Hello there.

I'm new to FanFiction and all. Decided to start with my favourite franchise, which is Half-Life

So please, enjoy the story, and leave some constructive criticism! Thanks!

"Combine!", the rugged male shouts out, quickly picking himself up off of the rusted gate, creating a barrier between the old mine, and the forestry outside. He leans over and lets his fingers slide along the rifle, but that's all he manages to do, as a barrage of dark-matter pellets smash into his back, throwing him onto the ground. He lays motionless, as yellow and white gas and smoke pile up from his back, the blood gurgling in his organs. The soldiers line up outside of the gate, two certain ones quickly grabbing tools and getting to work on prying open the work of the gate. The soldiers besides them fire individual shots out to any malnourished figure they can see, only switching targets once they hear their faint 'thump' of their corpse, or the cry of agony.

The rest of the outpost buzzes to life, as they fall back deeper into the desolate, vast mine shaft, left by the Ukrainian workers, to which the dwellers managed to build onto. Screams of men and woman sound, panicked radio communications zip around, and the sounds of gunfire begin to lash out against the soldiers. Three armoured units, wearing nothing more than vests stolen from Civil Protection units, quickly pick up the high powered pulse rifles, and begin firing down onto the soldiers, though their shaky arms and quivering, sweaty hands builds them in accuracy over every shot. One of the soldiers manages to take a hit, merely burning a few centimetres into his Kevlar. He merely grunts, firing back up onto the figures up top, knocking them down one by one, taking their desperate pleas for medical aid as a confirmation of their amputation.

"Inject", the vo-coded voice simply emits, as he drops the cutter for the gate, ignoring the desperate communication inside. The two Combine Elite units kick down the weakened wire, and crouch straight through, sending out bursts into innocent, panicked figures, their patterns not hesitating, nor faltering. They push through to the left, using the flipped over tables and chairs, stacks of boxes and worn down car carcasses as cover. All sorts of bullets plink off of the furniture and their radios, but the shots clearly show that any attacker is merely a pest.

A certain Caucasian male seizes the opportunity to swallow his quivering breath, and swings around, brandishing the scratched Smith and Wesson revolver, stroking the now ancient logo, before raising the gun, and aiming for one of the red-cyclops. He scores a hit, and breaks his eye, to which he reacts to by twitching, screeching through his vo-coder, before falling back, firing one last shot into the Rock, before going limp, the radio exchanging numerous communications regarding his death. The malnourished man, with skinny arms and a clouded, concentrated mind, both washed by sin and the Combine's propaganda tactics, rushes from around the concrete structure, which is then peppered from bullet fire, before retreating back into a secluded room, marked by a dusty, wooden door. Slamming the door shut, he releases his breath, coming out as a quavery, groaning whine. He looks up at the other occupant. A small male, around twenty in age, regards him, and raises his weapon less hands, only to let them fall after he realises he does not wear the stronger pieces of equipment.

The cluttering boots outside the room interrupt their safe mindset, causing the armed man to raise his gun, holding back his forefinger to the crying kid in the corner, collecting dust as he digs himself back into the withering stone. They both hear the feminine, English dispatch voice boom out over one of their radios, directing them with new orders.

"Attention all Overwatch units", she speaks, with a nonchalant, radio-washed voice. "Anti-Unionist forces in the current area have weakened. Sentencing is now discretionary. Code reminder: Amputate... Clamp..."

He didn't bother listening to the rest of her words. Through all of the worry, the voice in the back of his head manages to speak up to him, for the first time in four years. "How bad can it be?", it says in a cool, calm tone, immediately letting his arms drop down, and his eyes well up with tears. He lets the revolver drop to the floor, and the loudest thing he can hear is the rattle the gun makes... And then he hears the crack of the door open, and the two gunshots ringing out.

Then it all goes black...

At least for the two males inside. The more brusque one was now reduced to a limp figure laying on the ground, blood pouring from the centre of his forehead. The other one was not wounded at all. He had managed to fall unconscious from the crack of the kick, panic, and the harsh bash of his head against the rock. The Combine Elite, muddied and scratched, holds his gun at the boy in the corner, before lowering it, turning out to leave the room. "Grid one, two, sentence accordingly", the bellows, rushing through the hallway out to the left. Some soldiers follow, as the two enter the room and grab the weaker figure, using zip ties to bind his hands, before dragging him out by his neck, and leaving the other man to rot on the floor, hot blood flowing down his face, along his cheeks.

"Please...", the fallen, slim woman croaks, clutching her heavily bleeding knee, on the looks of breaking off, due to her abnormal malnourishment. She lolls her head up towards the two soldiers, who only stare at her, keeping their two half emptied sub machine guns at her. "Amputate", a vo-coded voice behind orders. The soldiers don't hesitate, or even look towards each other, to quickly empty a burst of their magazine into the woman's chest and head, littering her with gaping exit wounds with blood seeping out, the scream still painted on her face. They pack behind the group of soldiers, piling down the hallway into another shaft, leaving the entry area empty, littered with expended guns and corpses. Except for one such man, trapped under the fallen three in the little tower. He pushes them up, swallowing his puke and hatred, bottling it. He briskly picks up one of the rifles, takes him and his lightly armoured body and leaves the three people up top, still groaning from their impending demise. He sneaks out into the open, through the broken gate, into the cloudy weather, only to be met with one of the large, towering Striders. It quickly targets him, and before he can return to the darkness, it uses its fast-firing cannon to throw the man onto the floor, his spine destroyed from the large wound in his back.

The soldiers inside have little cover, using a fallen, wooden post. As some solders take multiple shots to the body, they tumble down, only to have another soldier lie down by their corpse and use it to soak up the incoming fire. The Elite, however, fires at the ceiling at the top of the shaft, chipping away at the stones, letting the numerous shooters at the top release grunts from rock slamming into their backs. The soldiers quickly, upon order, slide up against the wall, expending their magazines as they walk up, men and women alike taking bullets, and either fall into another, crying, or fall into the dirt, to be either picked up by another person, seeped into, or simp,y left behind, as the others run into the daylight behind them.

The soldiers reach the top of the mineshaft, finding numerous mourning men and women, crying over best friends, loved ones, or siblings. Such as the two who found each other at a young age and stayed with each other since, or the late teenagers who used to trade Pokemon cards at school... But the Combine treated them like stragglers, wasting no time in disposing them with their weapons. The objective was all they cared about. They were unable to think, or feel, or have mercy. They looked upon them, peppered them with bullets, and moved on, stepping out under the weak sunlight, dripping into the quarry, fit with looming, hanging structures, old, rotting wooden building carcasses at the bottom, and trees outlining the top of the quarry, showing its vague position from a birds-eye view.

"Move", the Elite orders, as he runs through the open, triggering all sorts of bullets to be fired upon him. However, no matter how much he is hit, he keeps moving with the same pace and posture, his breath not retiring and his pain threshold not slowing him. He ducks into one of the wooden buildings across, to which he meets two people, both brandishing two small pistols, both built with the same flash hider and steel frame. They point their guns, running back up into the wall, trying to outmatch the quick reaction of the rifle being raised towards them, attempting to beat the speed of the two individual pulse rounds headed for their chests. It didn't come to much of a surprise when they both shrieked in pain, and fell into the fallen boards behind them, both briefly squirming, before stiffening up and falling limp.

The Elite turns his attention to the soldiers who just arrive, looking be young them to see more of his followers fallen down in a line, their armoured shells speckled with blood from the impacts. The Elite looks at this for half a second, before beckoning for the others to follow. As he does, he and the others begin creeping through the building, occasionally wiping out the unlucky soul to try and be a hero, using extreme predijuce, wasting all of their choices, outcomes, and letting heir dreams, aspirations and accomplishments to be left in the mud. Looking out back into the open was a large support beam. Wooden and rotting, it did not hold much strength, and the bottom was holding it up with a chipped concrete block. Looking up from the strut was a large, steel walkway. It moved along to the various buildings up top, and men stood their ground at the top, their last numbers clutching onto the guns and firing down in a desperate attempt of defending their lifeline.

The Elite does not look up, however, as he starts firing on the old wood of the long pole, It breaks with a large crack, jolting the upper walkway. It slides down onto the rocky wall, forcing the other support beams to break under its influence. A huge barrage of screams and panicked gunfire can be heard, as the walkway breaks out parts of the muddy rock, and crashes down into the ground below. It crushes some of the buildings, including the one the Elite was standing in, and the numerous soldiers behind. He did not pay too much attention to their last cries of stifled pain, before their radios bleep out. Men and women fall off from the walkway, slamming into the ground below, or sliding off onto the broken walkway. Some attempt to raise their guns, and fire at the units, but their agonising pain was impossible to ignore.

"Mission accomplished. Clean up." He points out into the open, to which the soldiers expend any man or woman coughing, bleeding on mauled wounds, or helping any of the two. The Elite steps out, and speaks into his helmet.

"Dispatch, local anti-unionist group has received sentence. Uh... many amputations given, one in custody. Calling AirWatch on my ten-twenny to clean up. Out."

And with his voice being the last thing to be heard in the quarry, he takes a look at the quarry one last time, before climbing through the fallen wreckage, and back down into darkness. The reduced number of birds begin tweeting again, and the quarry falls into a haunting atmosphere.

It's just another good day for Overwatch.

And another hundred innocent lives gone.

.

So, that's it, I guess. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

Please, leave some constructive criticism, and tell me if you would like more!

Thanks for reading, have a good one!