This is why I should not be left alone with my brain on airplanes.

[camwyn]

Half-Life fanfic got written on my plane ride to Seattle today. I'd caught a few hours of sleep and woke to the realization that I'd had an Idea. These things happen sometimes.

---

(before I proceed any further I should note that this is being written on an airplane somewhere over some kind of mountain range, possibly with snow on, seated next to a guy who could probably pass for the main character if he were a little taller and trimmed his beard just a tiny bit differently. For God's sake, he's even reading Popular Mechanics.)

It might have seemed uncharacteristic for Gordon to send up a silent prayer of thanks in the last instant before the annihilating explosion hit him. He was, after all, an atheist. But when a situation no one ought to have to bear finally comes to its end, no matter how abrupt and impossibly violent, it's human nature for even the stubbornest of men to be grateful.

It really only hurt for an instant, and even that instant held the promise of final rest to make it bearable. He had just enough time to regret what this would do to Alyx...

The explosion's light swelled to blinding levels.

And a young woman's voice- not Alyx's, never Alyx's, he'd have known her voice- rang out in an oddly triumphant language he could not, for the life of him, recognize.

For all that it shouldn't have been possible any more, Gordon opened his eyes. He stood nowhere on the Combine homeworld so far as he could tell, but neither was he anywhere else he recognized. The ground beneath his feet was real, honest soil, if hardpacked and covered in sparse grass, and the sky above him was a cloud-streaked blue like the very start of summer. A vast building, all wood and stone, with doors so wide they could only be considered gates reared up before him. Light spilled from its windows, and the sound of song and an unguessable number of voices. The smell of smoke and meat- real meat, worth eating, not the stench of burning human flesh- wafted from one of the glowing windows. It was that more than anything else that set him to looking for a certain grey suit. Gordon'd been teleported out of tight spots before, but never to anywhere so... alive. Someone must have interfered at the last-

The young woman's voice sounded again, this time in a chuckle that spilled over itself. Then it spoke, in heavily accented but still-recognizable English. "Welcome, warrior," it- she- said. "You have been chosen; welcome now to Valhalla."

Gordon spun on one heel. The speaker stood a few paces behind him: a woman near his own height, platinum blonde hair braided tightly around her head. That was the only part of her visible; from the neck down she was armored in oddly blue-green metal. Her helmet was tucked between her body and her elbow. Gordon barely had time to register that she wore a sword on her other hip before she smiled at him. "My name is Skögul," she said. "You look surprised."

Surprised didn't even begin to cover it. Gordon's mouth worked silently, entirely of its own accord. What came out eventually was, "Valhalla."

"Yes."

"The... hall of the dead."

"Of those who fall in battle," Skögul corrected him. "Those who meet the straw death go elsewhere."

"But... Valhalla." Gordon shook his head slowly. "Odin's place?" Skögul dipped her head in acknowledgment. "You're aware I'm not Scandinavian?"

"He is called Odin Allfather, not Odin Somefather," Skögul said calmly. "There is no barrier there."

Gordon rubbed at his eyes with one gauntleted hand, but Skögul was still there when he opened them again. "I was an atheist," he pointed out. "Shouldn't that disqualify me?"

"A life of the noble virtues outweighs such a defect," Skögul answered. "Courage and truth, honor and fidelity, hospitality, discipline, industriousness, self-reliance, and above all perseverance- you do well enough in those."

Gordon had his doubts about some of those, but held back. All he could do instead was ask, "How? I mean... just... how?"

"How did you come to our attention?" Skögul asked; Gordon nodded. "Ah, that one is easy- one who came here before you spoke for you. Would you like to speak with him?"

"Yes. Please."

As Skögul turned to enter the great hall behind her, Gordon ran both hands over his face. If this really was the Norse afterlife, he thought- and he scarcely believed he was even capable of forming the sentence- then there would be beer around here somewhere. Or some kind of alcohol. God knew he could use it.

"Here," said Skögul's voice a moment later.

Gordon looked up. The man at Skögul's side was no one he recognized, though he knew the fatigues on sight. It must have shown in his face; the man laughed and raised one hand in salute. "Corporal Gerald Emch, USMC," he said. "Hazardous Environment Combat Unit."

If Gordon had been surprised by the Valkyrie before, he was stunned to utter silence now.

"No hard feelings, Dr. Freeman," Corporal Emch said. "Not any more."

"Who- what-" Gordon shook his head rapidly. "I don't even remember you!"

"Nah, I didn't think you would," said Emch. "You didn't exactly see me for long. Maybe a broken gas mask'd help stir your memory?"

Gordon's breath stopped in his throat a moment; he swallowed. "You were- you're him," he said. "The one who didn't want to kill civilians."

Emch nodded. "You gave me Paskey's tags," he said. "And you asked me something."

"I don't-" Gordon stopped; he did remember. Sir? Are you a religious man at all?

"You asked me for a favor, d'you remember?" said Emch. "Wanted me to do just one thing for you."

"'Tell your God that Gordon Freeman sent you'," Gordon murmured in recollection.

Emch nodded, and reached up to draw aside the collar of his shirt. "I did," he said, indicating the tiny stylized hammer that hung behind his dog tags. "And y'know? He really liked what he saw."

Those of you wondering what the hell I'm talking about? This is in reference to this rendition of a certain combat sequence in Half-Life, towards the very end of the "On A Rail" chapter.

Comments

[lienne.livejournal.com]

"You're aware I'm not Scandinavian?"

That, I think, is up there with the best lines anybody's ever said in any fic, ever. <3.

[leeshajoy.livejournal.com]

*standing ovation*

[nocarename]

*reads fic*
*looks at EPU's CSI:NA episode list*
*looks back here*

You break my brain in amusing and enjoyable ways. You really do.

[camwyn]

*bows* One can but try.

[slarti.livejournal.com]

hahaha. Nice.

(Also, I enjoy propagation of the "tell your god" line. :-)

[mephron]

You told me about this one?

I am still remarkably amused by it.

[camwyn]

Hey, it keeps me off the streets. Glad you approve.

[camwyn]

It's too good a line not to make more use of, even if it wasn't uttered in the same spirit here as it was in other people's games.

[camwyn]

Thank you!

[sylveraven.livejournal.com]

Oh, this was lovely!

Yay happy ending for Gordon!

[camwyn]

"There's not enough beer in the world..."

"Fortunately, this isn't exactly the world. Trust me. There's enough beer here."

[leeshajoy.livejournal.com]

Something that occurred to me at work: Aren't the residents of Valhalla supposed to be in constant training for Ragnarok?

So Gordon has just been recruited for another goddamn war without permission or explanation.

ETA: Oh, and it gets better! According to Wikipedia:

Here, every day, the slain warriors who will assist Odin in Ragnarök, the gods' final conflict with the giants, arm themselves for battle and ride forth by the thousands to engage in combat on the plains of Asgard. Those who die in the fighting will be brought back to life. At night, they return to Valhalla to feast on the boar Sæhrímnir and drink intoxicating drink.

[camwyn]

That realization on his part is what IC'ly prompted the "not enough beer" comment on his part.

At least they're straightforward about what they want from him here. But yes. I'm familiar with the details of Valhalla. Even in the afterlife the poor boy can't catch a break.

[genarti]

I wholly approve of this fic.

Even though I rather doubt Gordon himself does.