"Boy... and I thought I had a bad day. You're a long ass way from Kansas, Dorothy."
Shephard's eyes opened beneath the lenses, to find a man in blue hovering closely over him, a long distorted shadow. His instincts reacted at once. A gloved hand shot up to the man's throat and seized him by it powerfully, pulling him down closer for examination. His vision danced, in a haze, as light shone down from somewhere above, and his low muffled breaths quickened through a filter with shock. His heart raced, and he felt more fear than the man at his mercy did. He blinked slowly, attempting to clear his vision, burning anger coursing through him for some reason, for the figure in blue, the stranger.
He wanted to strangle the figure powerless before him, break him to pieces, for something he'd done. But as his vision cleared, and he got a good look at the man he'd seized... the anger abated slowly, a release lever being pulled. No, Shepard realized, looking him over some more... he didn't know this man... and he was not someone that drew anger from him. He was not the enemy. He was a civilian... an elderly black man, in his sixties or seventies, in a blue boiler suit, with shocked eyes as he struggled for air. Both of his wrinkled, grime stained hands were trying in vain to pry himself from the strength of Shephard's one handed vice grip. Through it, with the air he had left, he managed to wheeze out some words, oddly distant to Shephard's ears, but clear enough.
"Check your... fire, Marine... lemme breath, will ya? Steady on! Friendly fire!"
Shephard released him at once, pushing him backwards away from himself. The man fell off to the side gasping for air, somewhere out of his sight, and Shephard peered up slowly overhead. He looked upward another time, to finally realize it was dark out... night time, wherever he was. But he could see no stars. His eyes shifted to the source of the light shining down over top of them. It shone like a beacon down on his mask, behind the lenses. The light overhead connected to a building was not the only one dancing in his eyes. There were some lights inside a mask he wore... not clear like the one above, but green, and glowing... and there were three icons standing before him. Two percentage meters read one hundred percent, the first with a medical cross next to it, the other with a glowing shield... and there was something in the top corner, something that looked like a battery.
He blinked several times, and even tried closing them. But opening them again, the icons didn't disappear any more than the light overhead did. He was laying down, somewhere... somewhere uncomfortable, hard, but also not. Slowly, he sat up, arms on either side of himself... to find himself in an alleyway between two apartment buildings, lying among bags and cans of trash. There were lights all along the alley, leading to the mouth, to the road... posters lined the walls. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of machines, occasional blaring of sirens, and a woman's cold, posh accent... speaking words he couldn't make out. He looked down at his hands again, two black leather fingerless gloves... his sleeves rolled up, exposing the pale, muscled forearms entirely.
On his shoulder was a red, white and blue emblem patch belonging to a flag... an American flag, along with a Corporal's insignia and symbol of a golden eagle perched over a globe, with an anchor and chain next to the world. He wore some manner of a heavy, dark bodysuit over his torso... combat armor... with a glowing transmitter of sorts attached, blinking red and green buttons... and a small yellow screen. It probably had something to do with the icons, glowing in his eyes through the mask. Advanced military power armor. Raising his hands, he felt the mask... a gas mask of some sort... and above it, on his head, a thick military helmet. He wore an olive green combat harness over the power armor, twin straps over his shoulders secured into place. The name gradually came back to him... an LC-2 Harness, fastened around him, including a backpack, canteen and various ammunition pouches, along his waist and shoulders straps. There was an empty sheath, meant for a combat knife, and two empty holsters. Names came back to him quickly... for his equipment, like an instinctive checklist ticked off in his thoughts. All except for the the name of his powered armor... which eluded him, at that moment.
The uniform he wore with the sleeves rolled up was a grey and black camouflaged BDU... battle dress uniform... matching the camouflaged pants and dark combat boots he wore. It was all a second skin to him, it seemed. His uniform. He drew another low breath, attempting to steady himself... and slowly looked up, to find the elderly man in the blue boiler suit standing in front of him again. The old man was watching him a bit cautiously, in case he might snap again... but more than that, there was concern in his features. In one hand, he held a long, heavy red pipe wrench down at his side, holding it tightly... perhaps in case Shephard tried to throttle him again. Nevertheless, his other was free, and open, offered down to him.
"Well? You weren't planning on sitting on your ass all night, were you, Marine? Garbage collector's won't like ya. Or much of any of them if they got a look at ya, I'm thinkin'. Lucky you ended up in my alley."
Offering one hand, while arming the other. Although bewildered by his surroundings... Shephard felt a trace of respect for the stranger nearly at once. He didn't have to offer any assistance, but he did... and he seemed to be a friendly face. For the moment, he could be trusted. He took the man's hand firmly, and slowly rose back up to his feet, with some help. A trace of vertigo lingered as he returned to the world, and when he had risen, the old man stepped out of his way. Giving him some room to breath, and recover. Shephard was a fair bit bigger than the man, and a bit taller... but even at his advanced age, he looked like he could swing that wrench if need be. Shephard closed his eyes again, and drew in another long, deep breath, getting his bearings. He tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had got here... where he had been before. He drew upon a blank, every time he tried. He knew three things alone that he was sure of... the rest of this, for all he knew, was a dream. A dream he decided to, for the moment, play along with. After a few moments, the old man cleared his throat, and his eyes opened again back on the man.
"Corporal Shephard, ain't it? Read the tag on your uniform. What in the hell are you doing in all that gear, son? Lose a bet? Drunk? High? Got a death wish? Raid a military museum? If there are any left. Looks to me you got prime pickings over the scavengers."
His name. That was one of the things he knew. But the old man rose good questions. What had the circumstances been, for him to wake up like this? To end up here? To be here? Where was here? What was the last thing he had been doing? What possible explanation was there for any of this? The harder he thought about it, the more his skull ached, throbbed. Denying him the answers. So eventually, he stopped, and slowly shook his head at the old man. He didn't know. He wanted to... but he didn't know how. He was simply here... he existed. Nothing more... or at least, little more. Did someone else have the pieces? He didn't recognize the old man in the least.
"Or are you the real thing? You got that look in your eyes... you know the look. Older than you are. You've been in the shit, somewhere. Seen it up close. Survived it.", He continued speaking as though he hadn't paused, looking thoughtfully back at Shephard. The concern remained in his wise, dark eyes... before at last he nodded again sympathetically. Understanding something. "I'm curious, but then I've seen plenty of stranger things... so I ain't that curious. You don't gotta tell me if you don't wanna, or if you can't. Ain't my business. If you forgot, it'll come back to you. These things always do, in time. Just keep steadying on."
Shephard breathed again slowly, nodding his head almost imperceptibly, and looked past the old man. To the wall of the alley behind him. To the rows of posters occupying it. Moving carefully, he stepped past the old man and moved to the closest poster. Raising his eyes to it peering down at him from above, he examined it closely. A man with a large bald forehead, in the outline of dark garb resided on the poster. He possessed a solemn expression and a thick, dark mustache and stared back at him with cold owl-like eyes. He watched all from the shadowy skies overlooking a city and the outline of some manner of tower. Further down the poster, heavily armed soldiers clad in intricate, bulky black body armor and long leather coats, wearing white and dark respirator's and masks marched through the poster. Each faceless soldier had either vibrantly glowing red, yellow or blue lenses on their helmet's, their masks, burning even through the paper. There was something alien about the design of each mask... and deeply foreboding. It was not a military as he knew them to be. Shepard's eyes lowered further down to the bottom of the poster, to the text imprinted there.
City 1
It's Great To Be Part Of The Greater Good.
"First time you've seen him, huh? You have been away for awhile. Lucky you.", The old man remarked, stepping over to his side in front of the poster. Shephard glanced over to him out the corner of his eye, to note the scowl the man aimed at the poster. The old man spit spitefully on the ground in front of the poster. "Yeah, commie bastard ain't much to look at... like Lenin and Stalin had a kid... but you get used to him on every street corner, radio station, newspaper and channel. Unfortunately. Calls himself The Consul. Doubt even old Quisling Breen over in 17 is that pretentious. At least he puts jugglers on his stations, and does all the news himself without them pissant anchors. Me, I call him The Commissar. Nobody elected him. I'd give plenty for someone to say it to his face, and to call him that."
A poster close to it featured a masked soldier in a trench coat, body armor wearing a strange variation of the gas mask, standing over a city. With the words Their Job Is The Opposite Of Slavery, standing out predominantly. There were other posters, many copies of the first, others differentiating slightly. Yet, most with the same shadowy eyed man. Each overlooking either masked soldiers and vehicles, or civilians clad in the same prison-like blue uniforms as the old man next to him. On some of the posters of the Consul, were two symbols... one that resembled a yellow sigil pointing to the sky, with the letters CMB emblazoned in black beneath it. The other symbol was that of a single crimson, all seeing eye. Each one was as foreboding and ominous as the other. Shephard's eyes narrowed behind the lenses, as they scanned over a few of the closest ones.
The Consul is your friend.
The Prowler is watching you.
The Consul says... relax.
The Anticitizen threatens all.
The Consul says... report.
Serve your City. Earn your Citizenship. Join the Conscript's now. Would you like to know more?
The true Citizen trusts Our Benefactors.
The Curator protects us all.
Propaganda. Endless amounts of it. He didn't know what it all meant, but he knew what it was. He imagined this alley was only one of many sections of the city covered in such posters. Probably statues, among other things. He'd read something before, once, a book that reminded him of it. Of this so called Consul. He couldn't place it, but he felt it's similarity. Benefactors... Anticitizens. There was something about the language, the terms, that wasn't quite right. The control of words. Manipulation. Deception. Collectivist behavior. They aimed to create some sort of unification, at individuals expenses. A voice came then from all around them... ringing from the skies, echoing from the district they were in, and from others distant. Blaring from loudspeakers from all over. A tone he'd heard before as he'd woken up from his stupor. But it had been further distant then... now he heard it as though it spoke directly in his ear. A woman's voice, low, cold, and with an English accent. Too flat and insincere to belong to a real flesh and blood woman. Beyond it, there was the crunching of tires on the road somewhere... the sounds of approaching vehicles far away, and boots marching through the streets.
"Attention please. All Citizens of local residential blocks be advised. Curfew shortly in effect. Protection teams are en route. Return to your homes immediately. Repeat, return to your homes immediately. Your cooperation is required. And expected."
"Shit, there goes that Overwatch broad at it again. The CPs are coming! It's nearly curfew and they always do a sector sweep around now!"
Without offering further explanation, the old man moved away from Shephard amid the blaring, distant siren, and further warnings by the artificial woman's voice. He walked stiffly, with an evident limp of age or a past wound, back over to the opposite wall of the alley, leading into the apartment complex. When he reached the door, he turned back, and gestured Shephard over to follow. Shephard remained where he was, listening to the distant, approaching sounds with a trace of unease, the images of the posters remaining well in mind as he turned away from them. In his mind's eye he saw the same jackbooted troops from the posters going door to door... delivering the wishes of their... Consul.
"Get the hell over here and hide, boy! If the Combine or one of their Scanners see you here in that getup, they'll beat you seven ways to Sunday. Then drag your ass to The Island and me and the rest of the block with you!", The old man declared, opening up the closed metal side door on the building. Light poured out of it, beckoning to him again as he spoke. "Get inside! Now! I'll try and get rid of em'."
Shephard glanced once down the alley towards the street the boot steps were coming from. Then back to the ajar doorway... and at last he moved quickly over to it, obeying the old man. He didn't know what was going on, but knew nothing about the noises, or the computer voice was going to end well. He could sense approaching hostiles, bringing nothing good to this neighborhood... and he trusted the old man's judgement. He knew far more about the situation at hand, and seemed accustomed. Shephard stepped up and inside the main level of the apartment building to find himself on a well lit stairwell, leading up higher, and below. There was a sign on the wall denoting the apartment floors up top and boiler room beneath the building. Shephard looked back to the open door, to the old man's satisfied expression where he stood.
"Good. Now, be quiet in here. Or rather, stay quiet. Shouldn't be too hard for a man like you, I think. I'll get rid of these jackasses."
The old man closed the door behind himself... but not all the way. It remained open a crack... perhaps the door was weakened on the hinges. But leaning closer, Shephard could glimpse though it partially, and watch the alleyway. The old man strode calmly back out into the alley, putting the wrench under his arm and drawing out a pack of cigarettes casually from the front of his jumpsuit. Drawing one out, he lit it up with a smooth metal lighter, and took a drag, stuffing the pack back out of sight. The sound of boots drew closer, entering the alley, and two figures stepped into his sight. They both wore white masks with glowing blue eyes... not unlike those on the poster. But their uniforms were a bit different, comprised mostly of thick black and dark green body armor, black leather boots, a belt, a bullet proof vest, gloves and pants with a few section's of white material.
Each were holding what Shephard thought for a moment was an ordinary nightstick... until the lead one brandished it threateningly at the old man and dancing sparks of blue electricity ran from it's glowing end. A beeping sound issued from it's suit, and it addressed him, then, with a harsh, masculine synthesized voice. Shephard couldn't tell if there was a vocal device in it's mask or uniform, or if that was it's natural voice. It stood, walked, and behaved like a man... but it's faceless nature, imposing presence and distorted tone didn't lend it any credence of humanity. Nor any to those it served, to have them wearing such uniforms. It's partner spoke in the same manner of synthesized voice, with only a few minor differences... not enough to be much in the way of unique. And that was probably the intent, for them all to appear and sound as one.
"What are you doing out here, Citizen? You heard the lady. Get back inside. Now."
"Please, it's Sam. You fella's been walking this beat for years. Breaking down my doors and beating my residents. Now come to think of it... I never caught your names. All I know, you might not even be the same gentlemen each time. You all kinda look the same, nothing personal."
"They are not your residents. This is not your property. Names are irrelevant. You are committing an offence."
"A fine evening to you too, officers. Just taking a smoke break... I don't recall those bein' outlawed. Yet, anyways."
"You are in violation of curfew."
"Now, I might not hear like I used to, but I got about oh... five minutes, before it starts, don't I?"
"Four. Why are you carrying that improvised weapon, old man? Citizens are not authorized to possess them."
"Weapon? No sir, been busting my ass off all day trying to keep the water heater running. Wouldn't be able to without this here wrench, adjusting it every few hours. Got a building of people to look out for, bein' a landlord ain't all it's cracked up to be, especially with no money to show for it, and at my age. I seem to recall putting in an order for a new one a couple months back... still waitin' in line at the Citadel on The Consul. Like we all do on the bread lines. But I figure he's got bigger problems about now than me starving, and standin' hip deep in leaks."
"Mind your tone and words when you refer to The Consul, Citizen. Or you will eat them along with your teeth. And the Cremators may have to make a pass on this block."
"No harm or offence intended, officer. Scouts honor. Flamethrowers not needed. No sir."
"We'll be the judge of that. Finish your cigarette and get back inside at once. Do not let us catch you out here at this hour again. Violation of curfew will not be tolerated. Are we clear?"
"Crystal. Just about done anyways. Have yourselves a good night, gentlemen, go flex your muscles to the next block. Give your families my best. I'm sure they'll eat well tonight. We all gotta support em' in our own way. Even if it means keeping the rest of us down in the mud with your boot on our neck, so you useful idiots can be a couple inches above us. Least until you ain't."
The two 'officers' looked back at him sharply, and to one another. For a moment, Shephard got the feeling they were considering administering some instant 'justice' on the old man right there on the spot. For the old man's part, he merely stared back at them, silently daring them to do it. Not moving in the slightest. Shephard's instincts kicked in, almost before he could control them, reaching for the door handle. If it came to it, he was certain he could handle a couple thugs, even without a weapon. Get one of their batons away and use it on them, probably. Incapacitate or kill them before any of the others found out. Fortunately, he didn't have to find out, then. Maybe they sensed some steel in the old man... or didn't find him worth the trouble of bringing him in. The two masked thugs turned away from the old man without another word and continued on out of Shephard's view from the crack in the door. He heard the tapping of their boots echoing on the cement, moving back out on to the road, amid the siren's and automated voice. Shephard released a breath... only then realizing he'd been holding it, his heartbeat having quickened.
"Goddamn fucking commies. Right down to those Soviet gas masks if I ever saw em'.", The old man muttered venomously under his breath when they were gone. Taking one last drag of the cigarette before flicking it aside spitefully. He stared after them with narrowed eyes, clearly incensed by their encroachment on his property. "Gimme the Zombies or bugs any day. Same thing, but more reasonable."
The old man that had called himself Sam turned away promptly, and moved back to the door, opening it up and joining Shephard on the stairs quickly. He closed the door firmly, and began to lock it up, with several locks and bolts on it. Muttering and swearing to himself all the while. The distant sirens and automated voice continued to resonate outside, but they were muffled, compared to the power they'd had before. Finally, he turned back in Shephard's direction with a grin and began to make for the stair's, climbing up them. Gesturing the silent Corporal to follow suit and keep pace.
"Civil Protection. Grade A assholes for you. This way Marine, my apartment is on the upper floors. Let's get you somewhere secure, get you some grub and figure out what to do with you. Just keep your head down. Fella like you is bound to draw some attention."
Shephard followed after him at once, glancing around now and again as they ascended the stairwell. There were voices emanating from above them, on the levels overhead, chatter among the tenants it seemed. The place wasn't dilapidated entirely, but there was no mistaking how run down and sparse everything was. The place looked like it hadn't been repaired properly or renovated in any way in years. Now and again, as they passed each floor, he got a glimpse of the hallways of each, peering down them carefully. Some of the doors were closed up, but others were ajar... and in each hallway, men and women in blue boiler suits like Sam looked down in the direction of the elderly land lord.
They found themselves staring blankly at an armored, masked, helmeted stranger beside him, in stark contrast to him and everyone else. The chatter instantly evaporated, on each floor, at the glimpse the assortment of Citizens got of him... he stared back at each of them for a few seconds uncertainly, not used to seeing so many people watching him. A few of the men and women closest to him watched him fearfully, frozen... maybe for a moment they had mistaken him for Civil Protection. Or more likely... they either had never seen someone in his power armor and uniform before, or hadn't for some time. Everything about the apartment building seemed suspended in the past... nothing stood out, except for himself. On each floor they left, the chatter resumed more excitedly than it had been before. He heard them asking questions among each other about him, but most of it was just droning noise. Finally they reached the top, got off the stairs and moved down to about half way through the hall. On the way there, everyone parted ways for the pair of them, jaws gaping in disbelief in Shephard's direction.
Although Sam greeted all of them with names and familiarity, they completely ignored their landlord. Shephard said nothing to any of them, and for the most part, tried to ignore them... the spotlight of attention they shone on him. Not feeling comfortable with it. Nothing about any of this was comfortable, and he seemed to just be going through the motions, not knowing where he was or what he was doing. Or why people were paying attention to him. As if he'd done something. It made him feel more alien than the Civil Protection thugs looked. Finally, they stood outside apartment twelve of that floor... the old man's, apparently. He had stopped and was searching through a pocket, glancing up and down the hall and getting a look at the stunned reactions and silence himself.
"Think you got some fans already.", Sam chuckled slightly as he retrieved the key to the door from his pocket. Standing closely behind him, Shephard slowly turned his head back in the direction of those watching him. The moment he did so, many of them either retreated back into their apartments, or pretended to resume their conversations with their neighbors. He could still still feel them watching him, from the corner of their eyes... especially when he looked back ahead to the door in front of them. "You got a way of standing out, that's for damn sure. I don't think anyone here remembers what a real soldier looks like, and an American one for that matter. A mean Marine. Too used to seeing them grovelling Conscripts being stepped on by everyone else to know what a professional is."'
Unlocking the door, Sam opened it and ushered Shephard through first... closing it on the faces of a few nosy neighbors behind them. Shephard took the time to scan over the apartment... which didn't take long. There wasn't much to it... he could see every room from the front door. The living room connected to a small kitchen, a washroom and a couple bedrooms. The furniture was sparse and tattered, and the turned off old television set was propped up on a crate and plugged into a nearby wall. Even the landlord wasn't living so well, it seemed. There were a few cabinets and shelves... but for the most part they'd fallen into disrepair. An entire corner of the living room was devoted to tools... the old man brought his work home with him. There was nobody else around, that Shephard could see... unlike his many neighbors, he lived quite alone in his own apartment.
"Pain in the ass, climbing all those stairs at my age. But I ain't got the heart to leave. Never did. Everything I am is in here, all my memories. What little I got left. My house is yours, feel free to walk around, get your bearings. I am pretty generous, when I don't have a boot on my neck telling me to be. To give up all my shit.", The old man grunted and huffed to himself, still visibly annoyed at being accosted by the CPs. He cast a look back over Shephard's way, raising a brow slightly. "Don't talk much do you? That's fine. About time someone around here could listen to and put up with an old fool. You want some coffee? Sure ya do. I'll start boiling the water, before the stove gives out again. You go refill your canteen in the meantime. Take a leak. You got a journey and a half ahead of you, son."
He did? Journey? To where? To do what? He didn't even know where he was now. He considered asking, but the old man's attention seemed to move on. Shephard looked back to the old man for a moment... and merely nodded, as he passed him by. He doubted the old man got many guest's... or someone like him, whoever he was to all these people, for that matter. What had he done to draw such attention? Shephard looked around the house a little more, before turning his attention to the washroom. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind himself. There was a tiny window in the corner, closed up... the toilet, like the bath tub, was fairly cracked and rusted. At the old man's words, it seemed like his body remembered he had to use the washroom. When he finished relieving himself, buckling back up, he turned his attention to the sink, taking the canteen off his belt and shaking it slightly. It was empty. He'd finished the last of it, somewhere. Unscrewing the cap, he turned on the tap, cool water spilling out over his exposed fingers. He put the top of the canteen underneath and refilled it all the way, screwing the lid back on. He wasn't especially thirsty, but he wasn't about to pass up a refill. Tucking the canteen away again, his eyes rose up toward the mirror, to find it opened up all the way. Revealing a few rows of medicinal pill containers. Old razors, soap. And a wallet.
He picked up the wallet and looked inside... it was empty of any cash, but there were cards... bank and credit cards among others. Expired stamped upon them all, for some reason. The date of expiry given wasn't right... it didn't make any sense. Before he could think it over some more, his attention turned to a picture, tucked away inside the wallet. He carefully studied it. It was black and white... and in the picture, a young black man in a military uniform stood with his family. A beautiful smiling wife, and three kids... two daughters and a son. He studied the photograph for a few moments, coming to some dawning realization about the old man. Then he tucked the picture back into it's spot along with the cards in theirs, careful not to fold the photograph's corners. It had not been a sight for him to see... he had not meant to pry, but he'd seen it anyways. He closed up the wallet and put it back where he found it. Before closing the mirror. Shephard froze where he was, the minute he saw his reflection peering back at him in the cracked glass.
A pair of lenses glowed vibrantly green back his way... but he could see his own eyes in the center of them... situated within a gas mask. A gas mask from the M40 series. The combat helmet he wore was a PASGT, camouflaged, olive green and black. The names came back to him at once, as though they had been hiding from him. He merely watched himself for a few moments, breathing low, muffled breaths, raising a hand and touching the nozzles on the gas mask. Where had he been, that he would wake up wearing all the equipment that he was? There were some bullet impact marks on his vest... residue of burns and dried blood stains. But he had no wounds... whose blood had it belonged to? Where had it been acquired? What was his mission? There were some other dried stains on his power armor, a green substance of sorts... but he had no earthly idea what it was. What did it all mean? This... and the world outside? How were they connected? He studied his confused eyes in the reflection, distant and far away. He was about to take the mask off, when a sudden, familiar voice shouted at him from the front room, his attention shooting over to the closed door.
"Hey, Marine! The news just came on! Get your pants back on and come check this out! You better not have made a mess in there!"
A slight trace of a smile instinctively touched Shephard's lips at that, and he opened the door at once, stepping out of the cramped washroom. He stepped into the hall and moved out into the living room, to find the old man laying comfortably in a recliner with his feet up. The television set was on, some news channel, introducing the next segment. The minute Shephard entered, the old man looked up his way and waved him closer, setting aside the remote.
"Just in time. Then again, son of a bitch and his Commie News Network will have it loopin' all night. What do you make of this?"
Shephard stepped over beside the recliner, not bothering to sit in one of the nearby couches. The screen went dark, and a logo, one he'd seen earlier on a poster, appeared on the screen. A crimson all seeing eye. It disappeared, and was replaced by the same man on the poster... bald with a thick black moustache. Expression serious, yet not unkindly so. The camera was kept panned up close to his face, but Shephard could see part of his shoulders clad in black material. The image of him was not pristine and clear, but ripples ran across the screen, and it was lit by an amber, ambient glow. There was no obvious hint of where he was broadcasting from... but it was pretty clearly implied. He spoke then, in a low, deep, rich accented tone... eastern European of sorts... if Shephard had to guess, Russian.
"Good evening, Citizens of City 1. This is your Consul speaking. How are you this evening? Well, I should hope. I thought we might have a chat. A number of questions have arisen, this past while... I do get each of your letters, and read them personally. Thank you for them, they are often warm and reassuring that we are on the right track. I had thought it time to address them properly, along with your concerns. You do of course understand why it has taken me awhile to get around to it. Many matters require my attention in these troubled times, as of late. So, let me be perfectly clear on this issue. There have been rumors... foul rumors spread by the terrorists and their collaborators lurking among the other monsters beneath City 1 and feeding off of it as parasites will. Fostering an environment of fear, in which to flourish. Rumors that one of Our Benefactor's most marvellous Cities, 17, the heart of our global empire, has fallen to like minded terrorists from afar. That the central Citadel linking each of us has fallen, and the bandits have triumphed. That our portal technology and communication to one another and Our Benefactor's Overworld has been cut off."
"I want to go on record as reassuring you, that this is entirely, patently false. Categorically so. As all good Citizens would know by simply looking into their hearts. I have been in close contact with Administrator Breen, and have received daily updates as to what is occurring. Another such lie from the mouths of the malcontent's, is that the Suppression Field has been deactivated globally, in the false destruction of City 17's Citadel. Rest assured, this is not the case, and is proven false news. Until the day when mankind proves it no longer requires the device, and that it has evolved past such primitive notions of instinct, yearnings, it will remain active. What is true is that there has been some civil unrest in City 17, from a group of terrorist opportunists, seeking to destroy the peace we have established. Much like there are those here attempting to reach the same nefarious ends. Unfortunately, it is not a problem restricted to our City alone... but rather to nearly each of our City's, save our shining example of perfect unification, City 3. If only more of our Citizens endeavored to follow in their footsteps. Nevertheless, such attempted petty incursions have been dealt with summarily, and shall continue to be until restraint for their own good is no longer necessary."
"I now look to you personally, Citizens, and ask something of you. I appeal to your better nature and judgment. Who benefits from such lies, and the spreading of them to create violence and chaos? Who, but the parasites hiding in plain sight? Who, but the hate filled deceiver known as Anticitizen One? As we approach the anniversary of Anticitizen Two's timely defeat in the battle that started at the former Liberty Island and ended beneath City 1, I am reminded of those dark early days. The bombings. The terror. The madness. Although we must collectively continue to rejoice in The Prowler and Ranger's finest victory, we must never forget the lesson... and who remains. Who continues to resist... and to defy."
"Anticitizen One has been a thorn in the side of this marvelous city, stretching across the entirety of the Eastern Coast, for nearly two decades now. Growing ever more desperate, and as such, bold. A specter, draped over the land... striking as a coward would from the shadows at every possibility. Who can forget the unspeakable crimes against humanity and Our Benefactors, by this greatest of deplorables? And those that follow Anticitizen One's divisive teachings, actions and rhetoric? The executions of countless of our finest figures in the Overwatch and Civil Protection. The bombings of many key headquarters across this fine city. Bodies of kidnapped and tortured innocent Peace Officer's hung from signs and street lights. The defacing of public property with their antiquated symbol of terror. Suffice to say, Anticitizen One would set us back, we as a collective species that have looked and reached out to the stars... and have been found. Our prayers answered by Our Benefactors alone."
"Who among you would want to return to the caves, that Anticitizen One would have us all live within? Anticitizen One owes more to a primordial creature than a modern human being... or a fantastical monstrosity that dwells alone in darkness beneath the earth. The saddest and most pathetic part of all, is that Anticitizen One's slavish followers truly believe they can make this already great land, 'great again'. Let me be clear: the cult-like sway Anticitizen One has over impressionable, weak minds is and always has been deeply troubling to behold. If I could remove this taint from our land with but a gesture, I would in an instant. The Prowler and his Attendants watching over you works day and night to prevent the mass murders and wholesale slaughter you have been witnessing at the hands of Anticitizen One and the others as much as possible. As are the noble men and women of the Overwatch and Civil Protection."
"However, speaking candidly on this issue it must be said that Anticitizen One, for all the destruction wrought, is but a symptom. A symptom of an inner failing within the human psyche. This figure would not be so powerful, were it not for one of our own personal faults. The unconscious and conscious resistance of transcendence. The selfishness of the individual who would think to hold everyone else back, stuck in the past. I ask you to exorcise any and all of the lies spread by Anticitizen One, and to immediately report any suspicious behavior or words from others you think might be linked to this malcontent. Only together can we weed out this antiquated idea of the importance of the one coming before the many. That greed should decide the course of history. It was tried in the past over and over, and it didn't work. The land once called America was a failure, it's imperialistic ideas decrepit and worthless. Religious and racial persecution, slavery. The corruption of the businesses and exploitation of the workers. The pollution of the land, in a literal and ideological sense. The warming of the planet ignored in favor of big business. Nuclear proliferation. The hording of resources... never can we go back to that."
"Only together are we stronger, strong enough to resist the sinful pull of the Anticitizen that walks among us. An eternal interloper. The time will come when Anticitizen One falls, one way or another... it is merely a question of when and how much pain and suffering might be inflicted upon us in the meantime. For all my power, I am not a King. I cannot do these things just by myself. Cannot remove Anticitizen One without your fullest cooperation. I am one of you, as you are me. We must be the change we seek. Together as a collective, never apart. I do not wish to end these broadcasts on a dour, or worrisome note... I simply wish to be transparent on these matters. I owe you the truth... the very least I owe you in my tireless years of service."
"If the truth is not spoken, loudly, and often, it's value will diminish. It's lessons forgotten and replaced by the alternative, if it could be called that, the ideas of Anticitizen One. And so, I shall end this broadcast and return you to your regularly scheduled news with a simple question... one I want you to repeat to yourselves, and to take some time out of your daily lives to ponder. Are you with me? This is your Consul, signing off. Sleep well, City 1. And know that the dawn will rise, and with it, the strength and value of the human spirit... that Our Benefactor's sought and chose us for. Let us again give thanks to them, for liberating us from failed notions and showing us the heights of what we might achieve one day. Singularity. Immortality... true immortality. Not for I... but for all of us, all of you. For all the people. "
At the mention of immortality, The Consul offered something that might have been a smile for the first time in the broadcast. There was only a hint of it... and it was gone so quickly Shephard might have imagined it. His satisfied image faded from the screen, replaced by a darkness with the burning crimson eye in the center. Where Shephard was confused and contemplative of what he had heard, there was nothing less than wry, dark humor from Sam. A man tired of but well accustomed to what had just transpired.
"See the bullshit we gotta listen to every day and night? He's making a few old Presidents look honest, with that yarn he's spinning about City 17.", Sam chuckled from his seat on the couch, a pleased look illuminating his wrinkled features. He leaned back a bit and sighed bitterly. "Well, this is the bright future the Marxists, socialists, hippies, feminists and other collectivist bastards all wanted. They were the first useful idiot collaborators lined up in front of a wall... or taken back to The Island or The Citadel, anyways. The rest of em' are where they've always been. In Commiefornia. In their godforsaken utopia."
"Anticitizen One is getting right up under his skin, more than ever. Does good work, that one. And if The Commissar thinks folks weren't mating before the Suppression Field went down... well. The walls are thinner in an apartment building than they are in the Citadel. Gonna be babies galore within the next few months. We'll see how much longer he can deny reality. If he lasts that much longer."
Shephard listened to him carefully, and merely continued to remain standing, studying the television. By now it was looping The Consul's propaganda message, intertwined with commercials and ads in favor of the Overwatch, Civil Protection. Calling for full cooperation from Citizens. There were a few more about Anticitizen One... but they never showed what the so called 'deplorable' looked like. It wouldn't surprise Shephard if The Consul had made him up, or at least greatly exaggerated... he could see how that might be useful from a propaganda standpoint. Creating a bogeyman the regime could point at. The broadcasting channel switched over to a trio of smiling faces sitting together at a long table. A perfectly groomed brightly smiling dark haired man, a black man and a beautiful young blonde woman, all three clad in dark uniforms with the crimson eye on their lapels and shoulder. Anchors, for a station called the Consul News Network. The blonde woman was named Katy, the dark haired tidy man was named Jim and the bald, bespectacled black man was named Van. Shephard studied them long and hard. They looked and acted a bit too perfect, on screen... as though a little more than makeup were at play. Artificial overly bright white smiles and teleprompter reading. Not entirely robotic... but every second of it scripted and rehearsed beyond a doubt. He felt a stab of annoyance from just watching them, within moments... never mind when they opened their mouths.
When Sam excused himself and rose, limping to the kitchen to check on the stove... Shephard finally looked on. Over towards one of the windows in the living room. There was cool air pouring in from beyond the curtains, shifting them about. The distant alarms and sirens remained audible, but they no longer pounded through whatever district they were in. Slowly, Shephard paced over to it, and reaching a fingerless gloved hand, he drew the curtains back. Looking out into the night, from high above the apartment complex. His eyes slowly widened from behind the mask, and he released a deep, audible breath. The city that had been New York was no more. What he could see of it was a concentration of broken down apartment sectors and housing complexes. Civil Protection officers and dark armored cars, APC's, swept the streets, maintaining the curfew in effect. Armored helicopters with blinking lights, of a make he'd never seen before patrolled the skies... but beyond them, something rose above all else on the landscape. Dominating the skies. A vast, obsidian, mechanical tower was deliberately illuminated in rows of lights along it's sides, all the way to the top... which disappeared high above the clouds somewhere far away on the horizon. It rose like a living obelisk, unrivaled... and very much not of the planet. The few remaining skyscrapers visible on the skyline, were minuscule and dwarfed compared to the tower.
Shepard continued to stare at it... in equal parts awe, and horror. It didn't belong here... or anywhere... but it was the hub for the forces marching in the streets... and the Consul had surely been transmitting from there. How big was their actual standing army, that they could conquer everything New York had been? And more to the point, how did they build or get something like the tower where it now stood? Thick polluting clouds of smoke rose over distant massive factories guarded by Civil Protection forces, pouring into the skies, working steadily away. Workers in full body suits and gas masks marched in and out of the closest factory he could see. Vast assembly lines producing God knew what. Lights blinked on and off... but no cars moved in the streets. The only vehicles he saw belonged to the ones below and above, looking down on all... The Combine. There were dark mechanical walls in every district he could see, dividing them all up by way stations being overseen by guard posts. Cutting off alleys and neighborhoods and entire roads in some cases.
Was this even Earth anymore? Or some grim parody of the world, come to life?
Each road he could see had a wall of blue light in front of them at a certain point... an energy field of sorts, that the CPs could pass through, along with their vehicles now and again. Almost like a toll booth. Other barriers were comprised of a black metal not unlike the tower. At the approach of a vehicle they rose and retracted, like a living, breathing intelligent wall. Sliding apart like puzzle pieces and giving the vehicles space they needed to pass through... before closing back up again. It was as though the walls were hands constricting around the city... smothering and overtaking buildings... claws belonging to the dark tower, rising up from the earth and enclosing it. Choking the life out of the land. There were many destroyed buildings all over, abandoned, the ones not in purposefully organized blocks. He felt a growing coldness in his chest, and a flame of anger in his mind, for reasons he didn't entirely understand. He felt an attachment to this city... not City 1, but what it had been before. It had been irreparably harmed, changed... damaged, as surely as the people living in it now had been. His heart began to beat quicker, again for reasons he couldn't fathom... and he knew that what he was watching was simply not right. And should not have existed, by all accounts... images from a nightmare, or a horror movie.
Shephard was about to leave the window, when a series of faint beeps drew his attention back over to it... eyes widening slightly. A mechanical orb had suddenly levitated up into view, hovering in front of him. Startled for a second, he drew back a bit. It had four contracting face plates that were gun metal blue, with a singular glowing red ocular lens in the middle of it. A small searchlight was mounted to it, that shone down on the window sill, illuminating him to it's view. Before Shephard could do anything, the plates slid forward and it began to beep louder... and there was a sudden and near blinding flash that made him blink rapidly to clear it away. As he tried to clear the haze, an unmistakable synthesized woman's voice emanated from within the robotic device.
"Attention please. Unidentified person of interest, confirm your civil status with local protection team immediately."
Shephard was frozen to the spot in mixed confusion and dread, beneath the spotlight. Not certain how to respond. He knew it wasn't good, one way or another. That he had made a terrible mistake in letting it see him. A response was made for him before he could decide the course of action. Beside him, the old man stepped up and splashed it's red ocular lens with a cup of steaming coffee. The burning liquid covered the device, and it began to smoke and hum, causing it to fly back slightly from the window.
"Get out of here you peeping bitch!", Sam shouted at the floating device, throwing the empty cup at it next. Which unlike the splash of coffee, it narrowly managed to avoid. The cup broke on the street far below. Failing to hit it with a thrown item, Sam retrieved and rose the pipe wrench and aimed a blow at the center of it... but his reflexes were not those of the machine, which backed out of reach just in the nick of time. It's glowing red eye expanded as it continued recording the two of them, remaining where it was. "Don't you be peaking in through my blinds! Got plenty more where that came from. Clear out, bitch!"
"Violation has been noted. You are charged with anti-civil activity level one. Protection unit prosecution code: duty, sword, operate."
The old man pulled Shephard back away from the window, closing it up and drawing the blinds. But the damage had been done, and the old man's grim reflection gave that away to Shephard. In the distance, sirens grew louder, along with the computerized voice issuing further warnings. The artificial woman's tone echoed through the apartments, bringing grave tidings. In his mind's eye, Shephard saw boots moving through the street, and armored vehicles descending like a swarm upon the apartment block. Their efficiency matched only by their numbers. Everything about the situation he was in had changed, in the course of a few seconds, for everyone in the building. Nothing about it was the slightest bit good.
"Oh fuck... I'm sorry. I should have warned you about them City Scanners. When the hell did I leave that window open? Memory ain't what it was. The two of us are already plastered all over the Citadel. They see everything in this city... and act on it.", Sam began to slowly explain, shaking his head wearily. Holding the pipe wrench tightly, he began backing up towards the door, signalling Shephard to follow suit. He paused for a moment to think, before he continued grimly."We need to get you as far away from here as possible, before they do. Come with me, Marine. Now. They'll be here and breathing down our necks quicker than ya think. I got you into this mess, least I can do is get you the hell out of it."
Shephard moved quickly at once, stepping away from the window and back down to the door, keeping close to the old man. The old man opened the door for him when they reached it, and slammed it behind them once they were back out in the hall. A number of people were still out in it, panicked, chattering to one another. When that familiar cold voice emanated through the building more loudly from outside, drawing all their attention. And sending further panic through the air with each syllable.
"Attention ground units. Miscount detected. Possible Anticitizen reported in this community. Code: lock, cauterize, stabilize."
"Everyone please don't start freaking out! Get inside your homes! Now!" Sam shouted to the building's other occupants over the commotion, to everyone watching the two of them pass fearfully. He led Shephard down the hall towards the stairs... and people stepped out of their way, pushing back against either wall as Shephard watched the chaos unfolding around him. "Civil Protection is coming for another search! Try to keep calm! It's going to be ok!"
"Citizens. Be advised. Any found deliberately, knowingly harboring a suspected Interloper will receive procession. Permanent off world relocation. Both. Your cooperation will be received."
His call for calm was mostly lost in the immediate scramble at the voice's threat, and in vain, no matter how many times he repeated it. Some did as he ordered, locking themselves in their apartments, but for the most part, panic ruled the apartment block. They were more scared of her, the automated voice, than they were willing to obey the old landlord. It was the same way on every floor they passed, he noticed, on the way back down stairs. The world had exploded into a pandemonium, rolling over the people in a wave. Helicopter's noises carried through the air towards the apartment, the swishing of rotors and humming of engines... and spotlights shone in through the windows, moving back and forth, illuminating many frightened, fleeing individuals. Shephard caught a glimpse of more Scanners, hovering beyond some of the windows, ocular lenses flashing as they recorded it all. People ran past them on the stairs, nearly knocking the old man over in their blind panic. Shephard grabbed his shoulder and held him upright on the steps, pushing aside some of the Citizens that got in their way.
The old man led them down every level, and back down to the side door of the alley they'd come from. Instead of going back out into the alley, the old man pulled Shephard down around the corner to the last set of stairs, leading on to the boiler room. Opening the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs with a key quickly, they stepped inside. The old man took the time to lock it back up again behind them, sliding a few padlocks and flicking on the lights while Shephard surveyed the illuminated room below the apartment complex. The boiler room was a mess. It was full of equipment and racks of tools... heavy machinery, shelves, and stacks of wooden crates occupying most of the space. But there were paths of navigation around the area... though there were no windows or a back door. It was entirely boxed in... and Shephard didn't understand what escape was possible from the room... Civil Protection would search it in a minute. They'd just have to fight their way out, if anything.
He wasn't exactly against the idea of a fight, but he failed to see the strategy of coming down here. An escape out the alley would have been wiser. Before his could continue studying the room, the old man pushed past him again and led him down to the far side of the room, to a table set up next to the warm, steaming boiler tank. The table was covered in boxes, magazines and newspapers. The old man swept it all aside, and opened a hidden compartment under the desk, revealing a radio and transmitter, with a few glowing buttons. He pressed one of them, reactivating it, and drew out and set the microphone on the surface of the table.
"I got some friends that can use a guy like you. They can help and the Combine don't like em' anymore than they will you.", The old man explained, looking back up at Shephard's confused eyes behind the lenses. He smiled a bit knowingly at the soldier, as he continued on. "They'll take you someplace safer than up here. Somewhere you can hunker down awhile and figure things out. They can help you with that too. You're just gonna have to trust me on this one. Got it?"
Shephard looked back to the door, listening to the noises coming from above. His heartbeat quickened, with impending dread, confrontation. He felt some fear... but there was something else with it, that made him stand his ground. He didn't like the idea of fleeing... but the old man would have his reasons for all this. Finally he looked back to the old man, and nodded. If there was anyone left to trust, it was him. There was nobody else, anywhere. Neither past nor present. Just them. Satisfied his message had reached the soldier, the old man picked up the microphone and flicked on the transmitter, leaning closer to it.
"Outpost 13, come in. Norton, is that you? Come in, Norton.", The old man spoke into the microphone, pressing a button and waiting for a response. None came for a few moments, but the noises coming from the streets, and the sirens, were enough to make him especially impatient. He pressed the button again and spoke into it, more loudly than before. "It's Sam. Stop jerking off down there motherfucker and pick up the goddamn line!"
"Got you loud and clear, old timer.", Came an amused man's voice on the other end of the line, at last. Shephard could hear some men and women laughing in the background over the radio. Even the old man had to smirk a bit wryly. "You drop all your pills down the sink again? Need some help finding your cane, gramps?"
"Real funny. Ain't got time for that shit. I got a soldier here, ladies and gentleman. Marine named Shephard. Found him laying out in the trash, not sure who dumped him off there. I'm thinkin' he could make himself useful to the cause. The Combine already have it out for him, and he just got into town. CPs are on their way to search the apartments. We can't keep him up here when they do."
"A soldier? Just got here? What the hell are you talking about, man? The Razor Train stations are closed for the night. The barriers are up. Nobody's entering City 1 from the outside without The Combine catching them. You've been watching too many old war movies. Or having Nam' flashbacks."
"Come take a look at him for yourself, jackass, and you'll see what I mean. Eat your words while you're at it. He's a good kid, needs somewhere to lie low... and why not one more warrior drone for The Hive?"
"The Hive? You want me to take a stranger with the heat on him directly to The Hive? Is that what all the commotion going on up there is about? We're picking up some Combine transmissions from here, it's some serious shit you've stepped in. The Citadel is lit up like a Christmas tree. What do you think the boss will have to say if he brings that down to our doorstep? He could be another goddamn spy of The Prowler, playing you for an idiot for all we know! You want to risk all our asses for one guy?"
"It ain't like that. He's not with the Combine. The minute you see him, you'll understand. There's nothing ordinary about him. He doesn't belong here, but somehow he is here anyways. The boss will recognize him, I'm thinking. And I can vouch for him. Anything goes wrong, it's on me, not you."
There was a pause of static over the line. The line remained dead for a brief time... before it reopened. Shephard could hear all the arguing behind the man on the other end, some against the old man's request, others in favor. The man, Norton, finally made the decision for the group. Voice sighing under it's breath, wearily reluctant.
"Fine. Like you said, it's on your head, old man, not mine. This goes south, you're going to pieces, not me. I have... Rae, Jenkins and Carmine here, available. I can send them to meet up with you guys about half way. Best I can do under these shitty conditions. Take it or leave it."
"Just him. Someone has to stay here, take responsibility for this.", Sam replied at once, glancing up at Shephard, to find the Marine peered back at him with concern. The old man smiled a little knowingly and sadly, accepting the futility of the situation. Speaking as much to him as the man on the other end of the line. "I ain't abandoning my tenants. Or my building. My post. Been here long as I can remember, and I ain't leaving. This is my home. I'll just slow you guys down anyways. I got a duty too, up here. Got it?"
"Figured. Stubborn piece of work. Fine. Send this... 'Shephard' guy ahead, then. And tell him to watch his ass down here. It isn't as cozy as it is above."
"I'm sure he'll manage. I'll call you guys back after the sector sweep with updates. Still on for that poker game Friday?"
"If you're ready to lose your ration coupons and credits to boot, yes. Don't do anything stupid now, when they come knocking on your door. Or stupider than usual. The way you run your mouth."
"Back at you, jackass."
The old man smiled a bit deeper at that, but didn't say anything more. He turned off the microphone and radio, tucking it all back away beneath the table, in it's hidden compartment. While he did this, Shephard turned to face the stairs again, studying the locked boiler room door. It looked like it could hold for awhile, in the worst case scenario... but if there was something he already knew about these... Combine, they did not give up easily. And that they had more than the firepower and tools to bypass a simple door. The cold, echoing voice emanated through the entire block again, reaching even below where they resided in the boiler room. Shephard rose his head quickly, staring up at the ceiling as he listened.
"Attention please. Evasion behavior consistent with malcompliant defendant. Ground protection team alert. Code: isolate, expose, administer."
"That don't sound good.", The old man muttered under his breath with a tired grunt. He glanced away from Shephard and past him to a point, before standing back up from his seat, stretching with a groan, and stepping past him again. "Get over here, son, help me with this trolley."
There was a blue metal trolley in the opposite corner of the boiler room, covered in thick, heavy bags of cement. The old man moved over to it, kicking aside boxes, junk piles and tool cases, and began to pull on the trolley's handle, grunting with difficulty at the weight, the wheels only moving a little. Shephard stepped over to his side quickly to lend him a hand, taking over for him, and with some minor exertion of his muscles, he began to pull it back with relative ease. The trolley had been parked atop a dusty old carpet, and when it was exposed, so too was an unmistakable metal manhole cover that had been hiding beneath, set in the concrete floor. The old man knelt and pulled aside the carpet, revealing it to Shephard, looking back up at the soldier again from where he knelt. He spoke again as he got to work shifting the weight of the lid, which was a bit more manageable for him than the trolley.
"You're going underground for awhile. Quite literally. Before the war, when the city was being refitted and fortified against the storms, the old New York metro tunnels were expanded to run all the way around beneath the entirety of what ended up City 1. There are a bunch of Outposts and Metro Stations down there, manned by plenty of good men and women, all sick of what the commies have been doing up here. They fight when they can, by night, help those they can. They haven't given up, like others still living here have. Some of them have been down there since before the war. The closest outpost is 13, you can't miss it, and some friends of mine will be waiting. The CPs patrol a few of the outer sections of the station's, some of the tunnels, but don't make deep regular sweeps down there anymore... too many bugs that we got under control in certain zones... and plenty worse than them we haven't. Even The Combine know when not to waste good resources they can keep up here making us miserable. Usually when they do travel deeper down there, it's them bad Overwatch Rangers doing it. Tough bastards. Don't think you'll have to worry about them... for now, but you be careful all the same."
Sam requested of him, dusting off his hands after he'd parted the lid aside, revealing the ladder descending into the darkness below. He stood up again, breathing a bit deeper, looking past Shephard and to the stairs for a moment, before looking back to him. Watching him with something like interest, an openly speculative look, searching him. At last, he reached into one of his pockets and took something out... a small chain. A necklace... with unmistakable dog tags on them. He held them out dangling in offering.
"You go on. Take em'. Not letting them fall in the hands of these commie bastards. They won't take these away from me. You keep em' safe, along with yours, Marine."
Shephard's eyes beneath the lenses looked between the dog tags, and their weathered but strong owner. He hesitated for a moment... then reached out for them tentatively. The old man enclosed them with a strong hand into his palm, transferring them over, before letting them go. Shephard glanced down at them... absorbing the name, rank, number and date of birth... the tags were faintly rusted, unlike his own fresh pair... but remained resilient. Then Shephard looked back up into his eyes. Nodding in understanding, slipping them out of sight in one of his body armor's front pockets. That seemed enough to satisfy the old man.
"Good. Now, pay attention. You got a target on your back, son. But you ain't alone in that. I don't know who you were before you showed up, what you went through... but it don't matter. You showed up at one hell of a time. And we need ya more than ever. I can tell you're important. You're a survivor type, got that look in your eyes. You got friends here now. They'll get you to The Hive... our most secure forward operating base, heart of The Resistance in City 1. Friend of mine I want you to meet is pretty much running things down there. You'll know who. When you get there, you'll be safe for awhile. Got my word."
Shephard stood next to the open manhole, looking between it and the old man for a time, taking every word to heart. He wanted to say something... do something. He'd not done anything for the old man but bring disaster to his front door. Just by existing. What could he possibly say? Sorry? Thank you? Perfunctory worthless words. Instead, his gloved hand slowly, awkwardly extended downward, offering it. As the old man's had to him in the alley. The old man took it, and Shephard helped him back up... and took the time to shake his hand gratefully. The old man returned the gesture in kind, with a look of mutual respect. Suddenly, there was a heavy bang against the door of the locked boiler... and beyond it, the unmistakable boots on the steps, bustling downward. Both the old man and Shephard looked back in it's direction again, and the automated voice addressed the block again. As the CPs outside the door spoke loudly to one another, synthesized tones muttering through the door.
"Attention occupants. Your block is now charged with permissive inactive coercion. Five ration units deducted."
"Ain't gonna be much food where I'm going anyways. I'll be fine. You just get the hell out of here. Oh... and I think you dropped this, back in the alley.", Sam remembered, looking back to the soldier. Holding out the red pipe wrench he'd been lugging around to Shephard. It was a heavy duty sort of instrument with plenty of scuff's on the paint... not ancient, but well used. "It was lying next to you... and it ain't one of mine. Marine needs a weapon. You'll get your hands on more of em', soon enough. Won't hear me crying for any stupid bastard dumb enough to get in your way. And whatever you do, don't drink the water coming from any of the vending machines. Stick to what's in your canteen They put something in it, to make you forget. Last thing a fella like you needs, forgetting anything else."
The moment he took it, there was a beeping in his ears from the suit... as it recognized the Pipe Wrench... a designation for it appearing in his weapon inventory in the top left corner of his vision. Shephard studied the large wrench that had been in the old man's hands for a moment, and looked back into his eyes. He nodded gratefully... for the weapon, the advice, and for what the old man was doing for him. Everything. Carefully, Shephard rose the wrench, testing the weight, patting one of his gloved hands with it appreciatively. It had a good heft... a familiar one, and felt welcome. Finally, hooking the end to the belt on his waist and letting it hang there, Shephard knelt beside the manhole and climbed down on to the ladder. Both hands gripped the rungs, lowering himself down it slightly. Overhead, the old man stepped closer to the open manhole, peering back down it at him as he descended.
"I'll see ya when I see ya. And Marine... almost forgot one more thing. Semper Fi. Do or die. Welcome to City 1."
The old man stood at attention, looming above him like a giant. And snapped off a salute, in full military fashion. Shephard peered back at him for no more than a second... remembering the photograph he'd found... before returning the salute from the ladder, gloved hand risen to his helmet. The old man smiled, eyes twinkling, and knelt down again, pulling the manhole cover back over top. The lid slammed down over Shephard's helmet, bathing him in darkness, save a few pin pricks from the lid. But as the old man lay back over the carpet into place, even this light was cut off. Above he heard the old man grunting and straining, pushing the cart of sand bags over top of the carpet and manhole again. Just in time. Shephard could hear him dusting off his hands on his coveralls... and a mere couple of moments later, he heard the locked door to the boiler room break down. The door slamming against the wall. He listened to the jackboots racing down the stairs to the main floor, amid a burst of angry synthesized voices. There was commotion, the blaring of radios and a beeping above, not unlike the sounds the Scanner had made as it had recorded him. Them. The old man's muffled voice spoke then from above, greeting them with a hearty chuckle that echoed through the room.
"Well about time you fellas got here! I ordered that new water heater months ago! You really are good at picking up the pace, when you finally get your shit together. Ought try make being efficient where it counts a full time thing, for once."
"Up against the wall, Citizen Clarke! Hands on the back of your head! Now! Search him!"
"Easy jackasses... damn. You really gotta pull this crap at this hour? I wasn't breaking curfew or anything. Nobody was."
"Citizen, you have been caught by our City Scanners harboring a disguised, unregistered potential Anticitizen wearing outlawed combat equipment. And you attacked the device, in direct violation of the law and further confirmation of your own guilt. You are suspected of having ties to the Resistance. You will tell us where you hid him. This block will be detained. Every room will be torn apart and searched. If you do not comply, you will be taken to The Island. And the information will be processed out of you and every other citizen in this building, if necessary."
"I got no idea what the hell you're talking about, son. I mean literally. You need a better vocal thing on your mask. You sound like shit is coming out of your mouth, but I'll be damned if I can understand it. This is my building and I'm the landlord here. You got any problems with how things are run, you take them up with me, nobody else. Got that, boy?"
"This is not your property, Citizen. It as well as you belong to The Consul. All things serve The Consul. All things serve Our Benefactors. You are of no more importance than anyone else cowering upstairs, awaiting their guilty sentences. You are all equally guilty."
"I killed commies like you in the jungle when this country was still a country, and worth a damn. And when people were still people. When the law meant something. Before fucking cowards like you killed the dream. Betrayed us all. I see tough guys like you and I slap the shit out of them!"
"Your threats against a Peace Officer have been recorded. You have one more chance, Citizen. Comply, tell us where he is and you may be spared a lengthy procession."
"You think I'm buying that shit? I was a dead man the minute you caught him on that camera, you lying cocksucker. You better be glad he ain't here, or he'd shove that baton up your ass. Like I would if you had the balls to fight me. But this block had nothing to do with it... it was all me. They don't know a damn thing. If you dragging anyone to that fucking Island, it's gonna be me."
"You'll have company. Rest assured. Anticitizen Clarke is resisting arrest!"
There was the crashing of wood and metal, objects falling over, and shouts of pain. Shelves toppled. Muffled synthesized grunts of exertion. The boiler room sounded like it was being torn apart, as the old man cursed them out with every word under the sun. He was fighting back and then some, from the sounds of it. Putting up a good struggle, even with the odds stacked against him. He did not go quietly.
"You dirty fucking son's of bitches! You think you can take me on?! How do you like that?! Come on now, is that a weapon or a flashlight?! Gimme one of them sticks and I'll beat your asses, all of you! Can't even take me one on-..."
There was another firm smack of the electrical baton, somewhere overhead... the old man screamed in agony... a weight hit the floor. He continued screaming and swearing under another barrage of beatings... until he wasn't. He soon went silent, and the beatings ceased at the command of their leader. Wanting him alive. Shephard could hear the subordinates breathing harder through their vocal devices, painfully, dragging him away, his legs hitting the stairs... all the while gritting his teeth inside the gas mask. Hand clenching on the rung of the ladder. Keeping silent. Despising his weakness and helplessness. When the sounds of Sam's dragging limbs faded away into the distance, that same damning synthesized voice that had addressed him spoke again to a lingering subordinate.
"He isn't here any longer. Sweep the building anyways. Round up everyone and the usual suspects and take them to The Island for processing. Send several patrols ahead to set up a perimeter. Search all the neighboring districts. Search the sewers. Search the canals. Search the outlying tunnels. Send a Scanner with each patrol for confirmation. He can't have gotten far."
"Yes sir."
"Antlions and other Borderworld vermin might be down there too, easy to handle. If there is any serious trouble, Viscerators and full deadly force weaponry are authorized. But Overwatch wants this one alive for questioning. Right now, this case falls under our jurisdiction. If all else fails, they may take it over and send some Rangers deeper to investigate the old metro stations. He might be dangerous enough for them to risk the Hydra."
"The Hydra? For one man? Do we really need this much firepower and risk spent on one man?"
"His combat uniform is pre war military power armor of an as of yet unknown model, similar to the armor soldiers wore before and during the Seven Hour War. Matches recovered records of the Hazardous Environmental Combat Unit out of former Arizona. Former United States Marine Corps. Had a hand in the Black Mesa Incident. He's probably an impostor, a scavenger of tech. If not he has advanced military training and may be dangerous. He may be working with Anticitizen One. Overwatch is taking no risks and neither are we. If he is in league with any Resistance down there, and you find them, apprehend them as well. Scan their identities Find out what you can. Question them. Execute them. Take only those of value alive."
"Understood."
Shephard listened to it all in silence, and lingered where he was as a series of footsteps moved back upstairs. Leaving him quite alone again. Even from below, he could hear the distant screams of men and women. The sirens. The shouting CPs breaking down doors. That cold, artifical woman's voice. Moving floor by floor... and the Corporal slowly closed his eyes. His grip tightening on the wrench's handle. He felt... guilt. He'd condemned a building of people to... whatever they were going to do to them. Imprisonment. Execution. Worse. If he'd known... he wouldn't have taken the old man's offer. He would have taken the risk of exploring the city on his own. And it was all because he wanted to look out a window. He'd condemned them, as surely as the masked thugs of The Combine above ground had. Silently, he thanked the old man. Sam. For his generosity... for everything he'd given up, to help a stranger lying in his alley. If he'd been left there... he imagined he'd have been opening his eyes to an electrical nightstick and glowing blue eyes. One of those voices. If he didn't go on now, it would all be for nothing. His sacrifice in vain.
On to Outpost 13... the Resistance... to The Hive. A group... Sam had been apart of all along. Resisting. Surviving. Defying The Consul. Fighting. Maybe this was his only shot left for finding answers. He remembered having skills... things he'd been trained for. Sam had called him an American soldier. A Marine. And now the murderers above were saying the same thing about him. His gear backed that up. He hadn't wanted to leave Sam there alone at their mercy like that. He felt the stirrings of anger and the same cold helplessness. If he'd stayed, maybe he could have protected Sam and the others. They'd needed to outnumber an unarmed elderly former Marine to pacify him. What would they make of him? The CPs above had said words about him... Hazardous Environmental Combat Unit. Black Mesa. They meant something to him, somewhere. Words of importance. He had them within, but couldn't reach them. Their meaning were lost somewhere beyond.
He looked down the tunnel, to the tracks in the distance. It was dark... but Sam had said there were lights eventually. An impulse came to him, then, glancing to the icon in the top corner of his vision, glowing green. A battery... for something he remembered. His fingers moved instinctively for the glowing transmitter on his vest, and tapped a button he had before a number of times. The power armor instantly fed energy to the mask's built in lenses, and with a hum of noise in his ears, the curtain of darkness was drawn back. Replaced by an all encompassing green light providing him a pathway, an escape, as Sam had. With the wrench down low at his side, removing it from his belt and taking it up again, he was ready for anything that came out of the darkness, around any bend or corner. He stepped away from the ladder and manhole at last. He began to walk ahead slowly but carefully, not letting his boots tap audibly on the cement ground. A few rats ran by ahead of him... and he followed after them. Maybe he was better off with the denizens of this underground world. The one above was not a world he'd ever known, or knew now. But he remembered walking dark, dangerous tunnels into the maw of the unknown before.
Dark corridors. Metal corridors. Into the heart of the uncharted. In search of something that he couldn't remember. Now he looked for something they called a Hive, and the person Sam wanted him to meet up with. A leader. A boss. Anticitizen One, perhaps? Or someone else altogether? Behind him, from the manhole and ladder he was leaving, that cold woman's echoing voice followed after each step, resonating off the tunnels. Filtering into his mask, as though it had activated the radio built into his suit. He froze in his tracks as the voice reached him, at least long enough to listen.
"Attention all ground protection teams, autonomous judgement is now in effect. Sentencing is now discretionary. Code: amputate, zero, confirm."
He noted it silently... as he knew he would have to take note of everything, in this strange new world. He raised his eyes back down to the tunnel, and kept right on moving deeper into the unwelcome darkness. But took a strange, welcome comfort in being guided there all the way by a green familiar world that he knew.