Chapter Text
If there was one thing that G-man valued above all else, it was logic. Logic had dictated his every decision since he’d been old enough to understand the concept, and very rarely had it failed him. From his office in the NSR tower’s crown he could easily look down and see the fruits of his analytical labor. The tiered city of Vinyl Mesa shone with a wash of multicolored lights, each district glowing with a hue that represented its leader. Power production had never been higher. The only problem was-
G-man sighed as he watched the radiance of his city suddenly sputter out. Emergency power was immediately rerouted to the necessary channels, including all NSR Elites’ properties. His own tower first, then his son’s, then the rest of their associates. Yes, production had never been higher for the city...but forty-seven percent wasn’t enough to stop the semi-constant blackouts that the city suffered. A city of Vinyl Mesa’s size was nearly too large to be sustainable on sixty percent of the Grand Kwasa’s potential output. The NSR founder knew this.
But G-man also knew that the potential for one hundred percent was out there, somewhere. It was a nonzero chance, and he was getting closer every year to finding the artist that would finally keep his city shining bright. He could feel it. The algorithms he’d developed agreed. With all of the new talent that surfaced every day, he had to be close.
All he needed was a little spotlight to shine in just the right place.
X X X X X X X
“SHIT!”
Gordon Freeman, PHD in theoretical physics, swore as the lights went out in the middle of his riff. He felt his guitar, already bruised from being second hand, slip from his sweaty hands. Diving after it in the dark caused him to slam his head onto what was probably his amp, but at least his dreams weren’t lying in splinters on the floor. He really couldn’t afford a new instrument right now, not with the job market like it was, and he’d just spent the last of his money soundproofing the garage to keep from waking his four-year-old son when he practiced at night.
To his right, he caught the creak of the door to the house opening, the dim light of a storm lantern bathing the embarrassing sight of a grown ass man cradling a guitar like it was his firstborn. Diana, Gordon’s ex-wife and current room mate, looked even more exhausted than he felt. She was on medical leave from her job after getting a much needed operation on her knee, and the pain hadn’t been letting her sleep.
“Hey Di, you shouldn’t be walking right now,” Gordon scolded gently, rising to his feet with a little wince. Felt like he’d bruised more than just his head in the act of saving his instrument. Worth it.
“Heard the crash.” She replied before hissing through her teeth at the sight of his face. “Gordon, your head...”
Quirking an eyebrow in response to her words hurt, and when Gordon reached up to gingerly prod the area near the pain, his hand came away wet. Oops. Apparently more than bruised. Still worth it.
Diana shook her head and took Gordon by the arm, leading him through their small kitchen to the even smaller bathroom and making him sit down on the toilet so she could get a better look at his wound. He couldn’t help but smile a little. They were exes, but still friends that were co-raising a kid. Sue him if he was a little proud of the amicable nature of their relationship. It was nice that she still cared.
“I swear these blackouts are happening more often,” Diana sighed, blotting at the blood with a wetted piece of toilet paper.
“They are. Old Vinny from down the road’s been keeping track.”
Scowling, she pressed a little too hard on her next swipe, then instantly apologized when Gordon flinched. He knew how much the classist bullshit bugged her. Hell, it bugged everyone except those it benefitted. Something was telling about how NSR’s towers lit up instantly after the power went down, but no one was willing to do much more than gripe about it since NSR was also responsible for generating said power.
That was why it was just easier to try and become part of the system. Gordon looked down at the guitar he’d just shed blood to save, and tried not to think too hard about it. He wasn’t necessarily the best out there, but before Di had Joshie, their band had been good enough to generate a small following. Not that he blamed her for wanting to focus on her career and their son. Hell, if he knew a place that would take a physicist as young as him seriously, he’d sell his guitar in a minute. As it was, twenty-eight was basically the same as being an infant in the eyes of his peers.
So here he was, trying his best to rekindle the spark he’d had when he and Diana were playing. If he could do that, he might catch NSR’s eye and be able to make some changes from within the company-
But that was a super big if, coming from the idiot whose ex was cleaning him up in his bathroom.
Gordon sighed, attracting Diana’s focus for a moment before her eyes flicked to the bandage she was centering on the thankfully small cut. “You’re beating yourself up again.” She said.
“No! No, I’m good, I’m great.” Gordon stammered back, knowing full well Diana could read him like a damn book.
“You’re a good guitarist,” She smirked a little, teasingly tugging on his ponytail before turning to put the first aid supplies away. “You just gotta find someone with half my talent to make you sound great.”
Gordon squawked in surprise, then covered his mouth, rubbing at the back of his head. He glared at her, though no real heat was behind it, and stood up to muss her hair in return. “If I find someone with half your talent, I’ll have to pay like five people to have the drums sound decent!”
“Oh ho, shots fired.” Diana snickered back. “Okay Freeman, help me back to my room before we wake Joshua.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Later, when Diana was in bed and his guitar was in its case, Gordon rested on the living room couch. The water stains on the ceiling were, for once, not really the subject of his attention. He was watching the glowing tower of the local NSR leader. A gaudy thing that was shaped like something called a lava lamp. Gordon had never seen one, but while it was tacky there was also something soothing about the floating orbs of bright green color that cycled up and down the structure. He wondered what kind of building he’d get if he became a part of NSR.
“One step at a time, Gordon.” He muttered to himself before closing his eyes.
Tomorrow, he’d borrow some money from old Vinny and put an ad out for a drummer.