Wallace Breen looked down on City 17 from on high, and wondered how, precisely, it had come to this. The thin cloud layer did not obscure the stark cityscape below, from its crumbling tenements to the Combine's impenetrable autonomous walls, many of which likely were recycling more of the city as he looked. Total control.

And yet, somehow, we are under assault. His contacts in the Resistance had sent no word of a major offensive, and what he had heard suggesting nothing less than … well. The kind of assault one might have seen in the old days, before the Co – Universal Union. Unknown atmospheric disturbances. Strange weaponry. A sudden, overwhelming, and inexplicable offensive. How odd it must feel, for the Universal Union to be on the opposite end of such an attack.

But such a thought was folly. The Universal Union did not care. His trans-dimensional liaison awaited an update with mild curiosity, not fear. Their resources were infinite, or close enough to the word as any human mind could readily comprehend. No, at present, these invaders, whoever they were, represented an opportunity. More minds to collect. More identities to subsume. More technology to … adapt. And they have stayed well clear of the Citadel. Even I cannot help but feel unthreatened.

Nevertheless, it had been seven hours since the Citadel's initial alarm. The dead of a stormy night now turned to the grays of another still midday in what was once Eastern Europe. Scanners searched every inch of every sector, leaving nothing untouched. Sector 9 crawled with the Transhuman Arm of the Combine Overwatch, whose compliance and thoroughness could not be questioned. If there was anything to find, they would find it. But … seven hours, and nothing. Wallace sighed and turned in place, heel sliding neatly on the rug. He sat down at his desk, lifting the paper from where he had left it and straightening it out with a surreptitious flick.

Anomalous activity. Sector not controlled. Outbreak – so there was at least one left after initial contact. Possible subversion of a CP unit – mental? The way they spoke of it, it was as if the officer had been controlled by a headc – excuse me, parasite. Yet, we have nothing on record suggesting necrotics could still speak coherently or use weaponry post-infestation…

Wallace sniffed, turning his attention to the top of the report. Sudden blackout. Not unexpected during an electrical disturbance such as a thunder storm. Sudden loss of contact with all CP units – that is unheard of. Should have raised an alarm immediately. Overwatch tried to raise them for twenty minutes before diverting the first CP team. Total radio silence after passing the checkpoint. The second team, whoever they were, had more luck. All dead now, though. Overwatch reports four flatlines.

Wallace rubbed his forehead, feeling a slight headache coming on. It was all well and good, sitting at the highest and hardest point on the planet, but the foundation … well, that belonged to the Universal Union. And if he could not make himself useful, well, there was a very long way to fall. And at this very moment? He had nothing. He did not feel very useful. Pray that the Transhuman Arm of the Combine Overwatch lives up to the lofty expectations you set for them to our Benefactors…

Wallace's pager beeped. He pressed the button without hesitation, hoping it was news and not … anything else.

"Dr. Breen, speaking?"

"Scythe-1. Evidence from infestation zone."

Wallace leaned back in his chair, sighing. Good. Good. Something to work with. He pushed the button again.

"Come right in." At the far side of his office, the interlocking sheets of metal that comprised his door slid apart. Two Enhanced Troopers, what the layman might call the Combine Elite, wheeled in a small metal container, roughly cylindrical in shape. A more superstitious man might have said it resembled a coffin. The two Elites pushed it directly in front of Wallace's desk and then filed off to the side, waiting.

"Is it … safe?"

"Subject has been scrubbed of contaminants. Internal security systems cleared access to the Citadel." The soldier spoke with the same low, vocoded tones of all his kind. Their padded white armor, down to insignia, looked identical to Wallace. God knows what they see out of that single red eye of theirs. How do they tell each other apart? Do they need to?

Dr. Tygan would be able to tell him. But Wallace sometimes suspected that Tygan lied. He rose from his desk and gingerly approached the sealed, well, coffin, wondering what, exactly, the finest troops humanity could offer the Combine had brought him. He ran a hand down the smooth metal shell of the container. Cold. Probably to preserve the body … or what's left of it. His hand felt for the glowing green button and pressed it.

With a hiss of released pressure and a surge of cold air, the container parted. The smell of something sterile and clean, like laundry detergent, filled the air. Wallace wrinkled his nose but did not step back, staring down at his prize, whatever it was. For a few heavy moments, he could only stare.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Wallace looked up to the two Elites, who only glanced at each other in their closest approximation of confusion. Wallace looked back down to the little curled up body inside its coffin. "I…" Wallace stepped back, looking away, head in hand. "…this cannot be real."

"No electromagnetic or psychic phenomenon detected in vicinity of corpse," offered one Elite helpfully. "The subject exists fully within this dimension."

"I know that!" Wallace wheeled around, sucking in a deep breath. "It's just that … well. With everything I have seen at Black Mesa and since … dammit, if something like this existed, I would have known about it already!" Wallace glared down at the feeble-looking bastard, hoping some kind of explanation would be forthcoming. There was nothing. No trick, no joke. A large-headed, bug-eyed, smooth-skinned little alien creature lay in a padded coffin, smelling strongly of anti-septic solution. Doubtless it had flown around in a little saucer and sported a ray gun as well. Perhaps it had even probed its fair share of citizens, before being brought down by-

"Who killed it?" asked Wallace, eyes still fixed on the alien's stiff form.

"Verdicts delivered by stationed CP pounder," said the Elite on the right. "Two rounds through the torso. Biotic carried no visible weapon. Unable to locate additional biotics within infection zone."

"Any other bodies?" asked Wallace.

"Negative."

"I doubt one three-foot alien could do all of that damage." It was perhaps dangerous to assume, but given the scale of the devastation… "The others must have fled once we reinforced the sector. Does Airwatch have anything to report?"

"Negative."

"I see." Wallace turned around and stared back out through the window. The city glittered dully below. Whatever they may think of me, it is my charge to defend City 17 from both outside threats and the follies of its own citizens. Whatever they may think of me … He had responsibilities to attend to.

"Wheel the body down to the antechamber," said Wallace, waving his hand at the shoulder. "Our Benefactors will want to see this."

The Elites resealed the container and followed Wallace as he proceeded down the rug and through the short corridor leading to the elevator. The three of them stood there as the doors shut. Wallace tried not to focus on the stillness of the Elites, how neither seemed to need to even breathe…

The elevator descended slowly, the bright lights of Wallace's office giving way to the softer lighting of the slightly lower levels. Metal pipes and thin glass tubes wormed their way down the shaft as they proceeded downward. To Wallace, they always looked like nothing more than the Citadel's equivalent of veins and arteries. And sometimes I hear the building scream. He had never dared to ask their Benefactors if the Citadel itself was a synth. It certainly would not have surprised him. Yet he had always held his tongue. Their Benefactors disliked that kind of analytical thinking unless it had been asked for. Free will has to prove its worth, otherwise it will be replaced with something more … practical. One need only look to the two gentlemen to either side of him to see the outcome of that. Better an Elite than a stalker.

The elevator continued to wind down into the depths. Speaking of the devil, Stalkers strode awkwardly on their spindly metal stilts across the myriad walkways, occasionally stopping at a computer terminal or to apply maintenance to some machine. They remained blessedly silent. Wallace hated it when they screamed.

Conveyors churned endlessly, and Wallace could see APCs and Helicopters being transported to the final stages of completion. Gunships hung silently on walls, their multifaceted eyes glittering in the Citadel's lights. As they passed underneath another walkway, the familiar thud of a strider's footstep could be heard rounding the corner. Wallace spared another glance at the coffin. If I were you, I would pack it up and head back to where you came from. Believe me, nothing good can come from opposing our Benefactors. The price of resistance stood next to him … or pushed buttons on a computer terminal with metal prosthetics.

The light faded further, leaving just enough to see. The Elites features turned bleary and indistinct, the previously distinct logo of a cracked human skull encircled by the Combine's clamp turning into little more than a fuzzy white blob. Although my eyes may be going. Wallace did not relish the thought of what Comb – the Universal Union's eye surgery might have looked like. I will stick to glasses if necessary.

The doors slid open without a sound, greeting them all with a blast of unwelcomingly warm air. It felt like being back in New Mexico during a hot summer's night. The inside of Black Mesa might have been 68 degrees, but that did not apply to the topside dormitories, and the air conditioning was always on the fritz. Here and now, Wallace felt that same heat and helplessness. Their Benefactors preferred a dry heat, and he would simply have to live with it. He took his first careful steps forward into the empty blackness ahead.

The ceiling stretched high overhead. The walls to either side of him were featureless, as was the great expanse of space around him. A single massive door adorned the upper part of the wall directly ahead, made of the interlocking plates of Wallace's own entrance to his chambers. A single rail, linked to the ceiling, ran through it, with the other end coming to a halt just a few feet above Wallace. And on the door itself, blazed in red, a series of markings and scratches that only Wallace and a handful of Overwatch had ever seen.

There's only a handful of people on the planet who have ever seen that symbol. They were familiar enough with the Combine clamp, or the letters "CMB," and all earthborne synths had their own markings somewhere on their … person. Even the Transhuman Overwatch had their own insignias, varying only by rank. But the symbol on that door indicated something that was not manufactured. Whatever the Universal Union was at its core, these … representatives … were the closest to that ideal one would find on Earth.

And they are the reason I must succeed where anyone else would fail. Why I must ignore every pang of conscience or doubt. Wallace glanced behind him. The soldiers wheeled up the coffin with barely a squeak, neither of them appearing the slightest bit uneasy. There were times Wallace envied what a Transhuman brain was capable of, even if he was nowhere near willing to have any kind of enhancement surgery done on himself.

Wallace scuffed his feet against the floor, feeling like a child waiting outside the principal's office. I have done nothing wrong. They wanted any physical evidence found brought to them as soon as possible, and I have done so. It was not as if their Benefactors ever got angry. From what Wallace could tell, they were not capable of it; or at least, not angry as a human would understand it. Still, there was a certain irritation that Wallace could always sense when they were disturbed. From what he could tell, they liked the Earth quiet.

"I am here. I have brought word of the invaders." Wallace stared up at the great door above, hands placed behind his back, standing as stock still as possible. The sweat began to build beneath his clothing. Have to take a shower before doing any more broadcasts. He tentatively brought a hand to his brow and mopped it.

For several long seconds, nothing happened. Wallace held his breath despite himself, wondering what kind of reaction he would be getting. Then, up above, light inched its way through the newly forming gaps in the door. The metal slats parted, some sliding upwards, others downwards. A single metal shell, roughly oval in shape, came sliding down the rail, rocking gently and clanking. The hair on the back of Wallace's neck began to stand on end. Slowly, the oval began its descent. The air began to thicken and feel more oppressive. A smell like … well, Wallace had kept a few lizards as pets, and the way the inside of their habitat when he opened it, it was like that. Sickly, alien, and hot. Recognizable, but never fully understandable. And somehow just wrong.

The oval stopped above Wallace. He could, if he felt today was a fine day to end his own existence, perhaps jump high enough to just barely pat its hull. The air rippled as it finally rocked to a halt, and Wallace felt a familiar pressure in the back of his mind. Familiar and unwelcome. The air twisted and squirmed, and the blue-black metal of the oval's exterior seemed to darken.

"Yes, I have brought a dead specimen," replied Wallace, shivering. Their Benefactors never … spoke. Well, they certainly communicated, but it was always in the past, somehow. And Wallace could never precisely relate what was said. Just the general intention. Orders were at least always clear. Their Benefactors did not like being misunderstood.

The oval shook slightly, as if whatever lived inside it turned over slightly in its sleep. A muffled grunt issued from within. Then the corners of Wallace's vision reddened slightly, as if something heavy were leaving an imprint within his skull. He scratched his forehead, trying not to give any obvious indication of the mounting pain.

"Yes, it possesses a cranium, from what I can see. One must assume it has a nervous system in some capacity. But we found no existing weapon on the body, and this was the only recovered specimen."

The air stilled slightly. Whatever lay within began considering the situation. No irritation. That's good. Their Benefactors were still capable of curiosity, it seemed, and Wallace did not know if anything like this had happened before. The extra-dimensional meets the extra-terrestrial. It could get exciting. Wallace remained under no delusions as to who would win the conflict, however. The reason for that certainty lay above him.

The next order came for the Elites, who stiffened slightly before complying. The leftmost soldier hit the button, and the coffin once again opened, releasing a good deal less air pressure this time. Up above, the Benefactor looked down on the still body of the alien. What it thought of the corpse, Wallace could only guess. He did have an inkling of what would happen next, however, and that he did not relish.

A crack of light appeared in the oval above. The hidden hinges began to swing open, and Wallace fought every urge to look away. Look it in the face. Know it. He communicated with his Benefactors over screen often enough to know what they looked like, but to actually stand in one's presence … Wallace's knees trembled.

The oval swung open, slowly, pressure escaping from the inside at an impressive rate. Wallace saw the face first, lime green and featureless, smooth like a larva, some kind of breathing apparatus clamped over where its mouth must be. It lacked eyes, yet an optical enhancement mounted to the right side of its almost-face let it see. It lacked arms or legs, but Wallace knew that it did not need them. It descended from its shell slowly, air rippling in its wake, no arms or legs to carry it. It did not even wriggle, like a worm would. It simply floated, the size of a small elephant, the only real motion being the camera mounted to its front, which darted between the body and Wallace himself.

Wallace watched, jaw clamped, as the creature grew closer to him, slowly. Now, if he reached out, he could touch it. But that would never be allowed. The Benefactor let forth a burst of intention, and Wallace took a step back. The Benefactor inched closer to the alien corpse.

A tongue, translucent, narrow, and hollow, slid from beneath the mask. The alien corpse, previously motionless, suddenly jerked once before floating into the air. The Benefactor brought it before its approximation of a face, the camera sliding up and down as it gazed upon the alien up close. The tongue, moving to and fro like a cobra about to strike, reached forward and prodded the cranium once. The alien's head lulled sickeningly, and Wallace could not help but note the similarity in its proportions to that of a human baby. No. That's not an image I need. Wallace's eyes watered as he stared at his Benefactor, whose tongue again prodded the alien's limp skull. Wallace knew what came next.

With a swiftness that made Wallace queasy, the questing tongue shot forward. Green blood spurted from the wound as the Benefactor drove its appendage deep inside the creature's skull. The tongue began to pulsate, and Wallace tried not to dwell on the sounds he could hear. Specifically, those of … slurping. This went on for several moments before the Benefactor ripped the tongue free from the gaping wound, letting green dribble down its tongue and the creature's skull. Speckles of dull color fell on to the floor before him.

The Benefactor, liquid still dribbling from its tongue, let the alien fall to the floor. It crumpled like a discarded rag doll, falling lifeless. The camera now turned to Wallace, their eyes linking. The Benefactor made its intentions clear.

Live specimens. It made sense. Only so much information could be gathered from a corpse.

"I shall alert our forces," said Wallace, not precisely certain how they would incapacitate and capture such creatures. The Universal Union tends to emphasize lethality in its kit. "I shall also bring the corpse to Dr. Tygan, to better analyze its physiology."

The Benefactor's tongue slid out. Wallace got the impression that there was much inside the head of Dr. Tygan that the Universal Union would like to have firsthand. He is much too valuable. They all are. The Benefactor spoke, in its own fashion, and Wallace heard.

"So, this was just a scout?" Wallace looked down at the pathetic body his Benefactor had cast aside. A pity. Too much to hope for a leader, then. "What did he know, then? What are their intentions?"

If the Benefactor could be amused, well, this was close to it. Wallace could almost feel the mocking edge to its barrage of thought and intention.

"How could it know so little?" Wallace glanced down at it again. "The weapons it brought to bear-"

The Benefactor's mocking thoughts became hard, visceral. Wallace looked back at the two soldiers, who watched the proceedings with all the life and energy of stone statues. If we plucked their thoughts, what would they know? Wars were not thought with thinking soldiers any longer. Not even these invaders had any use for the independence of their underlings, it seemed. Was humanity really so special? For some reason, Wallace began to blink back tears.

The Benefactor lowered itself further. Wallace watched it descend almost to eye level, its face uncomfortably close to his. The tongue slipped out, and Wallace resisted the urge to shut his eyes. The Benefactor's tongue began to loll this way and that.

"They are here to sow general chaos and mayhem, and the Transhuman Arm of the Combine Overwatch will repulse them." Wallace tried to smile, but only managed a sort of weak grimace. The tongue did not stop moving. "We will increase surveillance on all cities. If they attack again, we will lock down the area and dispatch troops to combat them."

The Benefactor had doubts. Some more blood dribbled on the floor. The tongue did not stop moving.

"We will form an extraterrestrial combat unit arm of the Overwatch," said Wallace. "We will not let up on the Resistance, which remains carefully monitored, nor will we cease resource extraction here on Earth. The enemy forces will be found and dealt with."

"Expunge," said a soldier from behind him.

"Cauterize," said the other. Wallace did not turn around. His eyes were on the Benefactor's. Slowly, with great hesitation, the being began to ascend, the tongue slipping back beneath the breathing apparatus.

There was a very simple fix to their little alien problem. A quick surge of reinforcements from the Overworld, complete with spacefaring weapons and vehicles, would put a quick end to any threats on the planet. If necessary, they could even secure the entire solar system, or the galaxy, if they had to. But that was expensive. It did not matter how many Overwatch died. Or citizens. And, if the problem were dealt with promptly, the assimilation of these new aliens could even be … profitable.

But … if the problem were not dealt with promptly…

"There is no need for that," called out Wallace, voice cracking slightly. "Only one sector has been attacked. We will alert all forces. This problem will be dealt with."

On that, the Benefactor agreed. It was simply how the problem would be dealt with that their opinions differed.

The Benefactor slid back into its metal cocoon, the hinges swinging back in again as it resumed its quiet reverie. As the doors swung shut, it let forth one last burst of intention. A haunting reminder.

"Live specimens," said Wallace, licking his lips. "Understood."