Conversations With Dead People, 2008 edition
She knows this place.
It's been years--decades, even--but she still knows it by heart. This suite of rooms in the Black Mesa dormitories was the center of her universe, back at the very beginning of her conscious memory. There's the bathroom, with the red-and-blue striped shower curtain around the tub; her bedroom, Legos scattered across the floor from some half-finished project; her parents' bedroom, usually off-limits, although she occasionally crawled into bed with them after a bad nightmare; and down the hallway, there's the kitchen and dining room, and finally, in what would have been the living room in any other house, her mother's studio.
The last time she saw this room, it was a wreck, with shattered ceramics and spilled glazes scattered everywhere in the wake of the shockwave from the resonance cascade. Now everything is set neatly in place: bricks of clay and jars of glaze on one side, shelves full of drying sculptures on the other. She leans down to look at her own row of awkwardly-sculpted figures on the bottom shelf; they seem to be swaying and pulsing with a life of their own, like they might get up and dance the moment her back is turned.
In which case, they're about to get their chance as a woman's voice speaks from behind her. "Alyx Michiko Vance, you know you're not allowed in here by yourself."
Alyx turns and freezes in her tracks as she takes in the source of the voice--a Japanese woman in her late twenties, dressed in a grubby smock and worn old blue jeans, her long black hair tied in a loose bun and secured with a hairclip. She and Alyx have the same eyes.
"...Mama?"
Azian Vance smiles. "Then again, I suppose you're old enough now that I can trust you not to make too much of a mess." She sets down on the stool at the workbench in the middle of the room, peeling off the wrapper of a fresh block of terracotta clay.
Alyx gapes. "You--you're--" She can't bring herself to say it. She swallows hard. "This isn't real. This can't be real. Can it?"
"Maybe," Azian replies. "Maybe not. Does it really matter?" She picks up a wire cutting tool and slices two slabs of clay off of the block, pushing one of them across the table toward her daughter with an expectant look.
Alyx stares for a long moment, then sits down on the other stool. (Much later, after she wakes up, she'll wonder how she managed that, given that the stool had a toddler-sized booster seat strapped to the top.) "Mama... I..."
"Hm?" Azian looks up from the clay which she's busily cutting into manageable chunks. "What is it, Alyx?"
There are a million things Alyx has always wanted to say to her mother. Things she's wanted to ask her, stories she's wished she could share. Now they're face-to-face, and Alyx can't think of a damn thing. "Nevermind," she murmurs, looking down at the tabletop. She picks up her slab of clay and starts working it under her fingers, out of a lack of any better ideas.
A minute or an hour or a thousand years later, Azian looks up from her work again. "What are you making?" she asks, eying the clay in Alyx's hands curiously.
Alyx opens her mouth to say nothing, really, but then she realizes there's a shape to the clay she's been squishing around after all. There, curled up in her cupped hands, is a miniature human infant made of terracotta.
...okay, maybe she can think of something she'd like to talk to her mother about. She sets the clay baby down very carefully on the table and takes a deep breath. "So... I don't know if you already knew this, but I have a boyfriend now."
Azian quirks an eyebrow. "Oh really?"
Alyx nods. "And... we've been talking about having kids together, and..." A deep, shaky breath. "I've realized, with the way things are, if we can have children, we pretty much have to. But..."
"But what?"
Alyx doesn't respond.
"Is it that you don't want to have children?" offers Azian after a moment.
Alyx shakes her head. "No, it's not that, really. I guess I always thought I'd have kids eventually..."
"Then maybe you're worried about their safety, growing up in a world like yours?"
She shakes her head again. "I grew up in that world. And I'd keep them safe. Definitely."
Azian strokes her chin thoughtfully. "Are you afraid you won't be able to bear a child? That you're not fertile for some reason?"
"I can't think of any reason why I wouldn't be," says Alyx with a frown. What's with the questions all of a sudden?
"Is it that you don't want to have children with Gordon?"
"NO!" Alyx almost shouts. "If I'm going to have kids, I want it to be with him!"
Azian doesn't even blink. "Then what are you worried about?" she asks her daughter softly.
"I don't know!" Alyx screams, slamming her hands against the tabletop.
Well, one hand goes slam. The other goes squish.
Alyx lifts her hand slowly, staring in mute horror at the flattened lump of clay that had been a baby a moment ago. Azian's expression hasn't changed; she just looks at Alyx, not saying a word.
"...I'm scared," whispers Alyx, barely audible, as she looks back up at Azian. "Not of something happening to my children, I'm scared of being a mother. I don't know anything about being a mother. I barely even got to know you..."
Azian offers a soft, sympathetic smile, and reaches across the table to lay a hand gently on Alyx's shoulder. "Alyx, think. How did you get to be such a good marksman?"
"By... shooting at things a lot?" replies Alyx with a bewildered look. Where is Azian going with this?
"That's right. And how did you get to be such a good engineer?"
"By taking things apart and putting them back together--but this isn't like that, Mama! If you miss a target, you just fire again. If you mess up a machine, you rebuild it. If I screw up raising a kid--"
"Then you correct your mistake as best you can and keep going," says Azian patiently. "Children are a lot more resilient than people think, and no one really knows how to be a parent until they experience it firsthand." Her eyes twinkle. "Do you think your father and I knew how to raise you right away? We made all sorts of mistakes. Back when you were a year and a half old, I bought a book called Potty-Train Your Child In One Day, and--"
"--and at the end of the day you were so frustrated you threw the book in the toilet," says Alyx, chuckling a little in spite of herself. "Dad told me about that one."
"There were a lot of times we thought we weren't cut out to be parents, Alyx. But we did it anyway, and you turned out just fine. It's normal to be scared. You just have to not let it stop you. You know that."
Alyx nods, and smiles. "Thanks, Mama."
"You're welcome, sweetheart." Azian gives Alyx a quick peck on the forehead before setting back into her seat. "Now, do you think you can fix what you broke?"
Alyx picks up the squashed lump of clay. "I'll try."
"That's my girl," says Azian, beaming with pride. She looks down at her own sculpture. "I think this is just about finished. Have a look."
Alyx leans over to have a better look at the sculpture as Azian turns it around to face her daughter. Azian's work always tended toward the abstract and geometric, and this piece is no exception. But there's something odd about it, something that Alyx can't quite put her finger on. If you look at it from the right angle, it's almost--if Mama would just finish turning it so she could see--
But she snaps awake before it comes clear.
You can't have everything.
It's been years--decades, even--but she still knows it by heart. This suite of rooms in the Black Mesa dormitories was the center of her universe, back at the very beginning of her conscious memory. There's the bathroom, with the red-and-blue striped shower curtain around the tub; her bedroom, Legos scattered across the floor from some half-finished project; her parents' bedroom, usually off-limits, although she occasionally crawled into bed with them after a bad nightmare; and down the hallway, there's the kitchen and dining room, and finally, in what would have been the living room in any other house, her mother's studio.
The last time she saw this room, it was a wreck, with shattered ceramics and spilled glazes scattered everywhere in the wake of the shockwave from the resonance cascade. Now everything is set neatly in place: bricks of clay and jars of glaze on one side, shelves full of drying sculptures on the other. She leans down to look at her own row of awkwardly-sculpted figures on the bottom shelf; they seem to be swaying and pulsing with a life of their own, like they might get up and dance the moment her back is turned.
In which case, they're about to get their chance as a woman's voice speaks from behind her. "Alyx Michiko Vance, you know you're not allowed in here by yourself."
Alyx turns and freezes in her tracks as she takes in the source of the voice--a Japanese woman in her late twenties, dressed in a grubby smock and worn old blue jeans, her long black hair tied in a loose bun and secured with a hairclip. She and Alyx have the same eyes.
"...Mama?"
Azian Vance smiles. "Then again, I suppose you're old enough now that I can trust you not to make too much of a mess." She sets down on the stool at the workbench in the middle of the room, peeling off the wrapper of a fresh block of terracotta clay.
Alyx gapes. "You--you're--" She can't bring herself to say it. She swallows hard. "This isn't real. This can't be real. Can it?"
"Maybe," Azian replies. "Maybe not. Does it really matter?" She picks up a wire cutting tool and slices two slabs of clay off of the block, pushing one of them across the table toward her daughter with an expectant look.
Alyx stares for a long moment, then sits down on the other stool. (Much later, after she wakes up, she'll wonder how she managed that, given that the stool had a toddler-sized booster seat strapped to the top.) "Mama... I..."
"Hm?" Azian looks up from the clay which she's busily cutting into manageable chunks. "What is it, Alyx?"
There are a million things Alyx has always wanted to say to her mother. Things she's wanted to ask her, stories she's wished she could share. Now they're face-to-face, and Alyx can't think of a damn thing. "Nevermind," she murmurs, looking down at the tabletop. She picks up her slab of clay and starts working it under her fingers, out of a lack of any better ideas.
A minute or an hour or a thousand years later, Azian looks up from her work again. "What are you making?" she asks, eying the clay in Alyx's hands curiously.
Alyx opens her mouth to say nothing, really, but then she realizes there's a shape to the clay she's been squishing around after all. There, curled up in her cupped hands, is a miniature human infant made of terracotta.
...okay, maybe she can think of something she'd like to talk to her mother about. She sets the clay baby down very carefully on the table and takes a deep breath. "So... I don't know if you already knew this, but I have a boyfriend now."
Azian quirks an eyebrow. "Oh really?"
Alyx nods. "And... we've been talking about having kids together, and..." A deep, shaky breath. "I've realized, with the way things are, if we can have children, we pretty much have to. But..."
"But what?"
Alyx doesn't respond.
"Is it that you don't want to have children?" offers Azian after a moment.
Alyx shakes her head. "No, it's not that, really. I guess I always thought I'd have kids eventually..."
"Then maybe you're worried about their safety, growing up in a world like yours?"
She shakes her head again. "I grew up in that world. And I'd keep them safe. Definitely."
Azian strokes her chin thoughtfully. "Are you afraid you won't be able to bear a child? That you're not fertile for some reason?"
"I can't think of any reason why I wouldn't be," says Alyx with a frown. What's with the questions all of a sudden?
"Is it that you don't want to have children with Gordon?"
"NO!" Alyx almost shouts. "If I'm going to have kids, I want it to be with him!"
Azian doesn't even blink. "Then what are you worried about?" she asks her daughter softly.
"I don't know!" Alyx screams, slamming her hands against the tabletop.
Well, one hand goes slam. The other goes squish.
Alyx lifts her hand slowly, staring in mute horror at the flattened lump of clay that had been a baby a moment ago. Azian's expression hasn't changed; she just looks at Alyx, not saying a word.
"...I'm scared," whispers Alyx, barely audible, as she looks back up at Azian. "Not of something happening to my children, I'm scared of being a mother. I don't know anything about being a mother. I barely even got to know you..."
Azian offers a soft, sympathetic smile, and reaches across the table to lay a hand gently on Alyx's shoulder. "Alyx, think. How did you get to be such a good marksman?"
"By... shooting at things a lot?" replies Alyx with a bewildered look. Where is Azian going with this?
"That's right. And how did you get to be such a good engineer?"
"By taking things apart and putting them back together--but this isn't like that, Mama! If you miss a target, you just fire again. If you mess up a machine, you rebuild it. If I screw up raising a kid--"
"Then you correct your mistake as best you can and keep going," says Azian patiently. "Children are a lot more resilient than people think, and no one really knows how to be a parent until they experience it firsthand." Her eyes twinkle. "Do you think your father and I knew how to raise you right away? We made all sorts of mistakes. Back when you were a year and a half old, I bought a book called Potty-Train Your Child In One Day, and--"
"--and at the end of the day you were so frustrated you threw the book in the toilet," says Alyx, chuckling a little in spite of herself. "Dad told me about that one."
"There were a lot of times we thought we weren't cut out to be parents, Alyx. But we did it anyway, and you turned out just fine. It's normal to be scared. You just have to not let it stop you. You know that."
Alyx nods, and smiles. "Thanks, Mama."
"You're welcome, sweetheart." Azian gives Alyx a quick peck on the forehead before setting back into her seat. "Now, do you think you can fix what you broke?"
Alyx picks up the squashed lump of clay. "I'll try."
"That's my girl," says Azian, beaming with pride. She looks down at her own sculpture. "I think this is just about finished. Have a look."
Alyx leans over to have a better look at the sculpture as Azian turns it around to face her daughter. Azian's work always tended toward the abstract and geometric, and this piece is no exception. But there's something odd about it, something that Alyx can't quite put her finger on. If you look at it from the right angle, it's almost--if Mama would just finish turning it so she could see--
But she snaps awake before it comes clear.
You can't have everything.