milliways_bar | (no subject)

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.]

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"Xenobiology," Rhodes repeats. "What, like aliens and stuff?"

"Afraid so," says Gordon. "I didn't want to believe it myself, but-"

He shrugs; he doesn't much care if he's believed or not, because he, for one, knows it's true, and therefore has nothing to prove.

"And that would be why they wanted you to be able to fire a gun," he finishes. "Makes sense."

Beat.

"You know, for a given value of making sense."

Gordon's mouth twitches. "I'll tell you- I remember when logic and sense governed the world, several months ago. Gosh, I miss those times."

"I'm guessing stuff went bad?" he asks, and it's a little wry, because he's also guessing that 'stuff went bad' is a pretty big understatement. Freeman's a physicist, not a Marine. Scars like the ones that Rhodey's just noticing aren't exactly general issue.

"Pretty bad, yeah," says Gordon. "I don't think the labs on the premises would've been a problem if our last teleportation experiment hadn't overloaded the machines. There's such a thing as something working too well."

"What kind of a problem were they?" he says. "If that's something it's okay to answer."

Or to ask.

"There's no one left to object," Gordon says. "The last experiment was supposed to be an analytical run. Supposed to be. What it did was amplify the effect we were generating to the point where it couldn't be controlled. Spacetime got torn apart like an ugly tie in a paper shredder, and things from the dimension the top-secret boys'd been raiding started teleporting in all over the place."

Spacetime, teleportation -- not really Rhodey's specialty. Not really Tony's specialty, either, but if he were here, Rhodey figures he'd probably know all the right questions to be asking.

Rhodes, on the other hand, is a straightforward mechanics sort of a guy. He pulls something of a face; it's half startled, half resigned to being startled, and maybe a little extra '...ugh.' "That -- sounds pretty incredible," he says, and 'incredible' is clearly not meant in a positive way.