Bouncing Back
After his reconstruction, Grif had stayed for the first few days in the room provided for him by Dr. Takashima, mostly sleeping with the occasional bit of text messaging to the Nexus. He moved back to base after that, though, and became increasingly more active, though he mostly still kept close to the bed.
Among the things that he could handle while resting was getting new clothes. He had a couple of crappy coveralls, but the rest of his clothes were purchased from another universe's Mr. Freaky-Big store, sized to go over his armor in a vague sort of low profile. He gave them a call, and for the amount he was buying, they were more than willing to ring it up for him and then drop it into a conveniently open teleporter portal.
One of the nice things about the time differential in the Black Mesa universe was that most of the wait time on a supply shipment for Command mostly passed without his having to be there for it. Miraculously, they actually sent him a brand new set of MJOLNIR Mk.VI armor, as well as the stack of parts he'd need to construct replacements for his remote teleporter control. (Well, technically, it'd been Simmons' spare. It'd also been built using leftover parts, which possibly explained a thing or two about its operational tolerances.)
Meanwhile, he'd graduated from moving around near his bed to something resembling an exercise regimen, walking in the base, around the outside, jogging, running, some weights, firearms practice. Though not always exactly fun, it was nonetheless surprisingly satisfying in how much easier it came without his past injuries and insistence on rebellion through consciously bad maintenance of his health. If he'd been doing this well going into Black Mesa, he might've come out again with a lot less trouble.
Yes, things were definitely looking up.
Among the things that he could handle while resting was getting new clothes. He had a couple of crappy coveralls, but the rest of his clothes were purchased from another universe's Mr. Freaky-Big store, sized to go over his armor in a vague sort of low profile. He gave them a call, and for the amount he was buying, they were more than willing to ring it up for him and then drop it into a conveniently open teleporter portal.
One of the nice things about the time differential in the Black Mesa universe was that most of the wait time on a supply shipment for Command mostly passed without his having to be there for it. Miraculously, they actually sent him a brand new set of MJOLNIR Mk.VI armor, as well as the stack of parts he'd need to construct replacements for his remote teleporter control. (Well, technically, it'd been Simmons' spare. It'd also been built using leftover parts, which possibly explained a thing or two about its operational tolerances.)
Meanwhile, he'd graduated from moving around near his bed to something resembling an exercise regimen, walking in the base, around the outside, jogging, running, some weights, firearms practice. Though not always exactly fun, it was nonetheless surprisingly satisfying in how much easier it came without his past injuries and insistence on rebellion through consciously bad maintenance of his health. If he'd been doing this well going into Black Mesa, he might've come out again with a lot less trouble.
Yes, things were definitely looking up.