I do not own any of the ideas, concepts, characters, or creatures present in the Half-Life series or its Beta-They belong to Valve.

This had to be some fever dream. Maybe he died fighting the Nihilanth and everything afterwards had been a desperate hallucination of escape. It was all too surreal to be true.

…Gordon sucked in the stale air of the train car and accepted that this was real.

He felt disoriented, like he'd been asleep for a while and woke up in someone else's world. Except he'd just been in someone else's world. Something else's. This was supposed to be his world, wasn't it? But it wasn't. He swallowed and attempted to quell the onset of panic when he discovered that, instead of his protective hazard suit, he was garbed in plain denim clothes that provided no security whatsoever. All of his weapons were missing—even his crowbar. He was completely defenseless.

Wasn't he told that he could at least keep the suit?

The cold metal floor shook and brought him into the moment. It was in a small train car that the man in the business suit had placed him, two men farther in, one staring dismally out the window and the other nervously clutching a scuffed black briefcase. They were also wearing the denim overalls—perhaps it was some sort of institutional apparel. The scenery outside was dark and cloudy, the lightbulbs overhead dim and flickering. Such low light had masked his entrance—or maybe the two men believed he had always been on the train.

…Had he?

Cautiously, he rose to his feet, gripping a seat to steady himself as the car shook again. Wherever this was, it was certainly not Black Mesa. Perhaps there was some comfort in that. He carefully made his way forward, eyes beginning to dart about for any threat that might approach. The words of the gray faced stranger were already fading from his mind—words that might've given him something to expect; he tried to hold on to what he knew and failed. There was only the now.

"I didn't see you get on," one of his fellow passengers mused, voice serene in a broken kind of way. Devoid of interest. Gordon kept quiet, and the man's low-lidded, apathetic gaze turned back to the window.

It was hard not to stumble around like a stupefied tourist. Things must have changed a lot while he was…wherever he had been. The thick, dark clouds across the sky, the imposingly tall architecture—that tower in the center of town, he couldn't even see the top. It didn't look like anything human, either…

If he hadn't been in so much shock, Gordon might have noticed that he was the only one milling around. Other citizens strode away from the station in hurried, nervous paces. The only people actually standing in place were figures in dark trench coats with ghoulish gas masks on their faces ("Civil Protection", sprung to mind as the identifying label, but no source provided itself in his memory). What were they there for? To keep people in line? They weren't there to observe—there were plenty of cameras, both stationary and floating through the air, emitting soft beeps as they took pictures of the various people the train dropped off, like little sentry drones.

What a curious flight path they took. The scientist in Gordon that had been dormant for the last two days sat up and wondered how they managed to stay afloat like that, bobbing about almost aimlessly. One came in close to his face…

In precisely half of one second he was blind, listening to three clicks as it started taking his picture. He stumbled back, struggling to regain his vision, panicking. When things began to clear a little, a hand grabbed his collar and wrenched him back.

"Ah!" Still stunned, Gordon found himself windmilling a little to keep steady. It was much darker—he'd been dragged inside one of the buildings.

"Quiet." He hadn't been here long, but he recognized the distorted, hostile bark of the various officers around the station. Obediently, he went silent. It was what he did naturally, anyway.

The CP glanced around in the street for a second, almost like he wanted to make sure they were unobserved. Gordon started to get this sinking feeling that he was going to have to start killing again. Damn. He glanced around the room for any blunt objects that he might be able to use. Conditions weren't ideal, but…

"Alright." The officer slammed the door shut, leaving only one bare, flickering bulb to light the room, and brought a hand up to his mask. Gordon stepped back. He wasn't ready—there weren't a whole lot of usable items in this room, and if it came to using his fists he was sure to lose. Maybe he could—

Barney. Holy crap. "Barney?"

His dark hair was greying and there were lines on his face that hadn't been there before, but it was the same guard from Black Mesa he'd met when things went to hell.

"Well, you took your sweet time getting here, didn't you?" Barney noted, looking over his mask before setting it down. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

All the questions buzzing through Gordon's head choked his throat, and the most he could manage was some confused gibbering. Barney cocked an eyebrow and laughed. "Still a master communicator, eh Doc? Listen, save your questions for Kleiner, I'm just the security checkpoint. You have to get down to the lab before anyone with any brain cells to rub together catches on to who you are."

Gordon frowned. His brain was only processing half of this. The name "Kleiner" stuck with him—his mentor at MIT and superior in Black Mesa. Everything else was too confusing to process. He was in danger, though—that was clear.

"You getting' any of this, Doc?"

Gordon looked up and nodded before realizing the answer to that question was no. Barney didn't notice, maintaining his grim expression and glancing once more outside the doors.

"Alright, Kleiner's lab is through the manhack arcade—you'll recognize it, a bunch of people lined up to play this sick game the Combine set up. Take a left through the nearby foundry, keep going straight—and try to look like you belong there. Once you're out there'll be a parking structure, go down to the third level and—" Harsh banging on the other side of the door. "Aw, for the love of—We've got company coming, I'll try to meet you there."

"What?"

Barney fiddled with his mask, getting it back over his face. "Someone must've seen me drag you in and now they want to see what's up. Just play along, Gordon."

"What?"

Barney strode towards him as the sound of footsteps could be heard outside. "Shut up for a second."

Hm. That was first time anyone actually had to say that to hi—Barney socked him straight in the stomach. Every molecule of air went wheezing out of his lungs, sending him collapsing in on himself down to the floor. Gordon had received bullet wounds that hurt less. At that moment he felt like a sack of potatoes; defenseless, without any information of his surroundings, and in a whole lot of pain.

Light poured in, the dim and foggy kind, blocked by the shadows of two figures probably in CP attire.

"This casual or do you need some help?" one asked, pulling a baton-like weapon from his belt and making it spark.

"Nah, I'm good." Barney said, sending a swift kick to Gordon's side for good measure. World spinning, the hapless scientist just wanted to ask if Barney had gone completely insane. But that might make him mad. "Just wanted to let 'im know what he was in for."

"They're always so arrogant when they get off the trains." The third one sneered.

"Exactly. Give me a hand here." Dizzy and trying to get his senses back, Gordon felt them hoist him to his feet, throwing the doors wide open. They tossed him forward into the cold, dead air. This time he managed to keep from kissing the pavement, fighting off the vertigo and steadying himself. He glanced back at his tormentors as he dizzily stumbled away, unable to tell which one was his friend.

"Welcome to City 17."