I do not own anything in portion with Half-Life and/or Valve, etc.
In this story, I'm going to give you only basic info on Malcolm's appearance, the rest is up to your imagination.
I know this is cheesy, that Malcolm is a.. relative of Breen, but, I thought, what the hell?
Malcolm sat slouched, back against the train window. Relocated again?
When was this bullshit going to end?
He stared blankly at his reflection, thick glasses and brownish hair that covered his head in a mess, and his chin. He was an attractive man, for the most part. Not that he could mate, anyway, not since the Combine killed all human sperm with their goddamn technology.
He sighed, and looked up with most of his morale gone, he observed the green-plated compartment. Red seats lined the wall, bullet-ridden windows were set in, and a dirty floor of old newspapers and tickets. It looked to be in some sort of forest area.
Suddenly, the train stopped, causing Malcolm to shake violently.
Was it a bomb? Was it some sort of raid?
He shuddered, hearing the crackle of Civil Protection 'chatters'—well, mostly the CPs. Overwatch Units were racing through towards them from the thick bushes surrounding the now-stopped bus. One unit kicked the door open and marched in, baton in hand.
The Overwatch voice came over their radios simultaneously.
"Non-fundamental spotted in this area. Comply with your local Civil Protection teams."
After that, a CP chuckled grimly, and walked up to a couple seated in the corner, huddling together against the misty cold. The woman had brownish skin, hair in a messy bundle, with sleep-deprived eyes filling with tears. She trembled as the Civil Protection unit eyed them.
The unit, who had more of a female tone than the others gave a uprising 'Hmm' and spoke up. You, ctizen, come with us." She pointed her baton to the man, beckoning him. The man, dumbfounded, got up and began to shake, following the unit through the rows of chairs, and towards the door. Behind him, the woman burst into tears, bursting upwards, screaming "PLEASE DON'T TAKE HIM!" she wailed, running towards the female CP. Almost on instinct, the CP slammed her baton into the other woman's chest, a sound resembeling a taser shot, and the woman collapsed, in a pathetic heap, crying and screaming—clawing her way towards nowhere.
Malcolm had forgotten love— it's boundless loyalty to ones partner, especially in times like these had gotten people killed multiple times in front of him, and this pathetic heap was just one example.
Malcolm feared the worst.
To his relief, the CP unit, signing with a hint of.. 'remorse' turned towards her, knelt down and patted the womans head like you would a pathetic dog.
"He'll be on the next train, citizen." She said, turning the woman over.
"Physiological depravation, ID number 5263, 17." She spoke into the radio, and left the train into the dark forest, dragging the man behind, which just store at the woman with green, staring eyes.
The train started up again, but the woman remained still, sobbing silently on the floor. Malcolm sighed, and walked over slightly, and stared at her.
"He.. He'll be fine.. This kind of thing happens all the time, I mean…" he trailed off, kneeling down.
"My name is Malcolm Bre-- Malcolm. What's yours?"
She shivered. "Uh.. My name is Amanda Creator.. That was my husband, Mark. I.." she burst out into tears, Malcolm helpless as she painfully gripped onto his shoulder.
"It' alright. I'm sure we'll see him soon." he lied.