just like it'd get Gordon— if Gordon wasn't then constantly ready to kick extraterrestrial ass, that was.
It jumped into the air, and he swung with what force his left hand could muster. The gauntlet of the HEV suit collided with the headcrab's fleshy underbelly, sending it flying with a wretched squish against a crate. Gordon choked back an excited gasp, still as a lying snake. It couldn't live. He couldn't let it live. Still, the shadows didn't shift where he'd sent it, and he heard nothing of the spine-chilling clicks that heralded a headcrab's presence. He must've killed it.
He must've saved himself.
A single, whimpering tone escaped Gordon's throat. Memories of his first one-handed ladder swarmed his vision, the panicked thrill of knowing there was a headcrab on his tail, that he wouldn't be able to do anything if it got itself on, well, his head. He jerked backwards, his back pressed firmly against the wall behind him. A headcrab, dead, killed by him with a single hand and a well-placed punch. That'll be a story to tell, won't it?
Except… who would he tell the story to? Tommy's status was unknown, Dr. Coomer had all but vanished with no mention, Bubby had shown clear as day where his loyalties were, and Benrey… ugh, the thought of him was almost worse than losing a hand. Making it back to the surface in one piece was no guarantee, and even if he did that, making it back to civilization was out of the picture. From where he stood in the wreckage of Black Mesa, Gordon couldn't see a future with people in it. Gordon couldn't see a future, period.
There'd be no more solo diner flights when his room was too suffocating to live in. There'd be no more late night store runs, commiserating with the workers on how they both needed sleep but wouldn't be getting it. There'd be no more walks in people-filled parks, no more accidental elbow bumps in line, no more 'goodnights' and no more 'good mornings.' And worst of all, realized through a twist of Gordon's anxiety-sick gut: there'd be no more days with Joshua, and the kid wouldn't even get to know why.
He could see him so clearly: the freckles dusting his sienna skin, the missing tooth from his upper row, the odd bandaids dotting his various scrapes and scratches. If he closed his eyes, he could even hear Joshua's laugh, high and excited. What would he think? Black Mesa had all the hush money in the world to cover up the Resonance Cascade; every last inch of property destruction, every last step backwards in their research, and every last breath the casualties took. The payout would be great— Joshua would never have to worry about his sports, or about paying for college if he chose to go (though, Gordon feared the nigh-incomprehensible textbooks strewn about his place might've turned the poor kid away from the concept as a whole.) The only price he'd have to pay was never knowing why his dad couldn't come home.
Gordon shuddered, sliding onto the floor with his disarmed wrist clutched to his chest. He wormed his other hand under the HEV suit's helmet, fiddling with the latches until it finally came undone. What good would it do him worrying about more radiation? He had an open wound already, and it still stunk of the chemicals in that hazardous sludge he'd fallen in earlier. Survival was slim, helmet or not. He set it at his side, choking on the dusty air.
He couldn't rid himself of his thoughts like he could his helmet. Joshua, pulling up grass by the handful in the soccer field. Joshua, giddy with delight after winning his first spelling bee. Joshua, asleep in an awkward position on a dining room chair. How could he leave him? How in the world could Gordon kiss his son goodbye and still take the tram, lucidly aware of how dangerous the test could be? Sure, the chances of a Resonance Cascade were one-in-a-million, but the odds of life were never in Gordon's favor. He took the risk, and Joshua would suffer the consequences. He'd never see his son make friends, get his first job, graduate, carve out a life in this sick, cruel world— and all over some stupid rock from another stupid dimension so the stupid scientists could make their stupid observations. He wished he could grow his hand back to hide his face with it. He wished he could run back to the locker room and stuff the portrait of Joshua in his suit, like some sort of consolation for the fact he'd never see him again in-person. He wished he could sleep, and that when he woke up, it wouldn't be to gunfire and alien growls.
Would Joshie ask about him? Would he go to his mother, tug on the hem of her sleeve, and ask whatever happened to Dad? Would he wait until he's older, with acne scars and the same bold sparkle in his eye, to sit her down and ask for not the Black Mesa truth, but the real truth? Or would he keep it to himself, or to parties; sitting on the edge of a new friend's porch, casually dropping the fact his dad went missing when he was in elementary school. Would he keep any pictures? Would he forget Gordon's voice? And worse, would he think this was on purpose?
The familiar sting of tears welled in the corners of Gordon's eyes. He couldn't see as clearly without the suit's visor, anyway; the enhancements in it auto-adjusted to fit his prescription, so his real glasses weren't needed during the times he spent in-chamber. The world beyond his fingertips was little more than an amateur watercolor, the dark edges blending fuzzily at their seams. It meant he couldn't make out any movement. It meant he couldn't make out any danger.
Not until he heard the clicking.
Gordon tensed at a speed so high that his ribs burned with the sensation, and he threw himself to the ground to dodge the headcrab's next jump. How? He'd killed it, hadn't he? It hadn't moved for ages, was it cognizant enough to wait? Had it been stalking him the entire time? Oh, perfect, the headcrab watched him cry and get all pathetic before it tried to kill him. Exactly what his self-esteem needed, thank you! An alien lifeform ready to prey on his most vulnerable moment, yes please!
He rolled onto his back, kicking his feet in an attempt to scramble away from the animal (if he could even call it that.) It didn't take long for the headcrab to recover from its previous missed shot, turning and flinging itself back at his head. He'd picked a terrible time to take off his helmet. It was uglier up close, its underbelly sporting a disgusting orifice only vaguely described as a mouth. That must've been what latched on to the scientists' faces, a method for the creature to parasitize a host's body. And it was right there, inches from another vessel.
Gordon shrieked, pushed back against the wall as he desperately tried to wrestle it off with his good hand. He could feel the points of its two front talons digging into his neck, pulling the wretched "mouth" closer and closer. This was it, wasn't it? Gordon Freeman, Ph.D., killed and parasitized by a nameless alien vermin, to be hidden forever in a Black Mesa storage room miles beneath the surface. There was no warmth to be found in the ordeal, nothing radiating from the headcrab's leathery body. There was nothing.
Nothing before the bang.
His eyes snapped shut on instinct, the sole indicator of what had happened being the awful squelch of something hitting the floor a good distance away. His hand no longer grasped for anything but air, and his neck was no longer under the pressure of alien appendages. He opened his eyes to a long smear of sickly yellow down the floor, pointing towards the still-twitching body of the overturned headcrab.
Another bang rang out, loud enough in Gordon's ear to make him raise his stub like it'd do anything to protect him. The whole 'one hand' thing would take some getting used to. He jerked his head to his right, peering up at the light emanating from the newly-opened door.
Tommy stared blankly down at him, silhouetted by the fluorescence still buzzing from the hallway. His coat was covered in dust from the hallway's collapse, his undershirt tarnished with more alien blood. His finger rested readily on the trigger of his gun, serving to explain each nervous glance he cast in the slain headcrab's direction. "Sorry, Mr. Freeman! I—" He furrowed his brow uncertainly. "Did it… eat your helmet?"
Gordon laughed once, though it came out as more of a wheeze. "No, I just— needed some air. And, uh, dust. I thought that thing was dead, I punched it really hard—"
"But it wasn't dead!"
"Yeah, I learned that the hard way," he grunted, grabbing the helmet and heaving himself back onto his feet. He placed it back on his head and wasted no time re-doing the latches; fresh air could wait until he wasn't running for his life. "Man, I could've sworn I was a goner there. You saved me, Tommy."
"Yeah," Tommy answered. He stood quietly for a moment too long before continuing. "I was so worried, Mr. Freeman, I saw the ceiling fall and ran around everywhere to try n' find a way in!"
"You did a great job. Did you see any sign of Dr. Coomer?" Or the others…
He pursed his lips. "Um… I saw a soda machine, but it was empty. I only got… one Sprite. :("
Gordon frowned. They all must've passed through the area, and recently. He understood why they'd drain the medical stations; wouldn't want ol' Gordon recovering from shock and blood loss, would they? But draining the soda machines? That was a new low. Benrey didn't even drink. "Come on, we have to keep moving. We can't let them get away with this." He slipped past Tommy into the hallway, ready to keep moving… until he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
"Mr. Freeman! Wait!"
He stopped, turning to face Tommy.
"…Um. Do you want my Sprite?"
Under the helmet, Gordon's face shifted into a weak smile, and he hoped Tommy could see it through the dirt and blood veiling the suit's visor. "Not right now, bud. Hey, save that for later— you never know when you might need it."
Tommy nodded, raising his gun and taking his place in the lead again.
Maybe it wasn't such a dire situation. Maybe Gordon still stood a chance, down a hand and all of his weapons. He'd lost most things, yeah, but there were a few that he'd kept close: hope, motive, and probably the best damn friend in the world. If nobody else could be trusted to have his back, Tommy was there to blast them away. Gordon knew better than to get cocky at the prospect; they were still a ways away from escaping, and there was no chance he'd seen the last of the others. Still, one thought took center stage in his addled brain:
Maybe that'd be all it took to get back to Joshua.