A/N: Hiya, everyone! This is just a quick one-shot I've been working on in between chapters of TGD. This character will appear later in TGD, so I thought I'd provide a bit of a backstory.

Enjoy!

Jordan Newkirk sighed as she slammed another clip into her submachine gun. The Combine she had just felled twitched listlessly at her feet. Pressing the short barrel against the side of its head, she squeezed the trigger just once. The shot rang out in the stairwell, echoing with a kind of morbid finality.

But morbid finality was something Jordan was used to.

She couldn't forget the morbid finality of walking in her parents' apartment to find them both murdered in the living room, puddles of blood staining the carpet around their heads in a crimson halo, nor the morbid finality of having to flee her own apartment with the Combine on her tail. And living life day to day on the very frontlines of the resistance force where she could face death around any corner or in any stairwell of any abandoned building was the epitome of morbid finality in her book. All of this combined had made Jordan, a former ballet dancer, a calloused and battle-hardened killer.

She had begun again as a fighter. She had forgotten what fear felt like when she picked up a gun.

However, those on the barrel end of her gun knew fear all too well.

They would find no mercy neither in the depths of her hazel eyes nor her now cold heart. Her confident posture gave no ground. Her face, high cheekbones and a perfect nose, bore no evidence of a smile; just a perpetual scowl. Armed to the teeth, she wore a RPG launcher strapped on her back, two .45 pistols holstered low on her hips, ammo and grenade belts on her shoulders, and a SMG in her hands. And, if things got hairy, a bloodthirsty nine-inch dagger was strapped to her calf beneath her jeans.

Adjusting her ammo belts, she crept up the stairwell, trying to make her rugged boots as silent as possible.

Even though I just fired a shot, it's kinda useless to sneak around, she thought with a wry smirk.

Reaching the next landing, Jordan heard voices behind the first door. Readying her SMG, she turned the doorknob with a flick of her wrist and slipped into the room, pointing her gun in front of her.

However, the room's occupants were not the Combine or any other enemy, for that matter. Four very scared citizens; two men and two women, were huddled together in the far corner of the room, their eyes wide at the sight of Jordan. She lowered her gun, for these people clearly were in no fighting state. One of the citizens, a stout middle-aged man, stood up and motioned for Jordan to come further into the room. Before going towards the small group, she turned and closed the door. As she walked back toward the citizens, the man spoke.

"Thank God you aren't a Combine. We were nearly beside ourselves for a moment there. My name is Alan Greer," he said, extending a hand for Jordan to shake.

"I'm Jordan Newkirk," she said, shaking Alan's hand, "how long have you been up here?"

Alan sighed. "Well, this is Geraldine's apartment," he motioned to a woman in the corner, her eyes dancing with fear. However, she bravely returned the nod that Jordan gave her.

"We've been holed up in here for a few days, it has been a bit rough. This is the third hiding place we've occupied in a week. We're all tired of running."

Jordan nodded. "I know how that is," she said, but the words sounded hollow to her. Sure, she did know how it felt to constantly be pursued, but she didn't sympathize with them for just sitting here and not fighting back. They were all capable of resisting, but the fear and cowardice in their hearts was a distinguishing factor between them and Jordan and the rest of the rebels. She reached back to grab her long black hair tied up in a ponytail and ran it nervously through her fingers, trying to make up for her unsubstantial words.

She felt awkward and out of place just being still. Much like a shark, she felt she had to keep moving to stay alive. Pause for a moment, and she would sink to the bottom to a certain death.

"Anyhow," Alan began, "will you consider staying here with us? We would welcome a new survivor to our ranks."

This request ruffled Jordan's feathers.

"I'm in the resistance," she replied brusquely, "we don't stop except when absolutely necessary. Sorry, but I gotta keep moving."

She turned and walked to the door. But when she touched the doorknob, she turned her head back over her shoulder.

"It's fucking hell now. It's kill or be killed out there. And I sure as hell am not going to wait around until they find me."

And with that, she opened the door and briskly stepped out, closing it firmly behind her. Jordan felt a brief pang of remorse for the gruff way she treated the group, but as she crossed to the next stairwell, she pushed the feeling away.

After all, she thought, it's not my duty to look after them like they're little babies. I have bigger fish to fry.

She exhaled and crept up the stairwell quietly but swiftly, reminiscent of a tigress on the hunt. Jordan could hear her own heart pounding in anticipatory staccato beats. It was then at that moment, she realized that she'd take the life of a resistance fighter over the cushy life she'd had before.

As she reached the next floor, Jordan found it eerily quiet. The hall she was in was narrow, bordered on both sides by doors leading to rooms unseen. At the end of the hall was a wide window, letting in shafts of sunlight that danced on the dingy floor. The window afforded a view of the street below and a similar building across the street. An open window in the opposite building raised a red flag in her mind.

Jordan immediately flattened herself against the wall as a sniper's blue laser traced a path right through where she had been standing. A second later, the laser disappeared and a bullet whizzed through the window with a musical tinkle of shattering glass.

Jordan pressed herself closer against the door and stowed her SMG in a sheath on her back. She reached up to the ammo belt crossing her left shoulder and removed a grenade from its holster, pulling the pin with her teeth and stepping out from her hiding place. Aiming carefully, Jordan flung the grenade out of the broken window. She watched as it arced gracefully through the sky and landed perfectly in the sniper's window. Smiling grimly to herself, she counted in her head:

One...two...three...

The grenade exploded, issuing a brief burst of fire. The Combine sniper's body went tumbling out of the window and into the street below, followed by the gun he had been using to lazily deal out death from above.

"Checkmate, motherfucker." Another shark-like grin from the dark-haired fighter.

Jordan continued on her way to the roof of the building, racing up the last stairwell to the top. As she stepped out onto the rooftop, she surveyed her surroundings. There seemed to be no more snipers about, but in the distance she could hear yells in the street. Eager for some team action, Jordan sprinted across the roof and leaped, timing her jump so she landed solidly in a crouch on the top of the adjacent building. She sprinted again to get up enough speed for another stunt.

A few more daring leaps later, she arrived at the top of a fairly low building. Peering over the edge, she glimpsed a group of rebels holding off a few Combine soldiers. Jordan moved quickly to the edge of the rooftop and scaled a fire escape, ending up in the street below. Unholstering her pistols, she fired at the advancing Combine gunslinger-style, felling them each like ragdolls with a single shot.

She didn't even blink.

Returning the guns to their places at her side, Jordan strode over to the rebels. They had a bunker-like setup beneath the overhang of a building. An empty carrier box served as a kind of shelter. Several supply boxes were stockpiled inside. Turning back to the group, she counted their numbers quickly in her head. They were seven strong: five well-rounded fighters and two medics. Three of the fighters held the cumbersome but powerful pulse rifles of the Overwatch and the other two had RPG launchers strapped to their backs. Even the medics were well-armed. Jordan could see their eyes regarding her appraisingly, taking stock of her extensive arsenal of firepower. This group was one that she would have no qualms about joining. One of the pulse-rife owners stepped forward.

"Thanks for that, friend. I'm John Cole. What's yours?"

"Jordan Newkirk," she answered, "any room for one more?"

John nodded but chuckled. "With shooting skills like that, we'd make room for you, Jordan."

He commenced to introduce the rest of the small resistance group. The other two pulse-rifle fighters were Stephanie Schwartz and Aaron Beck. The RPG-wielders were two burly-looking men, Jim Irvine and Mark Prowda. The medics, Jane Prince and Sam Fowler, quickly set upon Jordan, asking her if she had sustained any injuries in the fight. She declined, flattered at the attention they paid her.

She sat down against the front of the building and stretched her long legs in front of her. The rebels talked absently about different topics while a few scavenged ammo and supplies from the fallen Combine. Even though Jordan drifted in an out of their conversation, she mainly rested her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she had a moment to sit down and just breathe for a moment. However, she couldn't help but listen when the rebels broached a particular topic.

"Yeah, I heard Gordon Freeman was out at Ravenholm," Aaron Beck said, "and he was really stirring up hell, from what I can gather."

"That zombie town with the crazy preacher dude?" Mark Prowda challenged, "Bullshit. Not even Freeman would go out there. I know I sure as hell wouldn't."

"Aw, shut up, Prowda," Stephanie Schwartz joked, "You know you'd fight through Ravenholm if there were a ribeye waiting for you on the other end."

Prowda heaved a laugh. "Guilty as charged, Schwartz."

Their playful banter made Jordan chuckle. Guess I've forgotten what it's like to be with other people... she thought with a rueful smile.

At that moment, John Cole appeared, panting from a sprint. "Hate to break up the party, guys, but we've got company. There's an gunship approaching off to the west. It just dumped some soldiers in the street and it's circling now. We need to bring it down."

Jordan and the rest of the group stood up, readying their weapons. John Cole and the rest of the group rushed into the street. Jordan made a move to join the infantry, but Jim and Mark eyed the RPG launcher on her back.

"Hey, Newkirk, you're coming with us," Mark yelled, "put that RPG to work!"

Jim went into the carrier box and came back out lugging a crate of rockets behind him. Mark grabbed the other end and carried it into a niche blown out of the side of a building from an explosion. Jordan unstrapped her launcher from her shoulder and checked its barrel, making sure it was in working order.

"Okay," Jim started, his launcher over his shoulder, "we've got a particular way of doing this. The order of firing will go: me, Mark, and you. When you fire, spiral the rocket to get past the gunships defenses."

"And when you fire, fire all three rockets in succession," Mark chimed in, loading his launcher, "but don't worry, there will always be two people backing up whoever is shooting."

Jordan laughed as three gunships appeared on the horizon, their propellers beating lazily on the still air. "Alright, boys. Those tactics sound good for taking on one gunship, but what about three?"

A brief silence was interrupted by Mark slamming a rocket into his launcher. "Then we just give 'em hell."

"Sounds good to me," the dark-haired fighter said, looking through the launcher's sights to draw a reference point on one of the ships.

"Hold..." Jim grumbled as the ships drew closer. Jordan could hear her heartbeat thrumming in her ears steadily. Moments like this were what she lived for.

"FIRE!" Jim yelled over the din of propellers in the sky.

At once, three rockets spiraled up from the ground and buried themselves into the underbellies of the three gunships overhead. A small explosion issued from each, but one fell out of formation, flying low over the tops of the buildings behind the three rebels, trailing dark plumes of smoke. Here, Jordan saw her chance. She leaped nimbly from their hiding place and sprinted lightly down the sidewalk in the path of the injured gunship.

"WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?!" Mark yelled after her.

Jordan spun on her heel and faced him. "I'm going to go kick ass. Hold down the fort," she said with a commanding air, though she had just joined up with the group. And with that, she turned and ran with her RPG on her shoulder.

---

Watching the fighter's slim figure turn a corner, Mark made a clucking noise. "She's going to get herself killed out there." He fired off another rocket.

"Oh, I don't think so," Jim answered with a shake of his head and another rocket fired into a gunship overhead, "I'm sure she's faced much worse before she joined us."

---

Turning a corner, Jordan spotted the gunship lazily circling above.

"Oh no you don't," she whispered, keeping close to the edge of a building. She caught the gunship in her sights and fired. The ship made a feeble attempt to dodge the rocket, but Jordan maneuvered the rocket to where it impacted the ship head-on. A low, bleating alarm sounded from the gunship as it went down in the street ahead of her. It came to rest with a mighty crash of buckling metal. Walking closer to the wreckage, Jordan fired her last rocket into the shattered remnants of the ship. A large orange flame blossomed out from the debirs. Smiling her cold-blooded grin, she drew her right hand up to her forehead in a kind of salute.

"See you in hell, fuckers."

Over the sound of distant gunfire, an ironic laugh resonated in the street.

A/N: I love reviews. :D