Disclaimer: I don't own the Half Life franchise. Valve does.
17 Burning
Sunlight filtered through the desolate hospital, falling upon a very peculiar pair of rebels a few floors down from the roof. One, known only as Iceman, was quickly wolfing down a tin of French onion soup, consuming it in ravenous, untasting gulps. The second, known to Iceman as Q-tip and to the rest of the world as Geoffrey Person, kept watch on the city down below through his spotting scope.
"Well, hello there, Beanpole," he said to no one in particular as a Combine soldier emerged from a building up the street.
"Why the hell do you give them names, Q-tip? Not like you can tell them apart."
"Yes I can," Geoffrey responded, not taking his eyes from the spotting scope.
"How?"
"Beanpole's the nervous one. He's always fidgeting and scanning the rooftops. What time is it?"
"0619."
"Yeah, they usually put him on watch at around 0615. No, wait…that's not Beanpole, that's Hammerhead."
"What's he do?"
"He's the lazy one. You remember the one we saw sitting against the wall, the one that officer chewed out?"
"When was that?"
"Two days ago. That was him."
"Well, great, we've got ourselves a target now. Let's light him up," Iceman exclaimed, finishing his meal and crawling toward the M40 he had set up near a window.
"Uh-uh, not so fast, Iceman. Remember what Compton said?"
"To gather intelligence and not give our position away unless we had to?"
"Mhm. Emphasis on that last bit."
"For Christ's sake, Q-tip, we've been sitting here for the past three days. Are we gonna get in the war or what?"
"There was that Elite yesterday."
"He doesn't count. Only took off his arm, remember? Some other guys on the ground finished him off."
"He's an assist, then."
"I don't want a goddamn assist. I want a kill."
"Okay, okay…just wait…"
"No, I'm not waiting one more second. We've got some Overwatch ground-pounder in our sights, and I don't wanna miss this opportunity."
"If you want a worthwhile target, you will wait. Just watch, they're bound to send out a patrol soon."
Iceman grumbled as he crawled over to the rifle. He racked back the bolt and inserted a fresh clip into the chamber. After a quick check to make sure the rounds were seated properly, he slammed the bolt home. He peered through the ten-power scope and centered the crosshairs on Hammerhead.
"Hey, Q-tip."
"Yeah?"
"Why's he Hammerhead?"
"Because he just is."
"Weirdo."
"It takes one to know one."
"Shut up."
"Oh, what'd I tell you? They've sent out a patrol."
"No shit, where?"
"You know that archway between the doughnut shop and the pawn shop?"
"Yeah."
"Point man just came through it. Looks like he's got himself a SPAS-12."
"Alright, we're gonna bag ourselves a team leader today. Where're his friends?"
"Right behind him. Standard formation and loadout, two submachine guns, one AR2."
"What's the wind?"
"Half a minute right."
"Elevation?"
"Three plus two." The conversation was brief, emotionless, almost automated.
"Okay, I'm holding an inch above center chest."
"Nah, go for a leg. We'll use him as bait."
"Left or right?"
"Does it matter?"
"Left it is."
"On scope."
"On target," Iceman breathed, focusing the crosshairs on the team leader.
"Fire when ready." The gunshot echoed throughout the ruined city.
"Target down. His buddies're taking cover."
"I can see that," Iceman replied, racking back the bolt.
"Good for you. Looks like they're about to do a little RBF."
"Recon by fire? They're usually more disciplined than that."
"We got lucky." The muffled reports of the submachine guns and pulse rifle reached their ears, a soft mrrrt alternating with a harsher dakkadakkadakka.
"Yeah, that's right, you stupid shits. Waste all your ammo trying to hit us, why don't you."
"Got one coming out of cover. Looks like he's going for his CO." Iceman swung the sniper rifle around and squeezed the trigger. Another gunshot reverberated through the air.
"Not anymore." He worked the bolt again, the action fluid, natural, and speaking of countless repetition.
"Confirmed chest shot. His buddies are still in cover."
"Well, we got all day. They don't. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…"
"Sing something else."
"Ninety-nine bottles of gin on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of gin…"
"That's not what I mean by something else."
"The words are different."
"You only changed one. Hardly makes for a new song. Oh – the rifleman's making a go for it."
"Boy, they must replace your brain with dog shit or somethin' when they put you through the conversion surgery." Another squeeze of the trigger, another gunshot. Geoffrey let out a low whistle.
"Confirmed headshot. I think that's your first."
"It is. I knew I didn't lead him enough. So that leaves the other submachine gunner?"
"Mhm. I think we've shaken him up quite a bit."
"Asshole deserves it. What's Hammerhead up to?"
"Can't tell. He must've gone back inside. Probably getting reinforcements."
"That puts the pressure on us. Relocating isn't gonna be easy."
"Yeah, don't I know it. So are you gonna let the last guy go?"
"No."
"Looks like it."
"Fine." Another gunshot pierced the silence.
"Target down. And the team leader?"
"Shock and blood loss will do the rest. Let's get out here before Hammerhead comes back."
The duo packed up their equipment silently. Iceman slung the rifle over his shoulder, pausing to pick up his soup tin.
"So where to now?" he inquired.
"There's an old department store south of us, near where Calhoun is. I was thinking we could head over there, set up shop. It'd at least give us something to do until they make a push on the Citadel and Compton calls us back to provide support."
"Sounds good." The duo set off through the lifeless hospital, traveling salesmen of death in a city full of less-than-eager buyers.
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This oneshot was primarily an experiment to see how far I could carry a story using dialogue alone. I like to think I got it to a respectable length before its momentum petered out.
I would like to thank Tigerlily Brown for beta reading this work. If reception is positive enough, this may become a two-parter, though it's unlikely the two parts will be related (as in, they won't feature the same characters).
Originally, this story had a lot more swearing in it. I cut some of it out, and I think it just barely edges into a T. If you don't think so, don't hesitate to tell me, but give some reasons, too. I'm not going to change a rating simply because it doesn't "feel" like T.
Chapter two of Lost Contact is in development. I'm aiming for a mid-September release, but there's a slight chance it'll be delayed, as my efforts are divided between it and another oneshot I've titled "New Life".
I just noticed it's been exactly a month since I published Lost Contact. Fancy that, eh?
On another note, it's a definite possibility that I could start writing for both Half-Life and Dead Space. I've rented it, and I gotta say, I'm liking the universe so far. cheezburgerlover, if you're reading this, you'd like Dead Space. You get to dropkick babies. They're heavily mutated babies with weird tentacle/harpoon things growing out of their backs, but they're still babies.
So that's about it for now. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are much appreciated, as is constructive criticism.
Thanks,
- TheSpazzo