Chapter Text
"Honestly, Kleiner, what do you see in that boy?!"
"Arne…"
"Don't 'Arne' me, Dr. Vance! You know he's a problem, I don't understand why you insist—"
Despite its best efforts, the spray of the emergency shower is no match for Dr. Magnusson's impassioned rant. Gordon would be impressed, if not for the bone-deep mortification of it all; he cracks one eye open to double-check the vinyl modesty curtain before dousing himself in another round of decon soap. The clinical scent fills the close air as he scrubs his skin to an angry pink.
It's his own damn fault for forgoing his HEV suit. But wearing it would have meant requisitioning it, which would have meant explaining why he needed it, and his activities this afternoon had not been, strictly speaking, approved by the department. In his defense, the environment wasn't supposed to be all that hazardous. Biology performs wet mounts and sections of headcrab carcasses all the time, wearing the standard PPE, and no one gives them shit about it. Granted, Gordon probably could have done with a fume hood, and maybe ought to have noticed the over-swollen gland before he cut into the thing, but the principles should have been the same. The point is, it was an accident anyone could have. Alas, Gordon is himself, which won't do him any favors.
After the prescribed fifteen-minute flush has run its course, Gordon fishes blindly through the curtain for his clothes. Well, not his clothes—those have ostensibly been lost to the incinerator. He can live with that, honestly; he doesn't know the first thing about laundering alien guts out of his slacks. When he sees the replacements that have been laid out for him, though, he has to reconsider.
The scrubs are a trial to put on, for more reasons than one. His flimsy microfiber towel leaves him somehow more damp than he'd started, making the fabric stick to his skin at all the wrong points, and the stock trousers are too short for his broad, six-foot-two frame, hems suspended ridiculously above his ankles. They also happen to come in an offensive shade of Black Mesa orange. Gordon gets branding, but this is straight-up vindictive; though the color is the same as his hazard suit, the effect couldn't be more different. He feels intensely vulnerable.
There's a pair of cheap, canvas slip-on shoes (thankfully in plain old black) waiting for him when he steps out, but that's the first and last small mercy. Even without his glasses, Gordon can see that a crowd has congregated on the other side of the thick plastic sheet the hazmat team has installed as a temporary wall. Said team is hard at work clearing the evidence of Gordon's ill-fated experiment. Their blurry forms look like ghosts in their unwieldy white coveralls and masks. Only Dr. Cross is outfitted with her own HEV suit, which probably means she's taking point on the more unpleasant parts of the job. She's crouched over something a concerning distance from Gordon's bench—Jesus, how big had the blast radius been?
"On the table," she calls, when she notices him.
The table she's referencing is just behind him, and it's really more of a cart. Its brushed metal surface is holding a pair of standard-issue glasses (not the most stylish frames in the world, but not nearly as bad as the Army surplus BCGs the facility used to provide) and the Autophleb, already preset with a rainbow of tubes. Gordon groans. It seems unfair that he had his quarterly radiation checkup two weeks ago, only to get his blood sucked again. At least he'd been allowed to give his urinalysis sample from the safety of the shower; the rubberneckers outside the cordon are way too close for comfort.
Gordon stalls, buffing his brand new lenses with the bottom of his stiff shirt and leaving them smudgier in the process. When he finally dons the glasses, the faces of his audience become sharp. Most are irritated, or otherwise bewildered that a crime scene has popped up in the middle of their workplace. Dr. Magnusson is still on a tear. Dr. Kleiner and Dr. Vance both look relieved when Gordon gives them a lackluster wave, though Gordon suspects it's as much to do with having an excuse to leave the conversation as anxiety for his condition.
"Are you alright?" Dr. Kleiner asks, all the same.
Gordon tries for a deferent grin, but it ends up more of a grimace. "Not my finest hour, but I'll live."
"Well, good for you," gripes Dr. Magnusson. "Meanwhile, he's holding the spectrophotometers hostage."
"They'll still be there tomorrow," Vance says. "I'm sure you'll come up with something to do until then."
"Not everyone can afford to work at our leisure. Some of us prefer to adhere to deadlines." Though Magnusson doesn't deign to look at Gordon, it's pointed. With a sniff, he turns in search of someone more likely to share in his frustration.
Dr. Vance rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Just let him get it out of his system."
"I'm sure it's mostly busywork for the junior associates," Kleiner offers. "And it's practically the end of the day, besides."
"Yeah," Gordon scoffs, collapsing into the chair stationed by the small table. He glances shiftily at the blood collection apparatus, whose "ready" light is holding green.
"Speaking of foiled plans," Vance says, "may I ask what yours was, exactly?"
The tenor of the question suggests he already knows the answer. Gordon bites his cheek. "I heard your proposal got denied."
Vance hums. "I see."
"Which didn't make any sense. It was great. I thought if maybe I could harvest an intact gallstone, I could—"
"Gordon."
"Even if I just got a preliminary chromatograph, it might be enough to show—"
"Gordon," Vance says again, firm but gentle. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but the proposal wasn't denied. Just shelved. Interdepartmental things are tricky, you know that. Anomalous Materials didn't think it was in our scope, at the moment."
"I'd say Xenian mineral deposits are pretty darn anomalous," Gordon mutters. "That doesn't change just because they happen to be in a headcrab's gut."
"Obviously I agree with you, but admin has other priorities."
"Mm. They always do."
"The study was on the docket to be reconsidered in the fall," says Kleiner.
Gordon frowns. "'Was?' As in, 'isn't anymore?'"
Dr. Vance rocks his head equivocally. "That remains to be seen. The specimens you took were marked for disposal, so you didn't technically 'steal' them—which I'm sure you already accounted for—but Advanced Bio didn't sound happy when the cleanup crew called. Things might be chilly for a bit."
"Shit," Gordon whispers, and then, "sorry." Dr. Vance is no stranger to profanity (hazards of working as a military contractor), but as the father of a young daughter, he tends to keep it pretty clean.
"I'm sure it will be fine," he says, ignoring the slip. "We'll just have to make sure the next time we mess with their stuff, we have the chain of custody on our side."
As always, he and Kleiner are being far more gracious than is warranted. Gordon almost wishes one of them would yell. At least he knows where he stands with Magnusson; if these two are building up slow, silent resentment, Gordon would rather they go ahead and get it over with.
The Autophleb beeps impatiently. With a grunt, Gordon pulls up a chair and shoves his arm into place.
"I'll fix it," he says.
"Ehh, you'd better let me," says Vance. "I know their chief pretty well, I'm sure I can smooth things over."
"No, I mean—" Gordon huffs, frustrated at his inability to articulate himself. With his free hand, he fidgets with the towel still draped over his neck. His hair dries a lot faster ever since he cut it, but scruffing the last few drops away helps distract from the steady constriction of the pressure cuff, which in turn helps distract from Gordon's desire for the earth to swallow him whole.
"I'll fix…"
Kleiner's brow furrows. "Gordon?"
"If you aren't actively decontaminating or being decontaminated, clear the area now."
Everything stops. The voice reaches him before its source does, but Gordon recognizes it instantly. He's mostly used to hearing it over the loudspeakers or in prerecorded memos, but the effect is just as strong in person.
"Dr. Breen—ah!" Gordon gasps, reflexively straightening his posture at the same time as the machine makes the stick. The tourniquet deflates, but the stabilizer clamp doesn't let up, keeping him firmly at that crooked angle.
Dr. Wallace Breen isn't especially tall or imposing, but he moves with the surety of someone long past the need to prove his authority to anyone. In truth, Gordon can't picture him ever having had to work his way up the ladder; it seems like he materialized one day, fully-formed and silver-haired, to be designated Black Mesa's Head Administrator. The crowd parts accordingly. Gordon gets a sympathetic half-smile from Dr. Vance, and a haughty nod from Dr. Magnusson, who's apparently satisfied that justice will be served.
When Dr. Kleiner starts to make his own hesitant exit, Dr. Breen raises a finger. "Not you, Isaac," he says, half-listening to a sheepish research assistant. The tech pokes at something on their tablet for another moment before handing it off and scurrying away. Breen, for his part, doesn't even look up from the screen.
"Doing a little freelance work, today, Mr. Freeman?" He sounds almost bored.
Gordon knows it's going to bite him in the ass, knows the best thing to do is shut up and listen, but the words are already spilling out. "Before you say anything, Dr. Vance didn't know. It was all me."
As he tries to sound dignified, the machine exchanges its full vacutainer for a new one, undercutting his message with a wince.
"Oh, I'm well aware," Breen says. "In fact, it looks like you had precisely…zero input from any senior staff before you decided to abscond with another department's specimens."
"Respectfully, sir, they were going to be destroyed today, anyway."
"Hm. Which might have tipped you off that they were at the end of their useful life, and thus unstable. Instead, you smuggled a biological bomb into Sector C."
The silence plan is looking pretty good again. Dr. Breen makes a series of swipes on the tablet. The Autophleb switches tubes.
"Chronically tardy…" Breen reads. "Poor record keeping…insubordination…"
Oh, shit. He's in Gordon's personnel file. Gordon has heard legends about it, usually between blustery threats of strongly-worded complaints from Dr. Magnusson, but it's never felt more real than this precise moment.
"Improper allocation of research materials…" Dr. Breen does glance up, then, for emphasis. "And let's not forget last year's debacle with the ORaCLE program."
Gordon’s face heats so quickly, it’s dizzying.
“Sir—”
“Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of simulator time, wasted. Every record corrupted, except for your nonsensical debrief."
“That wasn’t—”
“I know.” Dr. Breen scoffs. “It ‘wasn’t your fault.’ It was the ‘elder space god’ hiding out in the module.”
The Autophleb chooses that moment to finally retract, releasing Gordon's arm and sending him listing sideways. He lets it place a square of gauze, but takes the bandage roll before it can wrap the site. The machine always makes it too tight, and doing it himself gives Gordon an excuse to avoid eye contact.He's already intimately familiar with the contents of his own report, which hadn’t gone down any easier when he’d written it.
"Did they ever figure out what caused the error?" Gordon asks. Like an idiot. He tears off what looks like a decent length of dressing before setting to the awkward task of placing it one-handed.
"Not conclusively," Breen says tersely. "Let's hope they do. Otherwise, it will become millions of dollars wasted, with only one reasonable explanation." He hits the reasonable hard; if it's down to Gordon, or the elusive ghoul in the machine, it's not hard to figure out which one everyone will blame.
"Mr. Freeman, why are you here at Black Mesa?"
The bandage, already hopelessly scrunched up and clinging to itself, slips from Gordon's grip entirely. He swallows, jamming the loose gauze too hard against his skin.
"Um. Black Mesa is the best research facility in the country. The work we do—"
Dr. Breen cuts him off with a raised palm. "Spare us the press release. The real reason is much simpler. You're here because you're exceptionally lucky.
"First," Breen lists, "you just happen to exist at the intersection of a minimum scientific education and the physical profile to handle what ultimately amounts to information-privileged grunt work. Which isn't nearly so rare as you might like to believe. Second, and more saliently, you're here because Dr. Kleiner has interceded on your behalf countless times."
Gordon steals a fleeting glance at Dr. Kleiner, whose gaze is ironclad on the administrator.
"If it were only the first," Breen says, "I wouldn't have bothered to leave my office for this. Hell, I probably wouldn't even know your name. You're utterly replaceable. Fortunately for you, Isaac is not. It's a mystery to me why you're such a special case, but he insisted on having you for his team. Evidently, he believes you have some great, untapped potential. I'm less optimistic. He may be willing to wait indefinitely for your sudden stroke of brilliance, but my patience has limits. Much as I'd like to keep my star physicist happy, I'm ultimately interested in maintaining a functional, lucrative research center. Whether you continue to be a part of it is now entirely in your hands."
"I…understand," Gordon says, voice thin.
"I'm not certain you do, but rest assured, you will."
With that, Breen claps Kleiner on the shoulder, which may as well be stone for how stiffly he's standing. "I'll leave it to Dr. Kleiner to work out your Performance Improvement Plan. I advise you follow it to the letter." He takes one last sweeping look at the lab. "I'll be in the conference room. Tell Dr. Cross to meet me when she's finished with this mess."
Gordon sits there stupidly, holding his stuck arm, as they both watch Dr. Breen disappear around the corner with the same urgency he's had all along. Which is to say, none.
As though summoned, Dr. Cross comes to collect Gordon's specimens, eyeing him through her helmet visor. "I'd help you, but I don't think you'd want that." She holds up her gloved hands, which look clean enough, but have definitely encountered stuff Gordon prefers to keep out of his bloodstream. "Radiation looks good, though. No KI for you today. You're free to go."
"Thank fuck," Gordon says. He's never had the pleasure, but from what he's heard, internal decontamination is a whole other kind of day-ruining. "Oh—Dr. Breen wants to talk to you. Y'know, after."
"Roger that." She smirks. "See you later, Freeman. Let's not do this again."
When he finally emerges from his polyethylene prison one popup airlock cycle later, Gordon has never been so grateful to breathe the facility's ultra-processed atmosphere. Dr. Kleiner is waiting for him out in the hall, which is thankfully deserted in Dr. Breen's wake.
"Let me," Dr. Kleiner says, and Gordon realizes he's still carrying the bandage roll. He presents it dutifully, letting Kleiner wrap his arm with considerably greater efficiency than he'd managed.
"Thanks." Both hands now free, Gordon braces them on his knees, breathing deeply. "God," he says, once he's reasonably recovered, "that's a first. Almost makes me feel special."
"He may be right."
Out of everything he's been through today, that hits Gordon like an open-palm slap. His whole head prickles as he feels the blood drain from it.
"What?"
“No, no,” Kleiner says, waving a reassuring hand. “Trust me, it will take more than one research assistant to bring down a whole department. Just between us, I think you were well within your rights to test those samples. I might have done the same, once. In fact, there was a time—” He smiles to himself, probably remembering an exploit of old, before coming back to the matter at hand with a shake of his head. "And you were trying to help a friend. It was a noble cause."
"'Trying' being the operative word," Gordon says wryly. "I've probably buried the study, now."
Dr. Kleiner's smile turns uneasy, pensive, until it fully gives way to a troubled stare.
“Gordon…are you happy here?”
The individual words are clear, but the question doesn't compute at first; Kleiner may as well have asked the square root of photosynthesis. Eventually, though, Gordon gets it together enough to come up with what he hopes is a suitably professional answer.
“It’s been a great opportunity," hey says.
Dr. Kleiner frowns, and Gordon knows he's missed the mark. “You have had a rough year. You’ve been distracted. I know your time in R&D—”
“I know.” It comes out rougher than Gordon means, but every mention of That is like prodding an exposed nerve. Kleiner backs off with a shrug of surrender.
“All I mean is, it’s alright to have second thoughts. Black Mesa has been good to me, but heaven knows it isn’t for everyone."
“Do you—” God, Gordon does not want the answer, but he makes himself ask. “Do you mean you want me to resign?”
“Goodness, no!" Kleiner gasps. "If it were up to me, I’d keep you on as long as you’d like to be here. Make no mistake, you have the spirit of a researcher, no matter what the bureaucrats think. They wouldn’t recognize it if it bit them like—pardon. I simply…” He adjusts his glasses thoughtfully. “I sometimes wonder if this position is the best use of your time and potential.”
Potential. Gordon really hates that word, and not just because Dr. Breen had said it with such cold contempt. He slumps against the wall, tipping his head up towards the aggressive fluorescence of the overhead lights.
Kleiner senses the deteriorating vibe, and rushes to save it. "I only mean to ask, what were your goals between Boston and Black Mesa? Or rather, what did you envision for yourself, when you decided to take your, ah, hiatus?"
Gordon feels the color rising back to his face. That year-and-change was absolutely nothing to write home about, and he's made a point not to, thus far. He'd largely floated aimlessly across the country—house-sitting for his sister up in Seattle, gig work, seasonal positions in a warehouse or two. Except for a short stint as an accessioner in a reference lab, he made his way on his physical ability rather than his academic training. He explains this to Dr. Kleiner just as he had on his Black Mesa application: ambiguously, with plenty of resume buzzwords as padding.
What he's circumspect not to mention at all is Twitch.
Gordon says absolutely nothing about those brief, shiny, naive days when he imagined he might be able to make a living off his decades-long love affair with video games. Cobbling a secondhand PC and shitty USB mic into a Frankenstein setup, with dreams of upgrading as soon as he got some decent traction.
What a fucking child.
Kleiner listens politely, punctuating Gordon's story with the occasional hum or chuckle. He lets Gordon get all the way to the end, with a healthy pause for any stray afterthoughts, before asking, "And now? Do you see yourself further pursuing industry?"
It's Gordon's turn to frown; he's really trying to anticipate the trajectory of all these leading questions. "Are you saying you think I should go back to school?"
"Not, ah, not necessarily," Kleiner says, his face twisting in a way that suggests that had been the furthest thing from his mind. "If that's what you decide, I'd be happy to connect you with colleagues who might be willing to sponsor you. But I have to wonder…is all this really what you want?"
"Of course it is!" Gordon says. "I know I've been off. I'm sorry about that, I am. I really do care about—"
"I didn't say you don't care," Kleiner interjects. "I merely asked if it's what you want."
An unacceptable lump rises to stop Gordon's throat. Standing in the hallway with his former advisor, wearing too-small scrubs, sleep-deprived, processing all the mistakes he's ever made, he feels every bit the hapless doctoral student he stopped being years ago. Kleiner had looked disappointed then, too. And he had still vouched for Gordon, bringing him into yet another job Gordon is flailing in.
How many more times will Gordon have to let him down, he wonders, before his mentor gives the project up for lost?
"I appreciate your concern," Gordon says. "But I'm just in a little bit of a funk. I can get—I will get over it. I'm sorry Dr. Breen had to get involved. You've done so much to help me and I don't—" He swallows hard. "I'll fix it. I swear."
Kleiner shakes his head. “You leave Dr. Breen to me. We'll formalize a PIP soon, just so he sees it's on the books, but I'm not especially worried. I'll just need your incident report before the end of the day. After that, I'd say you've more than earned a rest."
Gordon nods, pushing himself off the wall. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, flexing his wrapped arm.
"I'll fix it," he promises again, because what else is there?
Dr. Kleiner smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I believe you’ll do the right thing in the end.”
It's not at all obvious what that means, but Gordon doesn't have it in him to ask for clarification. As he ambles down the hall, as slowly as Dr. Breen but with none of the grace, he can feel Dr. Kleiner's gaze. It lingers, heavy on his back, until Gordon turns the corner.
There are only a few people left in the shared office space when Gordon makes his way back to his desk. Most of them are too preoccupied with wrapping up the day to pay him any mind, which is fine by him. His rolling chair hisses in pneumatic protest when he half-falls into it. He stares vacantly at the Black Mesa logo bouncing around the monitor, letting the screensaver get a full lap in before he rallies to log on.
His computer is a hand-me-down from the last round of upgrades, sluggish with age, and mulls over his credentials for several long moments before deigning to let him in. The company intranet is even more outdated, but Gordon knows his way around. Specifically, he's more familiar with the path to the incident reporting template than he'd like to be.
Plodding from field to redundant field, Gordon is careful to keep his account detailed enough to avoid accusations of "poor record keeping," but not so much that he catches flack for editorializing. He learned early on that no one cares for his two cents, or his motivations. "Rationale" is reserved for those higher up the food chain; for him, it's "root cause analysis." Or, less charitably, "excuses."
It's not that Gordon is stupid. MIT doesn't hand out Bachelor's degrees (or PhD program acceptance letters, for that matter) to total idiots. And it's not that he doesn't care—he had been telling the truth about that. He fully appreciates the professional capital Dr. Kleiner risked to get Gordon a job which plenty of candidates would kill just to interview for. He doesn't get his kicks violating protocol for the hell of it. No matter what Dr. Breen, or Dr. Magnusson, or anyone else thinks, Gordon actually is trying.
The fact of the matter is, if Gordon had already solved the mystery of what his own problem is, he wouldn't be filling out these forms to begin with. He'd already be in charge of a legitimate corner of the lab, with a real team, and a mandate to pursue his own projects as he saw fit.
Or maybe not. Maybe he'd be doing something else entirely. Maybe he'd be—
It doesn't matter. The point is, he isn't, and he's got the paperwork to show for it. Fighting the downward twitch pulling at the corners of his mouth, Gordon plugs in his e-signature and sends the form off to the powers that be. He makes sure to download a copy of his own, adding it to the gallery of other misadventures he's created for himself over the last two-and-a-half years.
Gordon fully intends to sign off, after that. The prospect of going back to his dorm for an evening of doing absolutely fuck-all is unbelievably appealing. His autopilot, though, has other plans; he watches in out-of-body resignation as he navigates deeper into the trenches of his employee cloud.
02 FEB 2020
OPERATIONAL READINESS AND CRITICAL LIKELIHOOD ENGINE (ORaCLE) SIMULATOR: ANOMALOUS MATERIALS MODULE
GORDON FREEMAN — DEBRIEF
He grumbles at his own predictability, but doesn't close the document; it's not the first time he's ended up back here. Not even close.
Initialized into simulator ("sim") Black Mesa transit system, en route to Sector C. At 0847 hours per facility intercom, I proceeded into Anomalous Material via primary entrance.
The ORaCLE program had been pitched to him in the vaguest of terms. More accurately, he'd been ordered down to R&D one morning, and found himself being fitted for a VR headset before his coffee had even kicked in. It struck him as unusual. To be fair, things at Black Mesa often did—it seemed every other week he was hearing about some new project or another that would be a conspiracy theorist's wet dream—but Gordon wasn't the guy anyone ever went to for specialized assignments.
As the reps from the other departments began to filter in, all of them also on the younger, fitter side, the emerging pattern replaced his bemusement with a sense of foreboding.
Emergency preparedness. That was the line they fed him and the rest of the short-straw lab rats: a system designed to simulate department-specific, procedurally-generated, high-risk scenarios. The whole thing had "military use" written all over it, and ostensibly would have been better suited to soldiers as subjects, but theirs was not to reason why. By the end of the week, Gordon was suited and booted in a bodysuit filled with a tangle of head-to-toe electrodes, and jacked into the all-encompassing chassis for the maiden voyage.
On loading, environment modeling appeared 1:1 faithful to IRL facility specs. Details and textures limited. Sim was populated by artificial intelligence ("AI") of generic science and support personnel.
On first sight, Gordon scoffed at the visuals. He'd seen better in arcades. That made sense; for efficiency's sake, both time- and processing power-wise, the base assets had been cannibalized from a different, long-dated project. They had updated the layout and technology to match the modern-day facility, but little else. The result was a redundant, low-poly, clunky world. It seemed counterintuitive; how was anyone supposed to be immersed in a glorified PS1 game?
Gordon's smugness lasted for all of fifteen minutes; as it turned out, the wires littering his body weren't there for aesthetics.
Post-accident eval showed much of the immediately surrounding facility to be compromised or nonfunctional. Multiple science and support staff casualties. Minor injuries sustained.
Tactile feedback, smells, temperatures, weight and balance, all relayed through the contacts with inexplicable fidelity. Exhaustion, too, and pain, were notable features, which Gordon put through their paces; it quickly became evident why he'd been selected over the more…distinguished candidates in his department. Even with the rudimentary graphics, the whole thing was a marvel, and made it far too easy to lose himself in this alternate, hellish Black Mesa.
Joined by surviving AI. Initial party members include, in order of system generation ("spawn"): one Security Officer ("Benrey"), Scientist A ("Tommy"), Scientist B ("Dr. Coomer"), and Scientist C ("Bubby").
Admittedly, the AI were impressive, even with their bugs, of which there were many. Half the time, he couldn't tell if they even were processing what he was saying, and the other, the response was almost always incoherent or inappropriate. But they were consistent. Unmistakably them—complete personalities with senses of self that remained throughout their mind-bending trials. Well, for the most part.
AI display varying levels of meta-awareness, ranging from performance of mechanics typically associated with commercial interactive media ("video games") to more explicit knowledge of operating environments ("maps").
Gordon can read between the lines of his own sterile language. He remembers everything he'd opted to leave out with the same clarity as the words on the page. There's no mention of boxing rings, or astronaut dreams, or immortal dogs. Even his betrayal, and the loss and subsequent replacement of his own limb, he had kept as clinical as humanly possible. It had hurt, and not just because of the neural interface firing pain signals down his arm; to expound on that seemed appallingly unscientific.
Some things, however, couldn't be avoided.
…pursued rogue security AI "Benrey" into Xen map…
…formed offensive via systematic destruction of "passport" assets, which appeared connected to rogue AI operation and survival…
…total destruction of rogue AI, support entities, and environment…
The science team had survived, and Benrey had not; at the time, those had been Gordon's two primary criteria for success. When he was called in for the review board, though, his situation was immediately clarified for him.
Is this a joke to you? someone, probably Dr. Breen, had asked.
Another aspect the developers hadn't prioritized, in their rush to test, was real-time playback. Even with the best computers their DOD money could buy, the system ate graphics cards for breakfast, and recording a full VR experience wasn't processing-cheap. Better to write everything to the archive than worry about keeping track in medias res.
This would have been fine, if Gordon's entire run had actually made it to said archive. All he could do was watch the overhead projector in tongue-tied horror as the board showed him a slew of corrupted files. Among them, the module itself; no one in R&D, they explained, had been able to open the Anomalous Materials module since the day he'd been booted from it.
Whatever that fucking—digital night terror did, in death, he'd been sure to pull the ladder up behind him. Benrey's last laugh: even if Gordon had won on the virtual plane, with no records, no witnesses, and no ability to reproduce his results, he was still boned.
The postscript on the debrief is a glorified set of meeting minutes. The verbiage is all similarly dry, using clipped, professional terms to describe the ass-reaming he'd gotten, and the shouting match he'd devolved into with the furious ORaCLE programmer whose module he'd "ruined." There's a lot missing that he's grateful for, actually, though he's pretty sure those things feature prominently in his mythic personnel file.
Notably, there's also no record whatsoever of the fact that his artificial colleagues had become, for better or worse, his friends. Or how, despite…everything, it was the most alive Gordon had felt in months. Dr. Gordon Freeman: respected PhD and conquerer of impossible odds. Everything he thought he'd be by now.
The thought is pathetic enough to wrench him out of his spiral. He's reached the end of the records, anyway. He backs decisively out of the document reader and into his drive, determined to sign out for good this time. One of these days, he's going to stop doing this to himself. It only ever makes him feel worse, like scratching a bug bite raw.
Gordon even makes it as far as hovering his cursor over the little red X, before he's stopped in his tracks.
He hadn't noticed the ZIP folder earlier, in the rote mundanity of his task, but it's impossible to miss, now. It's a few spots down in the "recent" list, unescorted outside of his usual categorization system. That, on its own, wouldn't shock him—his job is in no small part data processing—except that the file size is fucking enormous.
"What the hell?" he whispers to himself, goggling at the hefty 4 TB floating beside it. Gordon is an admittedly distracted guy, but he would've remembered a number like that, especially if, like the system is saying, he had uploaded it only twelve days ago. He clicks into it gingerly, as though moving too confidently might make the contents explode through the network like a digital headcrab carcass.
Within the folder, the extensions are odd—things like .fasta and .fq and a handful of others he's never seen. It's possible they're intended for some specific instrument, but not any Gordon recognizes. The file names provide no clues, either. Just unintelligible keysmashes of numbers and letters.
Ah, shit, this is just what Gordon needs; if he's uploaded a megavirus to the Black Mesa servers, it's most definitely over for him. He half-expects a slew of illicit pop-ups to take over the screen at any second. He's hunched inches from the monitor, squinting at the Properties window like that will make any of this make sense, when a shadow moves in the corner of his eye.
Gordon sees the outline of a domed helmet and the blocky shape of a ballistic vest, silhouetted in the doorframe, and jumps halfway out of his skin.
“Jesus fuck!”
“Hey, whoa, it’s me!”
Gordon’s eyes finally adjust from the bright blue light of the monitor, though his nerves resist following suit. Barney—because that’s who it is, thank God, just Barney—takes an exaggeratedly slow step into the room, raised hands on full display as though at gunpoint.
“Whoa,” he says again, and Gordon realizes his tone is less hostage-negotiator and more farmhand-soothing-a-skittish-horse. There’s a hint of amusement in it, which makes the horse thing more insulting, but even in his frazzled state Gordon can recognize his own ridiculousness.
“You scared me. I thought—nevermind. Goddamn.” He pushes his glasses up to rub harshly at his eyes.
“Sorry,” says Barney, “didn’t realize you had folks hunting you for sport or I would have called first.”
You have no idea, Gordon thinks.
“My phone is in my locker. Just, like, cough or something,” he grouses, but he’s still so relieved that there’s no real bite. He allows himself an unnecessary glance at the name tag affixed to the vest, a bold, predictable CALHOUN, before he well and truly lets it go.
“So,” Gordon says, “I guess they’re finally taking me out to pasture. Did they send you to do the honors?”
“Yeeup. The brass thought it would be more humane if my handsome mug was the last thing you saw.” Barney strikes a Blue Steel, but can’t hold it long before it transforms back into his typical, easygoing grin. He jerks his head toward the open door. “C’mon.”
Gordon quirks a brow in silent query, but powers down the terminal. If he has unwittingly uploaded something sinister, it will make more sense to follow up on it tomorrow, after a full night of sleep. The IT department has to have protocols for that sort of thing anyway, right? They would have caught it by now, especially with files that conspicuously huge. Cold comfort, but it means he can go home. On his way out, he glances at the clock on the wall, and that can't be right—how is it already past 8 o'clock? Gordon really has to stop getting caught in these time vortexes of his own making.
“You’re not gonna get very far in this place without a badge,” Barney says by way of explanation, taking the lead a stride ahead. “I can mint you a new one, we just gotta swing by the hub."
Oh. Duh. A Black Mesa ID is key to navigating the facility, quite literally; you couldn’t unlock a fucking broom closet without the prox chip contained within the precious card. Gordon's is long gone, of course, along with the rest of his ruined things. Has news of his "experiment" made it up the official channels, or did Dr. Kleiner call on Barney as a favor? Both are embarrassing.
With an assist from Barney's own master key, Gordon collects his phone and wallet from the locker room, which is thankfully abandoned. He has no such luck on the tram platform; Gordon avoids eye contact with the other outbound Anomalous Materials crew. Anyone still here at this hour was probably delayed by this afternoon's debacle, held up by time-sensitive testing or experiment prep. The Inmate Chic he's currently rocking doesn't help him appear any less guilty, especially with a guard accompanying him. Gordon claims a seat at the far back of the car, and tries to imagine this is a chill, quittin’-time jaunt with his friend, rather than a security escort.
I’m gonna have to follow you.
Gordon flinches before he can check his face.
If Barney notices, he doesn’t ask. “You look awful,” he says cheerfully, instead, propping himself against a handrail. Somehow there’s no actual meanness in it. It’s an observation, as neutral as noticing a new haircut or a different cologne. Charming and disarming: the Barney Calhoun special. Though he and Gordon had onboarded at the same time, Barney has been the one to build an easy rapport with support staff and research fellows alike. Even without a complete degree—even without a declared major—he had won over the snootiest bastards in the whole complex. Gordon might resent him for it, if he didn’t also like him so much.
“Thanks,” Gordon scoffs. “I feel awesome, actually. I was thinking of heading down to the Hazard Course later. I might actually crack the record today.”
Barney guffaws. “Well, hell, if you’re feeling up to all that, you should come hang out topside, get a drink or three. It’s been forever. Some of the guys are starting to think you died and I’m just hallucinating you. You have to show face before I get hauled off for a psych eval.”
“That might not be such a bad idea, anyway,” Gordon says, but smirks despite himself. Barney looks pleased by the small victory.
“Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though, we’ll go to Murphy’s. We can take my truck. You won’t even have to worry about the Shittle.”
Gordon smiles again, this time at the not-so-affectionate term for the facility’s transportation service. It was conceived as a courtesy for the residents who, like him, don’t have their own vehicle. For most of them, a car is a pointless expense; Black Mesa provides all the amenities they really need on a day-to-day basis, and what little civilization exists within a reasonable distance of the compound is sparse and uninviting. In the odd instance you would want to venture out, the shuttle busses are a less-than-pleasant affair. They're all cantankerous old beasts that smell perpetually of diesel fumes, which might not be so bad if the A/C worked more than half the time. They run on a schedule, allegedly, but no one seems to know what it is, least of all the operators. It took Gordon getting stranded at the inbound stop only once, hammered at 2 a.m., to learn a healthy distrust of the whole system.
Gordon doesn’t drink all that much anymore except socially, which at this point just means “with Barney and the other security guys.” And Barney has a fondness for the local dive (or, more accurately, for Lauren, the weeknight bartender; if he thinks he’s mysterious, he’s dreaming). Ergo: if Gordon wants to get a beer, an offer of good company and a designated driver is the best excuse he’s likely to get for the foreseeable future. If he paces himself and minds his limits, he might even be able to avoid a hangover.
He should go. He knows that.
“Maybe next time.”
His face doesn't drop, exactly, but the light behind Barney's eyes turns pensive. He recovers quickly to ask, "Hey, how's your sister doing?"
Barney means it to sound offhand, and possibly a little lecherous, but Gordon sees right through to the concern underneath. He rolls his eyes in token exasperation.
"She's fine. I talked to her…two weeks ago? I think she's lead council on some big mineral rights case right now. Or something. She explained it to me, but I started to glaze over at the five-minute mark."
"Now you know what it's like to work with a bunch of nerds who talk in science riddles all day." Barney snorts. "What about Josh?"
In reply, Gordon fishes his phone from his shirt pocket to pull up one of the endless feed of photos his sister sends him on the regular. Gordon doesn't mind the barrage; he's of the opinion that his nephew is unreasonably adorable. Barney says as much, too, chuckling at the most recent picture, a beaming portrait of Joshie covered in a mess of icing and cake.
"Just turned two," Gordon says fondly.
"Did you go to the party?"
It's another probing question under the guise of small talk. Gordon shrugs, puts the phone away.
"It's been hard to get away," he says, a transparent non-answer.
"That's too bad. I'm sure he misses you."
"I doubt it. He's only ever met me in person a couple of times, he probably doesn't actually know who I am."
Once he's said it, Gordon doesn't need Barney's silent stare to know that actually makes it sound way worse. He turns away, pointedly shifting his focus past Barney to look out the opposite window.
"Look," he huffs, "I've just been—"
He never figures out whatever he's "just been;" as he watches the scrolling view of his usual commute, the monotony fractures over something new, standing out against the industrial chrome of a passing tram car like an inky void.
Dark suit. Briefcase. Paper-pale skin.
Gordon knows he's never seen the face before, but that doesn't mean he recognizes the man any less. He's squarely facing them, bold and unbothered. Even at this distance, his light green eyes seem to bore into Gordon's soul with surgical precision. He adjusts his tie and—oh God. Is he waving?
Like a man possessed, Gordon pushes past Barney to scramble across the aisle. The other car is already delving into the shadows of the tunnel their own has just emerged from. He cranes as much as he can, from his cramped vantage point. No dice; the strange, too-familiar man is gone as quickly as he appeared.
Assuming he had actually been there in the first place. The thought is as troubling as the vision itself.
"Gordon?" says Barney. This time, he doesn't even bother to hide his alarm. With a blink, Gordon realizes he's half dangling out of the open car. He sits abruptly.
"I thought I saw, um. A guy."
To no one's surprise, that doesn't appear to settle anything. Gordon half-expects a comment about needing his own psych eval, but Barney has the tact to let it lie. Just as well; any further explanation Gordon could offer would hardly be reassuring. They sit in awkward silence, listening to the steady churn of the electrified rail, until they're deposited outside the Area 3 hub.
The platform is narrow, the door not even labeled except for a tiny SECURITY PERSONNEL ONLY placard. Gordon passes it every day, but rarely makes note of it. Entering the hub now feels like sneaking backstage at a concert, forbidden even if Gordon did have his own ID. But it's Barney's domain, and he swipes them through without a second thought.
There are two other guards inside, posted up at reception. Gordon nods politely as Barney rattles off a jargon-laced comment about "last night's game" and what sounds like a betting pool, to the end of getting a good laugh out of both men. Gordon doesn't catch the details; he's distracted by the wall of monitors beside the desk, cycling through the security feeds.
Is it possible a camera saw the same thing he did? He searches for a non-suspicious way to ask an officer hey, can you double-check whether I'm actively hallucinating an interdimensional specter?
"Gordon," Barney calls, with a sharp whistle, before ducking through a side door.
Gordon hurries to follow him into what looks like twenty percent of a tag agency: chair, unflattering blue backdrop, and a computer setup even older than the one he had used earlier this evening. This isn't the first time he's had to replace his ID, but he's used to the fancy, HR version of the process. It seems the science side of the company isn't the only one that prioritizes its more visible areas, when it comes to budget allocation. Still, if he'd known the option was available, Gordon would have skipped the joys of the obligatory security is everyone's responsibility lecture. He takes the seat in front of the clunky camera rig as Barney boots up the system.
"Alrighty, say 'America's Most Wanted,'" Barney orders, before firing off what must be the most obnoxious flash in the world.
There's a beat as the system mulls over the result. Seated across the desk as he is, Gordon can't see the screen, but Barney's quizzical frown certainly tells a story.
"Ummm," Barney says. "Let me try that again." This time, he gives a courtesy countdown, as Gordon braces to keep his eyes open without looking like a total maniac.
Gordon blinks away the green-purple afterimage of the LED bulbs to see that the prognosis hasn't improved.
"Is it bad?"
Barney makes a noise. "Y'know what? It's fine. I'll just use the old one."
Gordon peers at the battered, handwritten sign taped to the wall behind the desk—ALL NEW IDENTIFICATION BADGES MUST HAVE UPDATED PHOTO, NO EXCEPTIONS—and purses his lips.
"It's fine," Barney says again. "I'm the shift supervisor. I have a workaround for pretty much everything in here."
Gordon can't decide if he should be offended, and then considers his unfortunate outfit and towel-dried hair. He shrugs. "Might as well use my onboarding picture," he says. "I don't think it's going to get better than that."
"Say less," Barney chuckles. Not for the first time, Gordon appreciates having friends in middle-management places.
From that point there's lots of double-clicking and typing, which Gordon only tracks for a little while before giving up and letting himself be lulled by the tack-thack of the heavy keys. He provides the occasional number or bit of personal info when asked, and then his signature when Barney pushes the digital pad across the desk at him.
Gordon is hunched over, doing his best to keep his writing legible with the stiff-wired stylus, when Barney says, "We worry about you, you know."
It's far too sober. Tonal whiplash. Setting the pen down delicately, Gordon risks a quick glance. His friend is pointedly focused on the computer, entering one last flourish of a keystroke that brings the card printer to life. They both watch as its mechanical guts toil away inside the clear plastic housing.
“I know it’s been a weird few months," Barney says at length. Mercifully, he doesn’t actually name it, but the implication hangs. “But you can’t literally hide underground without going nuts. Is anything you're doing down here worth that?"
And okay, that's valid, but it sort of stings. “You sound like Dr. Kleiner,” Gordon mutters.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Dr. K is good people. He likes you.”
“I know.”
With impeccable timing, Barney catches the new badge right as the machine spits it out. He even outfits it with a new retractable reel he digs out of a cluttered drawer, presenting the whole thing like a fisherman’s prize catch.
“Just—think about it.”
The card is still warm, emblazoned with Gordon's own fresher, brighter face staring up at him. He turns it aimlessly over and over in his palm.
“Rain check, okay?” he asks, and fixes the clip to his pocket.
Barney sighs. “I’ll hold you to it.”
“I know you will,” Gordon says, with a wan grin.
It's not necessary anymore, but Barney accompanies him out to the platform, anyway. "See you tomorrow," he says. He's back to his carefree drawl, clapping Gordon on the shoulder to usher him onto the waiting tram.
“Yeah," Gordon says. "Tomorrow. Thanks again, Barney.”
“No worries." He punches Gordon's destination into the control panel, and adds, “Remember the definition of insanity, Einstein.”
It's such an odd, unexpected turn, Gordon can't come up with a good response before the door closes in his face. He collapses into the nearest seat, returning Barney's casual salute with his own, stiffer version.
From the security hub, it's a straight shot to the Level 3 dormitories. Even with Barney's backend doctoring, the new ID lets Gordon through without issue. The automatic doors sigh in the relief he projects on them. As the time creeps up on 9 p.m., most of the other residents are either in their quarters or the rec areas, which means Gordon should be able to get through the rest of the evening without having to talk to anyone else.
The thought is admittedly unfair, both towards his well-meaning colleagues and his former roommate. Montague hadn't been unpleasant to live with, but Gordon also didn't complain when the particle physicist had been scooped up for a cherry teaching position, six months ago, and left him with a de facto single room. Gordon knows it's only a matter of time before admin gets wise and moves a new employee in. Until then, he's going to enjoy what little privacy he can get. That, and the makeshift king-sized mattress he had fashioned by pushing together the two twin-XL beds; that'll suck to give up.
Gordon isn't bothered as he traverses the quiet halls, or as he takes a leisurely dinner at the back of the empty cafeteria. He scrolls aimlessly for a bit, DMs Jane a law school meme he only half-understands and knows she likely won't respond to until tomorrow. The most recent issue of The Mesa Times has been left on his table; he makes it halfway through the front page before he realizes he hasn't actually absorbed any of it.
While Barney's point makes sense (even if the quote he'd invoked wasn't actually Einstein, which is an assholishly pedantic correction), it's based on a false premise. Meeting the apocryphal definition of insanity would require doing the same thing over and over again. This, Gordon has on good authority, isn't the concern; if he could manage to stay the prescribed course for more than two weeks at a time, he might actually be able to dig himself out of the hole he's currently in. But then some impulse inevitably comes along, a new, dazzling burst of self-destruction, and he's filling out another debrief. If anything, it's impressive that he keeps getting the same result from such wildly different poor choices.
0 DAYS SINCE OUR LAST FUCK-UP. Gordon resets the clock.
As he busses his tray and heads for the North Wing, he promises himself things will be better in two weeks. Three, if he's being generous with himself. Starting tomorrow, he'll have a literal Improvement Plan in his hands. He'll follow it, as Breen had said, "to the letter." Once he's in the black, again, no one will be breathing down Dr. Kleiner's neck, and Dr. Vance's study will be back on the table. And then Gordon can be a better friend. Hell, he'll even buy the first round at Murphy's, to make up for being such a reclusive ass to Barney these days.
By the time he swipes his badge at his own quarters, Gordon is ready to fall asleep in his loaner clothes. Fortunately, two missed attempts at entering his PIN give him time to reconsider. On the third, he shoulders his way into the room, not even bothering to turn on the lights, and lets muscle memory guide him to the Chair of Laundry Purgatory. The pajama pants he'd left on top are infinitely more comfortable than the scrubs, and serve to make his limbs that much heavier. He tosses his glasses on what he hopes is the desk, and ambles over to bed. In a better, more functional moment, he would brush his teeth and wash his face, but he decides that can wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he starts getting his life back on track, for real this time.
Two weeks. That's all he needs.
He collapses onto the mattress, and lands abruptly on a body.