Trying to keep a soldier's composure was hard, then. Harder than anything I'd endured up to that point, and harder than a lot of the things to come. Stood in my Civil Protection (and they said the Combine didn't have a sense of humour) armour, the temptation to break down and just scream into my mask was almost unbearable.
I stood at my post, staring out at the world, trying not to cry.
"You," barked a voice somewhere nearby, "shotgun guy!" Looking at the large shotgun in my hands it came slowly to my mind that that was me. I turned to answer the call.
"We're leaving. Stop standing there like a lemon and get in the damned APC." I nodded, and did as instructed.
I didn't know where we were going. Back to the barracks? To the next mission? It was just as likely we were all off to get some fucking ice cream for what the incomprehensible voice in my ear was telling me. The Overwatch, constantly whining through my helmet speakers, was becoming part of my own internal voice. It wasn't even in the helmet anymore, it was in my head. And I knew the orders before I heard them – oh boy did I know them. I had been in the force about half an hour and I knew every damn thing the bitch said. Everything I said. Did everyone else hear her too? Looking around at the rest of the soldiers, it didn't look likely. They were all sat silently, staring forward. Unmoving. Entirely obedient, waiting for the next order to be delivered to their brains so they could perform it with Labrador-esque enthusiasm. It occurred to me that I was the only one looking around. I stopped.
When the APC skidded to a quick halt, the rear door fell open more than it swung. With a heavy 'clang', the steel hit the concrete and we jumped out in formation. I took point – I did, after all, have the CQB weapon. And no-one else could shoot for shit. I realised that these dead-eye initiates were my only support – my life was essentially in their hands.
Life. With the mere thought of the word, a chill ran through every vein in my body. This wasn't a game – this was me living or me dying. A stray bullet, a shard of rampant shrapnel, a sneaky enemy... these could end it with disturbing ease. There'd be nothing I could do, nothing the useless bastards behind me could do. It would be the end of me and everything I'd ever been and ever could be. The death of a thousand futures for myself. It was a worrying concept, so I pushed it to the back of my panic-stricken mind.
Looking around, I tried to get a grip of where we were. A canal, I supposed, though it looked more like a causeway for raw sewage. Rusty iron bars in equally rusty frames bordered one end of this particular section of canal, with putrid water flowing between them. About halfway between where we were stood and the other end was an entrance from the left, where more water flowed in. To my right was a long plank, which lead like a path to the rusty bars. It looked like someone could jump over if they tried, which was presumably their purpose. A mounted turret rested before me, overlooking the whole area, and a soldier quickly seized control of it. We were all in position, guns raised. Had I been listening at the time, I'd have probably known what – who – we were waiting for. But my question was answered soon enough anyway as, in a blur of orange and grey, he emerged from the side entrance. I stood, stunned, staring at our target.
Dr. Gordon Freeman.