Chapter Text
Benrey had died so many times that it simply didn’t matter anymore. The first, second, and third times were terrifying, but death doesn’t matter when you can come back.
It was just like opening your eyes. Like falling asleep while staring out the window of your car and waking up seeing somewhere else. It's easy. 'Uh oh, you lost. Played above your level and got your ass handed to you. It's cool, dude. Take a few minutes to cool down, and respawn.'
Even when the dying hurt, it wasn’t very scary. It was normal. It was exploring your limits, making a bad joke, being torn apart, sure, but eventually being allowed to put yourself back together. It was a part of things. ‘Hey, you lost, but you learned something. Take a few hours to plan for next time, and respawn.'
Benrey couldn't really die, at least, not in a way that mattered. Not in any way that stuck, because no matter how cool ‘ if you die in the game, you die in real life’ is, it’s all bullshit. What kind of shitty game is that?
But as he sank deeper and deeper into the darkness clawing at the fringes of his mind, it occurred to him that maybe this wasn’t a game at all. Maybe this was real life, and maybe this was the first and last time he was going to experience it. This was death. It wasn’t a flash of pain and an annoying setback, it wasn’t a way to reset after taking too much damage, death wasn’t ‘game over, try again’ , it was ‘thank you for playing’.
His first time experiencing the endless void of non-existence had been so long ago, he could barely remember it, but he thought it might be something like this: all encompassing, never ending, impossible. Forever.
Was this forever?
He struggled against the invisible hold on what remained of his consciousness. He thrashed and he squirmed and he fought in a way that he hadn’t had to for years. He was scared, truly scared, for what might have been the first time since that first time he realized that death wasn’t scary.
Try as he might, the darkness continued to grow. His senses began to flicker and fade, and flashes of what had led up to this flooded his mind.
Those moments (the lifetime) crowded his dispersing thoughts. He remembered the cloying feeling of xen settling into the free-spaces in his molecules. The confusion, the hurt (the guilt, why'd they do that to his arm?) all the annoying shit taking a back seat to the pervasive buzz of something bigger than himself (nothing was bigger than him, he was the Big Bad, unstoppable until when he wasn’t), of something stronger and older than himself, of something feeding off of the blue, blue, blue stuck in his diaphragm.
Oh, how simple it had been before shit hit the fan. Life was late night patrols through the small sector he’d claimed as his own, playing video games, hanging out with friends. It was being seen as human, even though he wasn’t. Pretending, until it didn’t feel like pretending anymore.
Even further back, before he’d had enough of being studied, was the dull, achy years of pain, anger, and of pure unadulterated boredom. Years, without anything to do but be looked at by a bunch of idiots who would never be able to begin to fathom the very beginning of what the hell he was, because if he didn’t know, how could they?
And then, finally, he remembered being new. Small, defenseless, new. Escaping a small glass box and ending up in a forest filled with animals, and trees, and lakes, and ponds, and a human from a campsite about a half mile away. That’s where he’d made his first friend, and that’s where he left him for what he thought might be forever.
Look at him now. Benrey was dying by Gordon’s hand (quite literally), and he was falling face first in the mud, (isn’t it funny, that you met on his home planet and died on yours), and the grand plot was revealed and done away with.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps this was how it was always meant to end.
But then he opened them again.
It was just like waking up. Like clutching your throat, chest heaving, dazed and confused as if the nightmare followed you back home. Benrey felt the cold floor against his cheek, could see light reflecting from a turn in the hallway, could taste the memories of blood and hatred and bilge water as he coughed, pushing himself onto his hands and knees.
The pitch-dark void was still coating the inside of his lungs, smothering them with charcoal, leaving them thick and helpless; a breath out was as satisfying as a breath in, and a breath in was impossible. His ears were ringing, and despite the fact there was an ample supply of oxygen, none of it could make its way to his brain. It was like trying to refresh a page that you’ve already refreshed, but the page isn’t responding, and you can’t do anything but watch that stupid little arrow spin around, and around, and no matter what you try nothing happens. He was a buffering page, and pretty soon he was going to give up and just close the tab.
But through the mounting terror, through the desperation and panic, there was a strange, prevailing sense of calm. The feeling was a steadying, heavy weight on his shoulders, solid as a rock.
You’re okay, he knew. He knew it like he knew the ground below him. You’re not dead, you’re not dying anymore. You just have to breathe.
Maybe not okay, maybe not not dying, but he was not dead. He took a shuddering breath in.
Not dead.
A breath out.
He'd never been this sore. Even the simple act of straightening his arms was herculean, like the bones inside were nothing more than a wire frame, supporting a crumbling clay sculpture.
Speaking of: What the fuck? Was going on? Why the hell wasn’t he dead?
Sound was returning too, a dull buzzing accompanied by the growing sounds of talking. No, shouting.
While the voices echoed around the hallway from the direction of the light, far enough away to be indistinguishable, the buzzing seemed to be localized directly inside of his head. He turned his head to the right, before jolting to his feet, stumbling backwards and away from the wall beside him.
A gaping hole, slashed across the wall and up the ceiling, revealed the ragged concrete of the torn apart walls. Its edges were sharp and unfriendly, looming over him as if to swallow him whole. Behind it, lay the all too familiar void, dark and empty. A cluster of debris from xen began drifting off, no longer circling Benrey’s decaying form like vultures waiting for a kill.
The scene crackled with static, and the buzzing sound in his head turned to a harsh shriek. The lights flickered on and off and the impossible portal made peace with reality. It blinked one last time, and then it was gone.
Silence. Apart from the sound of breathing and distant screams. The wall was whole again.
What in the entire fuck was going on.
He looked around him, gaining his bearings. For real, this time.
His arms still ached. His fingers were trembling. His bulletproof vest was hanging on by a thread, one final piece of kevlar secured over his left shoulder. His helmet lay dented on the ground beside him.
But he wasn’t dead, and the screams were getting louder.
He threw off the destroyed vest, shoved the helmet onto his head, and ran down the hallway, deeper into Black Mesa.
So, looks like the general theme for this runthrough was going to be fucking shit-ass, uncool, yowzers-that-hurts . With each clunking step, his boots slammed into the floor and sent rattles through his legs. He was tired despite the fact he had just spent what felt like an eternity in the void. But he was alive, so he would be grateful for what he had.
Still, the shouting was getting closer, and it sounded a bit too much like bootboys to be comfortable. He might have gotten away with blending in before, epecially if he could find some of his old PSN buddies, but he's pretty sure they’re all dead, and he's pretty sure that ship had sunk anyways.
While Benrey was what many might call ‘directionally challenged’, he never truly got lost. Memorizing the sprawling labyrinth that was Black Mesa was never a high priority when there wasn’t any down-side to just not doing that. With his vest, helmet, and passport, he was never challenged, never stopped and questioned. He was able to no-clip through obstacles, able to show up unannounced. He was able to come and go as he pleased, unbeholden to anyone.
When everything went to shit, it was a bit different. A bit worse to be lost when the world was ending. Truly, he didn’t have an excuse to bother Gordon anymore (who cared about clearance when everybody was dead), but he still wanted to stick around for just a bit longer. Tommy was there, of course, along with Bubby and Dr. Coomer, but what was really a plus was the fact that it looked like Gordon was going somewhere, like he was following a predetermined straight line straight through and out. He was going forward. You couldn’t help but follow.
There was no Gordon to follow now, and there was no vest or passport. He wasn’t supposed to be here but he didn’t know how to leave just yet.
Well, If he couldn’t go toward something, he might as well go forward.
Finally, the voices behind him began to fade. From a cacophony, to a din, to an ear-piercing shriek, to death rattles, to nothing. He could have done without the death rattles, but the nothing part was pretty alright. He slowed his pace, confident that whatever was behind him was away for now.
He was pretty sure he knew where he was: in the old labs and offices down in the so-called ‘main area’, where the train came to drop off the scientists in the morning and take them home after they’ve slept in their offices. This is where he’d first seen Gordon again.
He pondered what he’d say to him now. He wasn’t the type to think through the shit he’d serve on a daily basis (on the fly tossing, that was his jam), but there was something about getting killed by a guy (the rest of the science team tried their best, of course, but it was Gordon who sniped the kill, making his murder count officially the highest, what the fuck you hypocrite) that made him feel a bit conflicted.
On one hand, fuck him, he killed your ass. Like, really. He tore you apart and left you in your most primordial state and the only reason you were even still around was because fuck if I know, who knows what happened?
On the other hand, he was Gordon. As much as Benrey hated him (fuckin’ spoilsport, ruining everyone’s fun, turning a fun prank into ‘where the fuck was his arm, bro, they weren’t supposed to do that’ bullshit), he couldn’t really get past the fact that he was, well, he was Gordon. What could you do? Benrey couldn’t help but remember him fondly, as the one at the beginning of it all. Even if he was also at the end.
If he saw him again, he’d probably say whatever shit came to mind in the moment, and it would make Gordon clutch his stomach with laughter or turn red with rage. One was preferable, but both were attention, and…he’d like Mountain Dew Amped Gamer Fuel™, but Pepsi was okay, y’know?
Benrey took a moment to enjoy the silence. The screams of bootboys weren’t unfamiliar, nor were they particularly unpleasant, but they made a terrible exercise jam. Leaning against the wall, he took a deep breath in, savoring the stale underground air in a way he hadn’t before, and released it.
A squeaky, lame excuse for sweet voice escaped with it, in a few discordant notes of shit, I’m tired, and fuck running. They popped in the air and dissolved into nothingness before he could look up and enjoy his work.
As he caught his breath, a sound began echoing through the hallways again, though this time it was not behind him. It was in front of him, and it was approaching at a fast pace.
Closer analysis revealed the sound of voices, the sound of gunfire, and the sound of feet against the floor.
Pushing himself off the wall and into a standing position, he reached for his gun. When his fingers wrapped around air, and he felt nothing but an empty holster, it was too late. A door a few meters down the hallway was flung open, and a body tumbled through, sending a few last deafening shots behind him and then slamming the door shut.
Gordon Freeman never looked particularly put together in all the time Benrey had known him. Before the resonance cascade, he was painted with the exhaustion of an overworked, under-sunned scientist. During the whole ordeal, his metal suit only protected him from the worst of it, leaving his face bruised and bloody, leaving his eyes bloodshot and his protective exterior dented. This particular instance of Gordon put the others to shame.
He locked the door behind him and ducked away, catching his breath on the wall beside it with the muffled voices behind him. He adjusted his glasses with his forearm, reloading a Glock 17 that most certainly didn’t belong to him with ammo that was already stained with blood. His ponytail was coming loose, flyaways caught in the sweat running down his temples, clinging to his face with the same kind of desperation that he gripped his weapon with.
Gordon never came across as particularly intimidating; he was too frayed at the ends, too high strung and moralistic. Still, he was a trigger happy anxious wreck pumped with adrenaline (natural and artificial), and he was protected from anything and everything with the impenetrable HEV suit keeping him safe from radiation, bootboys, and Benreys.
This time, Gordon didn’t have the HEV suit. All he had were sweatpants (worn by time and fabric softener) and a t-shirt with a graphic so faded that Benrey couldn’t tell what it was. Motherfucker didn’t even have shoes, and he was currently struggling to maintain his balance on the slick floors in his basic-ass white socks. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a red mark on his face, one that would soon enough turn into a deep purple bruise. Had two arms, though. A win is a win.
He regained his bearings as quickly as he could be expected to, and leapt back into action, presumably to continue his mad dash in the opposite direction. His eyes caught up with his brain and spotted the lone guard standing in the hallway in front of him.
His mouth fell open. He stared in shock.
Benrey pointed to the gun in Gordon’s hand. “Hey, did you steal that?"