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February 21st, 2021
Here I was thinking I proved everyone in the camp to be foolish but I was the biggest damn fool there was, some sick joke with delusions of righting wrongs and making history, rather than just writing it. Maybe I should have stuck to the party line months ago and I would have been halfway to some cushy administration desk job by now. Instead I am held up in some office block fit to be bombed by 626's choppers with people who are sooner to burn down monuments of history than rebuild. Even The Watcher by comparison was living the high life all snug and secure in that Infestation Control bunker of his. To add insult to injury he somehow tapped into our camp's speaker system and revealed himself to be the culprit behind the water tower detonation. Now we were outgunned, isolated, with vicious man-eating bugs on the road and little to no water.
Yesterday was a bit of a pointless trip, but pointless trips around here was a lot better than dying of thirst. Today would be the day I would get answers, surely The Watcher was back in his bunker by then. Before I could even proceed I had stumbled upon another cabin, with the woman who originally traded me a shotgun. She had in tow a masked man who had a head injury of some kind, dressed mightily familiar to what I presumed to be The Watcher. My hopes were shattered however when they later told me back at camp while dragging him to a cell that he spoke French. I noted down several objects of evidence he had, some well-kept weaponry such as an SMG, handgun and a machete with a slogan written on it in well, you guessed it, French. Even his whole journal was in that tongue that I so wished I had not skipped lessons on in graduate school.
He seemed to uphold a sense of professionalism, taking account of his ammo, however several gaps in his diary of sorts from a year ago left the story missing. I could read 'cartons' roughly as magazines, the calibers were obvious but did not match the amount presently in the box. The few similar words I could make out discussed inspecting some tunnel and something along the lines of what happened to his home. More of a question than an answer really. I noted what I could before a 'strategic meeting' was being announced. It was at that point I left with the collection of evidence. Some pages could be restored but I'd require an expert who knew a thing or two and most importantly time, I had neither of those. Regardless I attended the meeting noting down what I could. The fighters sought to scout out Combine Commander 626's fortress up ahead, noting patrol rotations and openings. Back then the historian in me would have relished in the trip, but I had to make a quick diversion so I can see if The Watcher was finally back home.
Cutting a long story short, I reached the bunker to find a blast door greeting me. No reply, and this certainly was an additional security measure he must have implemented after I visited the second time around unprompted. There was no way I'd breach that door without explosives or some way to bypass it. Maybe there was another entrance? Either way, while I would have loved to waste more time going on wild goose chases for a second door, the bugs were getting awfully close to The Watcher's seemingly vacant compound. I fled back to camp, wasting some shotgun shells for good measure. A meeting was about to take place once again. I requested help but they were more focused on 626, they were more focused on making actual history in their eyes. Yet the mass grave of slaughtered townsfolk demanded answers, something horrible wiped them out. Those that ignore history were condemned to repeat it. I left for the Watcher's bunker. This time I was in the minority, nobody cared about the crazy old fool even after their water supply had been blown up. The Watcher was going to prove them correct that they cared little for this place's history or possibilities of renewal, they would try to claim 626's fortress and move on or die on the retreat. I had to act, it was my time to make history, not just write it. I gathered my double barrel once again, loading in two shells and heading to the bunker. Even if I was met with a door I would wait for The Watcher as he did with the survivors of Worksite 14. This time he was waiting for me.
Intercoms in his compound sparked to life, knowing I came for answers especially after the business with the water tower. Even the stranger we had in prison mentioned it in his findings, he obviously must have witnessed the whole thing. Now I found myself standing before the blast door once again, I cried "open sesame" and so the door opened. He was not as much as a coward as I thought to give him credit, standing behind the forcefield. I had half a mind to threaten him with my gun for the real truth but somehow I knew it would not suffice. We had an exchange back and forth, The Watcher blamed me for the town's actions while I stated Ramos and I could not stop what was about to be done. He allowed me two questions, which in reality would become about twenty questions following on from one subject to the other. The massacre at the town? The Watcher stated it was a group of slavers, the tanks and fighting vehicles left since the Seven Hour War. This bunker belonged to his old Infestation Control squad, initially built by the Soviets from decades ago. I asked, what about the black mask he wore? Definitely not the bog standard yellow EB-28 hazard suits. Even a wearer of that equipment would be no ordinary worker, and Infestation Control were far from being angels. The pieces fitted so closely together in my mind, but he denied it held any significance. To The Watcher, it was just a spare suit found with the rest. I on the other hand begged to differ.
It was quite clear this was going no where. He claimed this place was a mere shelter but I knew he was hiding something, he must have been. It was then that The Watcher told me I was searching for my own answers, not the truth. Was it true or was he manipulating me to avoid blame? He had no real connection to the town, his view was strategic importance. He cared not for the actual lives lost. That was the most infuriating thing, but deep down, I knew- neither did the camp, apart from Ramos. Saying the whole massacre was from a slaver group, I rebutted with the evidence of surgical tables and medical supplies. It was then I learned that the so called terminal building was a hospital as opposed to a bus station. Seems no matter how much I prodded The Watcher he had an answer for everything. I realized I was drawing blanks after blanks. I wasted hours on a wild goose chase to come back to some washed out hermit living in a bunker, sitting there high and mighty. My principle of being an observer in this conflict was nearly close to its breaking point. He was lying, he had to be telling lies! There was something in that old Infestation Control facility, but before I could act on my displeasure he left a final note. Another threat, knowing he has heard names. The speaker system dotting the camp was probably a dead give away, military technology was just as easy to be used against its occupants than it was for giving vital information. The Watcher was now The Listener, rolled into one, hearing our conversations. Maybe it was through word of mouth or the radio, but he held mastery over technology in his own bunker, including surveillance of cameras. Was it so far fetched to say The Watcher was spying on us in more ways than one?
At this point I returned to camp empty handed other than another threatening note with James' name on it. I handed it to him as I stepped through with decisions about the assault on 626's fortress. I could not record our own history let alone the uncover the real past behind The Hive which laid in a smouldering ruin. Maybe I was just another free loader partaking in the carnage while justifying it by hiding behind a book and a pen. I found my 'answers', but I could not verify it. To verify it would mean to seek another source, a far more telling one. The source would be The Watcher's bunker itself. Nobody wanted to help me break in and nobody cared about this place long enough to access The Watcher's own water source for retribution. I had to make a choice the camp was not willing to make. Perhaps I would be breaking my vow as a historian, Hell I could not even be a tabloid news journalist let alone a detective. The Watcher would be in the right and I would be in the wrong, not only that but also an idiot who wasted everyone's time.
It was death or disgrace. The Watcher's bunker held the answers, would I be raiding an innocent hermit's home? He was an Infestation Control agent after all, they were hardly angels. I am making a value judgement here rather than being truly objective or rational, but is being rational necessarily right or is there more to the historical notion of objectivity? But maybe it was fate, I called myself 'Polybius' but he called me 'Alexander the Great', a man who forged history. His bunker forcefield would be the proverbial Gordian knot, one I would cut in two. If I die down there in my search for truth, so be it. I was just as guilty as the Combine, the survivors and The Watcher in tearing down the history of this place, desecrating it in our own quest for redemption which turned into petty desperation.
Upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.
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