Right now, Shephard would love to have his mask down. That's not the kind of look any Marine of his age knows. That's a Vietnam-era look, and the mask would at least be a layer between him and the other man.
"Sir," he says nonetheless, his mask held in his hand. "I have the same right to this uniform as any other member of the Corps-"
"Bullshit." The word comes out as a snarl; the other humans begin backing away nervously. "How old are you, boy? Nineteen? Twenty?"
"Twenty-two-"
"Then you have no goddamn right whatsoever to that uniform!" Tim snaps. "There is no more Corps!"
He lunges at Shephard, a move the Marine's still-recovering vision can't quite follow. The ensuing scuffle is short and ends with Shephard's back to the wall, Tim's left forearm across his throat. "Every last Marine on Earth who didn't get killed in the Seven Hours War wound up on the wrong end of a Combine Elite capture-and-convert unit," the grey-haired man says through clenched teeth, "so you had better come up with a damn good answer to my next question if you don't want to end up naked. Where the hell did you get that uniform?"
(He's too close, too focused, to notice anything in the way of peripheral vision. And he's not very good at immobilization holds. Shephard could get in an incapacitating knee strike if he was lucky, he sees that in an instant...)
"Right upper pocket of my vest, sir," he manages to answer despite the arm across his throat.
Tim blinks. "Come again?"
"Photographic identification... right upper pocket. See for yourself."
There's a moment of no less tension for all its silence as Tim eyes the younger man; then he snaps the pocket open and pulls out a small card. "This is a military ID card from 2000-"
"Picture. Sir."
Another moment of silence, as Tim looks back and forth.
"How the fuck-"
"Black Mesa. I was at Black Mesa." He coughs. "Some kind of... suspended animation shit. I'm a goddamn Marine. Let me down, you dogshit bastard."
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"Sir," he says nonetheless, his mask held in his hand. "I have the same right to this uniform as any other member of the Corps-"
"Bullshit." The word comes out as a snarl; the other humans begin backing away nervously. "How old are you, boy? Nineteen? Twenty?"
"Twenty-two-"
"Then you have no goddamn right whatsoever to that uniform!" Tim snaps. "There is no more Corps!"
He lunges at Shephard, a move the Marine's still-recovering vision can't quite follow. The ensuing scuffle is short and ends with Shephard's back to the wall, Tim's left forearm across his throat. "Every last Marine on Earth who didn't get killed in the Seven Hours War wound up on the wrong end of a Combine Elite capture-and-convert unit," the grey-haired man says through clenched teeth, "so you had better come up with a damn good answer to my next question if you don't want to end up naked. Where the hell did you get that uniform?"
(He's too close, too focused, to notice anything in the way of peripheral vision. And he's not very good at immobilization holds. Shephard could get in an incapacitating knee strike if he was lucky, he sees that in an instant...)
"Right upper pocket of my vest, sir," he manages to answer despite the arm across his throat.
Tim blinks. "Come again?"
"Photographic identification... right upper pocket. See for yourself."
There's a moment of no less tension for all its silence as Tim eyes the younger man; then he snaps the pocket open and pulls out a small card. "This is a military ID card from 2000-"
"Picture. Sir."
Another moment of silence, as Tim looks back and forth.
"How the fuck-"
"Black Mesa. I was at Black Mesa." He coughs. "Some kind of... suspended animation shit. I'm a goddamn Marine. Let me down, you dogshit bastard."