Character: PFC Michael RoperLocation: Orik Farmstead
With: No one.
The light receded, and Michael's sight gradually restored itself. A moment ago, he'd been looking into the obsidian eyes of an alien monstrosity; it had been a lanky, gangling beast with bark-like skin. It had no mouth, but it spoke to him regardless, though the words meant nothing to him. Then again, most of the last few hours of his life meant little. It had all been chaos. Rifle smoke, air strikes, blood and death - and
them.
Now however, Michael was in a field - a corn field to be precise. The crops looked sickly, drooping with disease, and smelled not so unlike the familiar stench of rotting flesh - something he'd become accustomed to at Black Mesa. The sky above was clear, and the moon was high and shined brightly; he could make out a hundred yards in either direction.
Thumbing his radio, he tried to make sense of his situation. "Squad, come in." His voice was obscured by a voice changer, and came across as messy and robotic. "Where are we? What just happened? Sarge?"
Nothing came back to him but static.
After a few minutes of trying various frequencies, Michael gave up and decided to explore the surrounds. He made his way through the rotting corn, wincing as his bare elbows made contact with the stuff. A wolf howled somewhere in the distance, and he paused until he felt secure enough to continue.
Eventually, the field gave way to the open, and he found himself looking across at a structure; a farm house, perhaps? Its lights were on, and the windows pulsed with a warm glow.
"Maybe someone knows where the Hell I am," he said. "I must have somehow stumbled into one of those teleporter-thingies, yeah, that's it. That makes sense - as much sense as can be made from all this horse shit. I probably got shunted to backwater motherfucker land, USA. I'm fine, everything is going to be fine. I'll find out where I am, and get back to civilisation."
The soldier was lying to himself of course. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, adrenaline pumped to every extremity; he was in a permanent state of fight or flight, and he knew it. Too many things had happened over the last few hours that he could not explain, and his sanity was starting to falter.
He started off towards the house, his spas-12 shotgun held rigidly in both hands on the off chance he would need it in the very near future.
