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Summary
There was a time that Gordon was forcefully optimistic, staked on the idea he’d never have to wear that suit again, that he’d never see another dead body. The train ride to City 17 gave simple enough instruction: abandon instinct, accept purpose. In the right place, at the right time, he would’ve done both. Lived a mundane life under Combine rule.
More likely, he would’ve met his end facing down an HECU marine’s mounted machine gun. He dreams about that, too: surrounded, bleeding out, the last sounds on his ears the asphalt bubbling under the blistering heat of that red-rock desert and the din of a dozen jogging jackboots. Maybe he would have seen God, or more likely the blackness would have swallowed him and spit him out right back onto that transit system, doomed to repeat every mistake and more.