Chapter One

Metrocop 87 stood at his usual post outside the food hall in Station 17. He twirled his stunstick idly, wishing someone would come by. Having a stationary post was supposed to be one of the perks of being a mid-level officer, and on some days, he had to admit it was. When the weather was bad or there was trouble from the rebels or increased Combine patrols, he had to admit it was nice to stay inside and away from the action. But the rest of the time, standing in one spot all day listening to Breen's bullshit speeches on the screen in the food hall behind him was excruciatingly dull, and he often missed his days as a low-level officer, when street patrols were mandatory and danger an unavoidable part of the job. Supposedly, those dangerous early years on the job were necessary to weed out men who were unsuitable for the position. Those who couldn't handle the job either died in combat, or the grueling conditions revealed their "unsuitability." Those men disappeared, and Metrocop 87 doubted they had simply been given a pink slip and sent home. No, he and all the others knew where they really went, even if no one dared to say it. It was enough to make those who simply died in combat look enviable.

Which was why he often had to remind himself that it was good to have a mid-level position, as dull as it sometimes was. Not only was there less chance of being killed in combat, but there was less chance of being sent to Nova Prospekt as "raw material." He had proven he could handle the job, and now, only a serious mistake or a severe injury would make him eligible for the trip. Both of which were less likely with a stationary post.

True, the position came with a few drawbacks, other than boredom. Mid-level officers were required to undergo "minor" memory modification. As far as he could tell, that mainly involved "graying out" his past. He could still remember his early life, a life not unusual for the average man living in these times. The death of his entire family in the Seven-Hour War. Eking by as a maintenance worker for several years before joining Civil Protection for the better life it offered. But now things seemed….hazy. He no longer clearly remembered his family. Their names, faces, even how many of them there had been, no longer seemed easy to recall. He no longer remembered any incidents of note from his early life either. No birthday parties, no high school graduation, no first kiss, nothing. Just bland monotony that hardly seemed to be worth thinking about. Occasionally he would briefly recall something of interest, but it always faded almost immediately, like an image from a dream. Not that any of it really mattered to him. He had no need to be troubled by grief for those who were long dead and gone, or to be pained by memories of things he'd lost. It was better to simply scrape by with what pleasures he could take out of the life he led now.

There also came with the modifications an increased "need" for the trappings and identity of a Civil Protection officer, and an increased love of the Combine and appreciation for their "benevolence." The rational part of his mind recognized the latter feelings as bullshit, just a more insidious version of Breen's constant blathering, but he had to admit he found the other feelings a bit unnerving at times. He now felt more comfortable wearing his mask and uniform than going without, and occasionally found himself keeping the uniform on even when he was off duty. He heard that some men even slept while wearing their masks, although he himself had never done so. He didn't plan on it either. Then again, he had never planned to wear his uniform while eating dinner either, but he had done it several times now. He supposed it was only a matter of time…

The final change was perhaps the most glaring one of all. He no longer had a name. He was now known only as "Metrocop 87." Even in his memories, he could remember being called nothing different.

It was absurd, but he accepted it. Supposedly, it was part of the "integration" process, to make the Metrocops more loyal to the Combine. Loss of identity and increased "attachment" to the Combine were the first steps. More modifications supposedly followed upon promotion to the Elite Metrocop rank, although he didn't know to what extent, since the elites were housed separately from the mid-level officers and he'd never had the opportunity to speak to one. None of the other Metrocops he'd talked to had either. However, the rumor passed among his co-workers was that it completely obliterated an officer's identity in order to make him completely loyal to the Combine…and prepare him for the eventual promotion to Overwatch soldier.

He shuddered, wondering how anyone could voluntarily sign up for such a drastic…career change. Minor memory modification was one thing…most men could live with it and most of them had things they would rather forget about anyway. It was a consequence of the times they lived in. But to completely wipe your humanity away, and worse, to have your organs ripped out and replaced with machines, to have chunks of your brain taken out and have circuitry put in their place, to be turned into a fleshy machine that had no thoughts beyond completing whatever military tasks its masters entrusted it with….no, he would never be able to see how anyone could willingly sign up for such a thing. What possible benefit could outweigh the terrible price? Whatever brainwashing they did to the Elite Metrocops must have been very…convincing indeed.

Which was why he would never volunteer for a "promotion." He had no desire to join the Elites and risk being made to want something no sane man would ever want. He was happy to be out of the lower ranks, and had settled comfortably into a mid-level position, and there he would stay. All of the perks, and few of the drawbacks. True, he was kept apart from other people when not on the job, his only companions being other nameless, mid-level Metrocop, but he didn't mind so much. It was nice to be above the rabble now, instead of being a part of it, and he had no attachment to anyone or anything from his old life. Of course, that could have been because of the memory modification, but he didn't think so. He doubted he would have become a part of Civil Protection if he had had anyone he didn't want to leave behind.

Yes, he was happy (at least as happy as a man could be in this shithole of a world they now lived in) where he was, and considered it a fine career choice. He could deal with a little boredom and some minor memory modification.

He chuckled quietly to himself, the sound coming out deep and distorted due to the vocoder inside his mask. As if any of them could trust their superiors about anything. For all he knew, every single memory in his head had been swapped out for a completely different one, and just yesterday he had been a rebel named "Bob" who now thought he was a mid-level Metrocop who missed being out on active patrol. Sometimes.

He perked up a moment later when he heard footsteps coming from the nearby stairwell. A few seconds later, a burly maintenance man appeared at the end of the hall, looking both dusty and weary. He carried a dirty shovel in one hand, marking him as a member of the crew that was doing construction work on the storm sewers out front. Metrocop 87 eyed him in anticipation. He supposed he really ought to be thankful for this post. Being right outside the food hall meant that there was always at least a bit of traffic, even between trains. If he had to get assigned to stationary duty, this was certainly one of the better places to get stuck.

He smiled at the apprehension in the man's eyes as he approached the gateway leading to the food hall. Apprehension that only increased when Metrocop 87 remained where he was, blocking the entryway. The man looked an uneasy question at him, as if waiting for him to say something, but Metrocop 87 remained silent. He found doing so unnerved the citizens even more, especially when they finally figured out that they needed to be the ones to initiate conversation.

The construction worker didn't disappoint. "E-excuse me, Officer," he stammered in an unsteady voice. "I'm trying to get to the food hall."

Metrocop 87 eyed him up and down, taking in his dirty clothing and filthy shovel, then looked him once more in the eyes, enjoying it as the man shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "Not like that, you're not," he finally said.

"Y-yeah, I…I know," the man said apologetically. He cleared his throat a bit, as if trying to get rid of the nervousness in his voice. "I know I'm dirty, but we only get a half hour for meals and I'm going to bring my ration outside rather than eat it here, so-"

"And you aren't allowed to bring tools inside the train station," Metrocop 87 continued. "The rules are very clear about that." Actually, he didn't know if it was against the rules or not, but it didn't really matter. The man would believe him and he could enforce such a "rule" without any fear of punishment. The Metrocops were encouraged to treat the citizens poorly, and most of them were just fine with doing so. Including him. It was petty, and they all knew it, but it gave them power over something…and that was likely the only taste of power they would get for the rest of their lives. Humans were scum in the eyes of the Combine, but as Metrocops, they were one step above the rest of the scum. Not much to feel good about, but a man took what solace he could find where he could find it. The rest of the citizens either were too stupid to join Civil Protection or didn't have the right criteria. He and the other Metrocops, on the other hand, had proven themselves worthy and they intended to enjoy the benefits that brought. Including the power to make lesser people dance to their tune.

"I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't know," the worker said. He was beginning to sweat. The rest of his words came out in a rush, as if he knew he had a limited amount of time to explain and save himself from punishment. "We've been having problems with our tools getting stolen, and so we decided to keep them with us when we go on breaks and like I said, I'm just going in there to get my food and then I'll leave, so-"

"You're not going in there at all," Metrocop 87 said, holding out an arm to fully block the way into the food hall. "Even without the shovel, the condition you're in is unsanitary. Get out of here."

"But my ration-" the burly meathead started to protest.

"Do you want a non-compliance citation?" Metrocop 87 asked him, twirling his stunstick for emphasis.

The man backed up immediately. "No, I just…s…sorry. It won't happen again."

"It had better not," he told the idiot. "If I catch you in here like that again, you'll be leaving here on the train to Nova Prospekt. Understand?" That was certainly a threat that was beyond his power to enforce, but it made the man's eyes bug out nicely.

"Yes, Sir, I understand," the man said with a rather amusing squeak. "I'm sorry, I'll go right now!" He turned to leave.

"Hold it!" Metrocop 87 said, as the worker turned to leave.

He stopped in his tracks as if Metrocop 87 had pressed a button to turn him off. "Y-yes, Officer?" he said.

"I told you bringing that shovel in here is against the rules. I'll have to confiscate it."

The man's eyes widened and he backed up a few paces, his expression apprehensive. "No…c'mon…I'll get in trouble for losing it."

"Not my problem," Metrocop 87 told him. "You knew the rules. Give me the shovel."

"But I didn-" the man started to say, then stopped, as if realizing that continuing to point out his ignorance of the "rule" could get him in deeper trouble. "Please don't take it," was all he said instead.

"I think you should do what I say," Metrocop 87 told him. "You're lucky this is the only punishment you're getting. He twirled his stunstick again for emphasis.

The construction worker got the point. He handed over the shovel without another word. Metrocop 87 couldn't help smiling at the defeated expression in his eyes. Served him right, coming in here like that. Served him right for not knowing his place.

He realized the worker was still looking at him. He supposed the man was afraid to leave without getting permission. Metrocop 87 almost told him to go, but then hesitated. The "time" display on the inside of his mask told him it was still about a half-hour until the next train arrived. If he was lucky, there would be a few more people stopping by the food hall to pick up their rations, but if he wasn't…

If he wasn't, this idiot might be the only entertainment he would get for the next thirty minutes.

He supposed it couldn't hurt to prolong things a little…

He leaned the shovel against the wall beside him and then nodded to the construction worker. "All right, you can go," he told the man, chuckling a bit at the naked relief in his eyes. The worker turned to go, not hurrying exactly, but there was a definite anxiousness in his gait as he headed toward the door at the end of the hall. Metrocop 87 let him get about ten steps before adding "On one condition."

The man stopped in his tracks. He turned around reluctantly, as if wondering what else he was in store for.

Metrocop 87 raised his stun baton. He reached over to the full trashcan beside him and causally flicked an empty can of "Dr. Breen's Private Reserve" from the top of the pile onto the floor. There was dead silence as the can hit the floor and bounced twice, before coming to a rolling stop several feet in front of the construction worker.

"Pick up that can," Metrocop 87 told him.

There was shock, utter shock, on the man's face, as if he couldn't believe the absolute pettiness of this new order. His mouth actually fell open slightly.

Metrocop 87 smiled at the man's expression. This was actually one of his favorite ways to piss off the Citizens. No matter how many times he did it, he never grew tired of their reactions. It was funny in a way. He could beat them, torture them, invade their homes and take away everything they had in the world, and yet, this was the one thing that seemed to get under the skin of every single person he did it to. Even the most resigned of Citizens usually displayed a flicker of anger when reduced to cleaning up after him for no reason other than the fact that he could make them. If he was lucky, that anger made them say things that weren't…smart. Which, of course, resulted in more fun.

The construction worker was still standing there, looking at him as if he half expected Metrocop 87 to claim to be kidding. Metrocop 87 had to suppress a chuckle. As funny as it was, he thought he'd save the laughter until after he'd twisted the knife a bit more. It was always more effective that way.

"I said pick up the can," he said, lounging against the doorway as if he owned the entire building. And, as far as this piece of rabble was concerned, he might as well have.

The construction worker looked down at the can, then back up at him. Traces of that sought-after anger were beginning to show in his eyes.

Metrocop 87 flicked his stunstick and heard the familiar hiss of energy as it crackled to life. "Pick up the can," he said, emphasizing the first two words as though he were talking to a very stupid servant. Or a dog.

The thought of a stunstick thrashing must have finally motivated the worker to obey. He leaned over and picked up the empty can. When he straightened back up, Metrocop saw the familiar look of defeat in his eyes and was slightly disappointed. Perhaps he wouldn't talk back after all.

"Now, put it in the trash can," he told the fool.

The man took a step toward the trashcan. Then another. Then he stopped. And Metrocop 87 saw his face change.

The resignation was gone. In its place was fury. Pure, hot, unrestrained fury. It was as though some dam that had been holding it all back had finally broken, leaving it to pour out unchecked. Metrocop 87 barely had time to register the change on the man's face before the can bounced off his facemask and once again hit the floor

He'd thrown it.

The filthy, worthless, unimportant piece of nothing had thrown it at him.

He charged forward, so furious it drowned out all rational thought. His only desire was to hit that defiant piece of human garbage as many times as was possible before his stunstick broke in half. He didn't even care if he ended up killing the fucker. One less filthy maggot in the world. No great loss.

It was his anger that made him fail to register that the man was not running away from him. It was his anger that made him forget that the man was nearly twice his size. It was his anger that made him fail to notice that the man still wore an expression of fury that rivaled his own.

And it was his anger that proved to be his undoing.

He practically barreled into the stationary Citizen, the latter's bulk the only thing that kept him from bowling the two of them over in a heap. Snarling, he raised his stunstick, still intent on giving the stubborn piece of shit the beating of his life, and then yelped in pain as the man seized his wrist, squeezing it so hard that Metrocop 87 couldn't keep his hold on his weapon. The stunstick clattered to the ground as Metrocop 87 cried out in pain, the sound distorted into a horrid squeal by his vocoder.

Then he saw stars as the construction worker slammed him hard against the gate leading to the food hall. Desperately, he stuck his arms out, trying to push his attacker back, and screamed again as the man grabbed both his wrists and then slammed his arms against the gate, pinning him. Metrocop 87 struggled uselessly, his rage long since having given way to terror. He realized too late that this man could actually kill him, if he so chose. The very idea was so foreign to him that he had never actually considered what to do in such a situation. He had always counted on the citizens' fear of pain, and their fear of authority, to keep them in check. But when anger, when pure senseless fury, drowned out that fear, the confrontation was reduced to its most basic element-physical strength. And this worthless, insignificant oaf was stronger than him.

The man suddenly threw him sideways, knocking him into the trashcan and sending cans and bottles and empty ration packets flying. Metrocop 87 grabbed the edge of the doorway, barely managing to keep himself from toppling over along with the trashcan. Just as he was regaining his footing, he heard a scraping sound.

He looked toward the sound and was immediately brained by the shovel he had confiscated from the worker moments earlier. He screamed and fell to the floor, his helmet emitting the high pitched tone that signified an officer was down and needed assistance. He was down. He needed assistance. He heard the Overwatch Dispatcher listing his location and alerting nearby units to come to his aid, but the voice was broken, distorted. It faded in and out as his damaged helmet struggled to relay the information to him. Already, the various types of feedback the sensors inside his helmet usually displayed to him had become gibberish or disappeared entirely. The helmet was broken.

And, as the construction worker loomed over him, still brandishing the metal shovel, Metrocop 87 realized that his neck would soon be as well.

He pressed both hands against the floor and tried to push himself backwards in a last-ditch effort to save himself. His left hand skidded, but his right found purchase and he slid backward and to the side, just as the man brought the shovel down on him.

He saved his neck, but not his leg. The shovel came down and connected with his right leg just below the knee. He screamed as his shinbone shattered, his agony drowning out every other sensation.

Including his will to fight back or even try to save himself. As he reached down to clutch at his broken leg, still screaming his head off, he knew that this was the end.

And then he heard a loud clang as the shovel hit the floor. Heard footsteps as the man started moving away from him. Heard more footsteps, these coming from the food hall behind him. Fast and heavy footsteps, made by booted feet. The other Metrocops stationed inside the food hall must have heard his helmet's transmission and were coming to aid him.

He would have felt relief, if he had been capable of feeling anything other than pain at the moment. In fact, he was beginning to gray out. As his vision swam, as his thoughts became distorted, he was able to register one final thing.

The soft, metallic clunk of an aluminum can as it bounced off his shoulder and landed right beside him, thrown, no doubt, by the now retreating construction worker.