(no subject)

[acts_of_gord]

Gordon's been out by the lake since sundown, doing his best to walk or run himself into a state of exhaustion advanced enough to let him sleep for once. It didn't really take, so he's come inside, a bit damp from the usual Scottish weather. It's not all that different from the weather he used to slog through at home, a fact which may have inspired an idea or two. He migrates over to the Bar and says, "Excuse me. Do you have back issues of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer in stock?"

A napkin materializes with one word on it: Yes.

"Good. May I please have an issue from..." He drums his fingers on the bartop a moment, thinking. "The first week of September. 1982. I- oh."

After riffling through the Local News section he adds, much more quietly, "Any chance of the WSU alumni newsletter and a pair of scissors?"

That, too, seems to have worked. He looks for a moment as if he might ask for something else; then he goes silent and heads in search of a place to sit. His guns can wait. For now, this is more important.


[Tinytag: Gordon Freeman, Wilbur Whateley, Alyx Vance. Open until it scrolls off the front page.]

Comments

[stilljustandrew]

*A newspaper, and a pair of scissors. Ordinarily this wouldn't be cause for alarm.*

*But Andrew's looking at that combination with definite unease, for some reason.*

[acts_of_gord]

Gordon doesn't notice at first. Eventually, though, he does look up.

Takes him a little while to recognize the person looking his way- there's been some time and some head injuries in between then and now- but eventually he does remember Andrew's name.

[stilljustandrew]

Hey, Gordon.

*He glances at the newspaper.* What'cha doing?

[acts_of_gord]

"Family picture, sort of," Gordon says. He puts down the scissor and slides the Local News section in Andrew's direction, open to page B-3. A good portion of the page above the fold is taken up with an article about a particularly stubborn family court judge named Barbara Freeman, including a photograph of her with a caption indicating the dressing-down she's giving to a man two years behind in his child support payments.

"Lost my wallet back at Black Mesa, and everything in it."

[stilljustandrew]

*Barbara. Gordon. His spine prickles.*

*Coincidence.*

That's your ... mother? *he hazards.*

[acts_of_gord]

Gordon nods. "One of the longest-serving judges on the King County family court bench," he says, and there's more than a trace of pride in his voice as he says it. "As of 2001, anyway. This-" He taps the paper. "I was eight years old when this happened. I took the paper to school for my current events article that week."

[stilljustandrew]

Family pictures, *he repeats, getting it now.*

And the other thing?

[weirdwilbur.livejournal.com]

"Whutcha dewin' thar?" asks the man sitting next to him.

Well, I say 'man', but . . .

[acts_of_gord]

"Well, I-"

He looks up. And up.

And is very silent, and very, very still.

[weirdwilbur.livejournal.com]

"Yew were sayin'?"

Wilbur pokes him. With a tentacle.

[acts_of_gord]

He says nothing.

But the newspaper is down, and the scissors are down, and the crowbar that he always (always!) has with him in one way or another, jammed through his belt or propped against the wall of the shower or shoved under his pillow at night- the crowbar is in his hands.

[weirdwilbur.livejournal.com]

The tentacle grabs it and tries to pull it out of his hands.

"Naw violence en the bar, remember?"

Wilbur glares at him.

[acts_of_gord]

He's not letting go of it for anything less than- well. Certainly not for this.

"Sir."

Gordon's voice is only just audible, the quiet, controlled sound of a man who has focused all of his attention on this moment and this moment alone.

"You are making a mistake of proportions I cannot even begin to describe. You will let go of my crowbar, now. And you will turn around, now, and you will go away."

His gaze is level, unblinking.

"I have nothing to say to you beyond that. Release my crowbar now and leave me alone."

[nexttimebaby]

When Rhodey steps up to the bar, wearing the baggy airman battle uniform, matching tan-and-gray camouflage cap tucked between his elbow and his side, he's greeted with a note.

He looks around, but that's the problem with being in a bar full of people when you don't know what the one person you're trying to find looks like. "Jesus, this is worse than phone tag," he mutters, and he pulls a couple of sheets of paper out of the sheaf of notes he's carrying before he finds a blank one.

Shortly, a brief response has been penned and left with the bar.

(Dr. Freeman: You're right on that, when it comes to the networking. I'm in the bar now and will be for the next couple of hours; the uniform ought to be pretty easy to spot. Regards, Jim Rhodes)

That settled, Rhodey settles down to the business of studying aviation blueprints.

[acts_of_gord]

Fortunately, Gordon's actually around when the note pops up this time. He looks it over and turns to scan the room for uniformed types. Thank God the man said he was Air Force. A Marine Corps uniform... well, it wouldn't go over well, MIT or no.

Ah, there. That looks about right. Gordon threads in between the tables and makes his way over to where his candidate's seated. Air Force or no, he does briefly wish he had the HEV suit on, as the circled-lambda T-shirt doesn't offer much in the way of protection, but-

"Sir? Would you be Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes?"

[nexttimebaby]

Rhodey glances up. "That's me," he says, and for a second, he can't figure who the man is or what he wants -- and then he realizes. He gets up. "And you're Dr. Freeman, I'm guessing." He offers a hand.

[acts_of_gord]

"That's me." Gordon shakes the offered hand. "Good to finally meet you. I've been stuck here a while, so I've been trying to keep busy."

He looks, more or less, pretty ordinary. Six foot two, relatively thin build, reddish-brown hair, glasses. It takes a little looking to spot the curved shrapnel scar across most of his forehead, or the thinner, older ones near the hairline.

"Remind me to update our list. Dr. Vattic and I were speculating about the number of MIT graduates around here who turned out to have dangerous careers."

[nexttimebaby]

He half-laughs, sitting back down and gesturing to the empty chairs at the table. "Go ahead and take a seat, Doctor. I don't know how dangerous my job is these days, unless dealing with reporters counts as hazardous duty."

(Rhodey might think it does.)

A little amused at the idea of the census: "I used to be a test pilot and I flew in Desert Storm, though, if that helps you out."

[acts_of_gord]

"That's something, yeah," says Gordon with a half-smile as he sits down. "Dr. Vattic went on to a psy-ops military unit himself at some point, and me- well, my whole world went dangerous on us. That's close enough, I figure."

"Can I buy you a drink? Least I can do to make up for the paper chase."

[aeons_crackshot]

"Hello Gordon. Looking for something in particular?"

[acts_of_gord]

"Pictures of my family," says Gordon, looking up. "I lost all of mine at Black Mesa. I can't expect a place like this to have access to anything private, but both my mother and my brother appeared in publications, so-" He gestures at the newspaper in front of him.

[aeons_crackshot]

Annabelle's face is sympathetic at Gordon's mention of losing the pictures of his family. "I hadn't thought of being able to get photographs from publications."

"I'm afraid I may have given your friend Alyx a bit of a shock the other day," Annabelle says ruefully.

[acts_of_gord]

"It was a hunch, that's all," Gordon says. "I still won't have any pictures of my father, or my niece, but you take what you can get."

"Is this about the gender thing?"

[aeons_crackshot]

"I'm sorry that you won't be able to get pictures of all of your family that way."

"Yes. I was telling Alyx about one of my own adventures, and I explained that Jack Tallon had never approved of women in combat..." Annabelle pauses, "The idea was completely alien to her."

"I'm rather glad that the idea was so strange to her. Some idiocies shouldn't persist."

[acts_of_gord]

"Between the suppression field and the sheer number of people simply killed off by the Combine, there aren't any gender roles left on my Earth, really," Gordon says. "I had to explain why they ever existed in the first place."