Hl2 Fanfic

You've got a lot of good ideas too compressed Stigmata.
And they curse a lot. And when you show a thought of the caracthers maybe you could put it «.....»

That's about it. It's great writing Stigmata, can't wait for the next chapter.
 
Yeah, I actually forgot to do the formatting when I posted it, and for some reason I can't edit the post, but from now on all the character thoughts are in italics.

And what exactly do you mean by "good ideas too compressed"? :)
 
Well you write about plenty of stuff in a few lines. You could develop some scenes a little bit.
 
ok, here we have another update, again, sorry for slow updates during the week, I promise more on the weekends.

______________________________half-life 2/ resistance_________________
THEOTHERGUY
NUMBER 14

The slaves were separated into work groups, each group being overseen by a Combine officer. Ian’s work group was made up of roughly 15 people, most of them men, and it included himself, Tonya, and Dr. Kleiner.

The work was fairly straightforward. At first, Ian couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to do, (as was the story with the other slaves as well), but eventually, he and the others began picking away at the walls of the caves with their shovels and pickaxes, and throwing the dirt into several plastic bins that were lining the walls. Another slave would take dirt and rock to a filter; they would pour it into the filter, where rocks would be separated from fine sand and gravel. Then, another slave would cart the sand, gravel, and rocks to one of the Combine Citadel “roots.”

Ian, Kleiner, and Tonya swung their pickaxes at the wall randomly and haphazardly. If you weren’t getting paid for the job, as the slaves began saying, there’s no point in doing it neatly.

After quite a bit of back-breaking shoveling, carting and using the pickaxes, the slaves had made quite a dent into the cave wall. Ian squinted into the gloom of the dark cave; he could see the other work crews, also making considerable progress. He wondered what the real point of their work was; he doubted that The Combine actually needed their help. But he just shrugged it off, and continued working.

For an eleven year old, Tonya was actually doing quite well at the straight-forward digging. Even though she lacked strength and intelligence, she dug with great optimism and vigor, and seemed to have a much happier light about her than the other, rugged slaves. Tonya had been wearing a simple white T-shirt and jeans, both of which had been badly tattered during her capture.

Ian’s clothes were also considerably ragged and dirty. He was wearing a brown windbreaker, a collared shirt, and baggy jeans at the time of the attack. His shirt and jacket were now stained with blood, and had a bullet hole in the shoulder, where Ian had been grazed by the bullet from the Combine soldier who killed his mother.

Oddly enough, the wound no longer hurt, and Ian could see no evidence other than the hole in his garments that it had even been there. Ian continued pumping his now-sore arm into the unforgiving rock of the cave wall, his pounding, along with others, making an unceasing rhythm in the deep, dark cave.

Ian noticed the man next to him, constantly pounding away at the rock, each time yelling out as he struck it. He was muscular, and had a thick beard. He was the stereotypical factory worker of Prague.

Ian thought it was kind of strange that the man worked with such enthusiasm. When Ian asked the man about it he said: “I am Boris, it’s what I do, if we die soon, I might as well do what I do best.” Boris continued to pound away at the wall with enthusiasm.

Ian took his example and dug deeper into the hole that The Combine had imprisoned them in… After six straight hours of digging (it was nearly noon), a siren sounded in the cavern.

Over the loudspeakers that lined the walls, the voice of the head officer echoed: “That will do for now, slaves, report to the surface for rations, so that we can install the scanners in this facility.”

Ian wondered what he meant by “scanners.” Dr. Kleiner literally shouted out with joy, and dropped his pickaxe. Ian saw that he had not done nearly the amount of work as the others, but he thought that it was because Dr. Kleiner was old.

The slaves all groaned, and followed the Combine soldiers in a mass to the surface, marching regretfully up the incline of the access tunnels. Ian felt sore all over, he could barely walk. He doubted that he could do this for another few hours, let alone the whole rest of the day.

Tonya obviously felt the same way, because as soon as the started going up the incline, she fell behind, and Ian was forced to carry her up the ramp.

When they reached the surface, the slaves were handed freeze-dried packages, apparently their “rations”, which Ian greedily wolfed down, as he hadn’t eaten anything in two days.

The slaves sat around, guarded by Combine soldiers, under the sun of a mid-noon day, in the middle of a city that once belonged to them, that they once lived and worked in. Some even had businesses in this very spot, but now, their hopes and dreams were washed away by the mighty alien tidal wave that was The Combine.
 
Part 3 of HL2: Uprising is here!

////////// HALF-LIFE 2: UPRISING

//////////
////////// PART THREE -- Discovery
//////////

A knife of pain slashed through Erik's chest, and his heart began to beat. His senses faded into existence, blurry and dulled from a lack of oxygen.

He groggily opened his eyes, and was greeted with a wash of bright light and a burning of his retinas. Quickly closing his eyelids, he tried to yell out in pain, and choked on the sewage still in his lungs. His strength returning, he managed to sit up and vomit on his already tattered trenchcoat and pants. He coughed and spit the remainder of the vomit onto the floor, and realised where he was. Or tried to. He knew he was out of the sewers. But that doesn't narrow it down much. He half-grinned, gagged, and coughed up the last of the sewage lodged in his system.

A thick steel door creaked open just ahead of Erik, and he opened and squinted his eyes to look. A dark figure walked into the slightly cramped room, a stark contrast to the white of the walls. It was a Combine soldier. Erik rolled off the raised surface he had been laying on, and landed flat on his back. Unable to manage an escape, Erik could only look up in fear, and hope his death would be quick and painless. He trembled, and shut his eyes tight.

"You're Erik, aren't you?" the Combine said. Erik nodded furiously, hoping to extend his life, even for only a minute.

"That was quite a fight down there. I'm surprised you're even alive." Erik slowly opened his eyes, and looked up at the Combine. Only, it wasn't a Combine.

"Wh- Who are you?" Erik wondered aloud.

"The name's Barney. Barney Calhoun." He extended a black-clad hand. "Let me help you up."

Erik weakly latched onto the armored hand, and was easily heaved up to his feet. "Barney Calhoun?" he replied. "I... think I've heard that name before." He looked around the room, and surmised that he was in a refurnished hospital room. The windows were boarded up, to ensure whoever stays goes undetected by the Scanners' cameras. That was crucial, especially after leaving the site of five murdered Combine cops. The entire population would be alerted to the crime, and anyone who wasn't exactly where they were supposed to be would be shot or deported. Nobody knew for sure which was the worse fate, and nobody wanted to find out.

Barney left the room, but continued to talk. "Did you read the papers just before the invasion?" Two chairs scraped across the floor of the hallway.

"A few," Erik said. "But that was, what, fourteen months ago? I can't remember nearly anything." His eyes finally adjusted to the light, and he noticed that the walls were not white but yellow with grime, and the single sixty-Watt bulb was flickering. Hospital beds and IV trees were strewn across the room. All the electronic medical equipment had been confiscated by the Combine in the first month of the invasion. The floor was covered with dust, dirt and plaster, and a cockroach scuttled through the open door. A loud crunch came from the hall, and he heard Barney mutter, "Damn roaches, wish the Combine were that easy...", more scraping, and "Get some good food, this guy looks like he hasn't eaten in days."

Barney came back into the room, dragging the chairs up to Erik. "Take a seat, Erik," and he seated himself in the other chair. Erik obliged, and relaxed as he sank into the torn padding.

"So," Barney continued, "You can't remember anything about me." Erik nodded. "Okay." Barney grinned in mock anticipation. "Does the name 'Gordon Freeman' ring any bells?"

Immediately, Erik's eyes were wide open, and he sat straight up. "Yeah!" he exclaimed. "I know him. He led the initial rebellion force, and most of the attacks. He's one of the most important people we have!"

"You mean 'had'." Barney's mood darkened. "I didn't expect you to know about this, not with the rebellion in its current state. See, a few weeks back, Gordon disappeared."

"What do you mean, disappeared?!" Erik exclaimed.

"Disappeared. He went out on an intelligence mission with a group of our fighters. From what I've been able to gather from them, he successfully made his way into the Control Zone. A large battle erupted inside the Combine walls, and the team decided to camp out in an abandoned apartment and wait for Gordon to return. They must have stayed nearly a week, but he never came back over those walls."

Erik was stunned. "But... Is, is that all you know?" His fists clenched, turning his knuckles to a pasty white.

"I'm afraid so." Barney paused for a moment. "You were somewhat close to Gordon, weren't you?"

"Yeah," he replied solemnly. "Not that sort of close, but we were pretty good buddies."

"I thought so." He took a deep breath. "That's why we saved you."

Erik's eyes widened. "So that's why I'm alive right now? Because I knew Gordon?!" He supressed his anger, and sighed. "We've got to find him. He's about the only chance we've got of surviving much longer. The best fighter we've got."

Barney looked incredulous, and stood up. "There's more to it than that, much more." He began to pace across the room. "He's not just a fighter. He's a scientist from the Black Mesa lab, in what used to be the United States. You've heard of Black Mesa, right? I mean, how couldn't you?"

Erik shook his head, silently afraid of what Barney might have to say.

"Black Mesa was --"

Barney was cut off by a faint rumble.

"What's wrong?" Erik asked. "What is it?"

"Shh!" Barney said, and he stepped up to the boarded-up window, peeking through the cracks. Erik followed, but didn't know where to look.

"There," Barney told him, "Straight down the street. I can't make it out too well. Does that look like a Gunship to you?"

"Hell no, that's a Strider!" Erik gasped. "We've got to get out of here!" He turned and ran, but Barney grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him.

"Look, we don't know if we've been spotted. If we run, we'll have to leave most of our weapons here, and then the Combine are going to be at full alert if they find the weapons. We've got to be absolutely sure that the Combine knows we're here."

At that moment, another resistance fighter ran into the room. "Barney, bad news, this place is flooding with Scanners!" She tossed two unlabeled cans of food to Erik. "You, go with Barney and grab an MP7. We need to get out of here, quick!"
 
Hey, that's good. I'd even go so far as to say that it's actually well-written.
 
awesome! :eek: much better than the first installment....oh and sorry for no updates this weekend, ive been very busy....
 
man, how did this get to the second page?

good work guys, this might just inspire me to start up a fanfic.

keep it up.
 
Sorry for the lack of an update, I've been mentally debating where to take the characters from where the story left off. I promise to update it soon!
 
Agh, Ive been grounded all week, so no updates! but enough with this updates "soon buisness, how about an update now!

my gift to you:
________________________HALF-LIFE2/Resistance___________________
NUMBER....eh...15...I think
Ian looked around hesitantly after finishing his ration, Tonya was still eating away at the hard, grey, and freeze-dried lump that was her meal, Dr. Kleiner was doing the same, along with the other slaves in the area.

Upon looking back at the Citadel, Ian noticed that it had grown quite considerably, already three times as high as when he had entered it, and considerably wider. He could already see its sinister form appearing; sleek, dark, and metallic, the Citadel stuck out of the ground like a midlevel weapon, glowing in certain areas, and always, always moving.

The sound it made was terrible; a sort of crunching and grinding of fingernails on a chalkboard, like some massive dying artificial animal. Ian noticed that the walls of the complex themselves had grown to surprising proportions, not only taller, and with more towers, but also, they had literally advanced upon the ground, and engulfed several buildings, which mechanical devices on the walls were currently disassembling.

The slaves that had been drafted continued to march about the grounds, this time with real guns… The Combine probably wouldn’t have given them weapons before they were thoroughly brainwashed, Kleiner said that they were a “lost cause.”

After about twenty minutes of sitting around and conversing, a whistle was blown, and the slaves were lead back into The Citadel, for more hard work, broken bones, and endless torment.

But this time, however, the slaves were not watched by combine soldiers…they wouldn’t dare waste the manpower. Now the slaves were watched by little machines called “scanners” which silently flew about, and occasionally gave an order to “speed up” or some other order nonsensically through their mechanical speakers.

After 6 more straight hours of pounding, backbreaking work, a whistle rang out again, and it was time to go back to the makeshift structure for bed, and to get back up in the morning to do the exact same thing.

It was 6 PM, a twelve hour work day, which might not have seemed really that much…for a desk jockey. There was only one ration of food a day, of course, but apparently it had enough nutrition to keep the slaves alive, albeit completely out of energy.

Before they were allowed to go into the structure, the slaves were told that they could gather whatever they could find in the buildings that had now been engulfed by the complex, and to return anything of value back to the officers.

This excited both Ian and Tonya very much, they longed to see something from their old life, and perhaps take something from it. Ian couldn’t believe that they were actually letting the slaves do such a thing.

So, Ian, Tonya, and Kleiner set off in a group (accompanied by a scanner, as they now always were), and headed for a rather in-tact half-timbered building that appeared to be an apartment building, two stories high, and looking as if it contained many bedrooms.

For the first time in a couple of days, their feet hit cobblestone. They were only a few yards from the wall, with a scanner accompanying them, and guards on the wall eyeing them suspiciously.

Ian walked up to the mahogany wooden door, seeing a sign on it ironically saying “we’re open!”, as if mocking them from another time, a time that was only two days ago, but seemed like an eternity.

Ian opened the door, it swung forward and made a sound like a rusted swing set, protruding into the dark room that lay before them. Ian stepped inside silently, followed closely by Kleiner and Tonya, making sure to shut the door before the scanner could slip in.

-Chapter 9-
Nostalgia (coming soon)
 
Just perfect theotherguy. Damn I love to read your stuff man.

Please for the love of God keep em coming
 
I saw this thread about a week ago, and having enjoyed Stigmata's and OtherGuy's, I started to write my own 'fanfic'. I didn't intend to post any of it to start with as I was only writing it to pass some time - and I didn't think I would get very far. However, I'm now approaching 4000 words and thought it pointless to just leave it sitting on my hard drive.

It is called "Combine Trooper 38955" after the character it follows through City 17, formally an assassin, who has been demoted for failing to kill a high-profile target. As such there is not a detailed storyline to this, just her attempts to survive the battle. The descriptions are based on the screenshots on this website (I apologise if this leads to any inaccuracies) and also "Stalingrad" and "Berlin, The Downfall 1945" by Antony Beevor.

Below are the first 630 words, and if anyone likes it I will post more.

Capture

Three-Eight-Nine-Five-Five allowed the vibrations to drill against the headgear, shivers rebounding down her spine. The armoured transport groaned over piles of rubble and debris, moving into position half way down an anonymous street, ready to defend the left flank during the assault tasked to first platoon.

The Resistance had an ammunition and food depot based in the ruins of a hotel overlooking a large open square, that once secured would be perfect for massing Combine armoured units without the damned guerrillas firing a rocket-propelled grenade from a fourth story window, or any other nook that hadn’t been ruthlessly searched. Command didn’t feel it necessary to equip the grunts at the front line with Scanners during attacks like this one, making every shadow a threat.

A soft calm voice flowed down the radio, clear despite the crackling radio and the tinny vibrations that shuddered through the vehicle. Five-Five yearned to hear these voices, yet they always brought melancholy memory. Mere weeks ago she had been creeping independently through shattered buildings reporting Resistance positions to the gun ships, sniping important looking targets at will. A single fateful shot had seen her demoted to the lowest ranks of the Combine, her tough silver armour and crisp night vision replaced by a stuffy, sweating gas mask, cumbersome padded combat fatigues.

“Two heavy machine guns in the rubble today, gentlemen,” the assassin purred.
A deeper voice grunted acknowledgment just as the APC jolted to a halt, the rear door clanged open, and the eight soldiers spilled out. They scurried up rubble into the carcass of a bakery, whose entire front wall littered the street. Cream buns and baguettes festered on shelves as safety catches came off, with 38955 bounding up the stairs to meet any threat at the top. Although a lowly grunt she still maintained the high levels of fitness demanded from the Special Forces, able to run, jump and fight beyond the capacity of a normal person. Slowing to a trot, she did not want to reveal her old role to the grunts, aware of the abuse she would receive if they found out. The assassins were ruthless, to both the grunts and the enemy, not only hoarding the best supplies but arrogant and condescending. Pitched battles between the two were not unheard of away from the prying mechanical eyes of Scanners.

“Clear,” she croaked, moving towards a window, astonishingly intact despite all the fighting in this district and surveyed the ground below. On the opposite side of the square, a man dashed from behind a toppled statue and dived through the nearest hole. Looking further along, a former comrade was sprawled unceremoniously against a charred car. The depot lay concealed somewhere in the ruins, likely to be in the expansive basements of the hotel, protecting it from strider attacks. She could not see the machine guns, but experience as a sniper had taught her that these guerrillas blended into the background almost as effectively as the assassins could. Decaying posters for concerts and council meetings still hung tattered on a notice board. Water sprayed intermittently from a cracked fountain amidst blackened shrubbery at the centre of the square, meandering towards a civilian, silent on the stone slabs. Five-Five shuddered, forcing away the images of what lurked in the pipes and sewers of this hellish city.
 
Very nice. Keep it coming!

On another, more general note: I sure hope that none of these stories are in any form or fashion based upon the stolen build...
 
Mine aren't based on personal experiences with the stolen build (insert shifty eyes here ;) ), but some bits are based on things I've heard about it.
 
There is a mistake in the first part, it should read "A soft calm voice flowed down the radio, clear despite the crackling and the tinny vibrations that shuddered through the vehicle." For some reason I put "radio" in twice.

Some additional background: I have given the Combine soldiers numbers rather than names, as I think it dehumanises them to the Resistance more, as well as to each other. The basis for this is that to the Combine they are expendable units and therefore their names no longer matter. Furthermore if the soldiers recall such basic facts as their names, they might also remember their past lives. Then they may begin to question the lack of ethics in the orders they are given (this theme continues further on in the story.) I'm also terrible at giving my characters names.
It may seem that I have read into this quite a bit, but really I am just twisting what we have been told of the Half Life 2 story so far.

The next part:

“Five-Five, god damn it,” Corporal 38950 snarled, “You’ll be feeding the machine gun this morning. Get to Five-Six’s position.”

Asshole, she thought, strutting dejectedly to where 38956 hastily secured the support weapon on its bipod. He glanced at her and although the gas mask revealed no emotion, his general body language exuded fear and apprehension. Perhaps this was his baptism of fire, maybe he was still a teenager – age was not an issue in the Combine – but rather than feel sorry for him, she was angered. Indeed, Five Six was shaking slightly, draining her confidence further. Not only would she be unable to fire her weapon, but also her life depended on fresh meat.
Nevertheless, she patted his shoulder, “Don’t worry kid. Keep your eyes open. Fire in bursts. Give those bastards hell.”

He nodded, wiping the dust from his goggles and bracing the stock against his shoulder. Other soldiers placed a chair on a kitchen table to scramble to the second floor, for a better arc of fire down on any reinforcements the guerrillas brought forwards. The stairs had collapsed following the destruction wrought by Striders that had passed through during the night. Their last patrol had been particularly devastating, entire buildings razed to the ground, lampposts uprooted or twisted to insanity and great craters ripped in the roads.

For five minutes, the squad waited in silence, or at least as close to silence as the city ever got. In the distance machine guns chattered and explosions thumped, somewhere a gun ship whirred over the fray; complimented by the crackles and pops of the ubiquitous fires that blazed in the streets, sending up billowing plumes of smoke which hung over rooftops, smearing the light with flakes of ash. She was glad of the gas mask for this at least – the Resistance also took to wearing them whenever they could, snatching them from dead Combine – anyone breathing openly out there would be parched or choking in minutes.

“First platoon moving in, keep those flanks covered!” The radio crackled.
Almost instantly, small arms opened up to her right, with soft thuds as soldiers launched rifle grenades at the machine guns. To 38955 it sounded as if the Resistance machine guns were replying with terrible fury, for almost an entire minute they did not cease. Over the radio, first platoon was cursing and yelling about covering fire, more thumps and then:
“Gun down! Left gun down! Rip that bastard to shreds!”
The shooting rose to a crescendo for several moments, before trailing away to occasional cracks as Resistance soldiers hurtled up from the basements and tried sniping from windows, but apparently the assassin had stayed in position and they soon had to fall back. Five-Five wondered why she had not sniped at the machine gunners -

“Enemy patrol approaching, keep those weapons tight,” the Corporal said.
She scanned the street and spotted four guerrillas creeping through the buildings to reconnoitre what had happened at the square. Dull thuds resonated several times as they blew holes in walls to avoid exposing themselves in the street. She felt a chill watching them flitter from window to window, knowing that within ten minutes they would be shooting at each other. In her experience, only being so close to the enemy as to be listening to them talking was tenser.

Presently they came to a position overlooking the square, keeping in the shadows as they scanned the area through the telescopic sights of the MP-7. 38955 pressed against the floor lest they spotted her. Around her, the squad did the same, just as the recon patrol glanced at their position.

When she finally raised her head they were gone, and immediately the squad was a hive of activity, checking weapons again and finding as much cover as possible around the kitchen. One man clambered into a tipped cupboard, resting his MP-7 on the brass hinges.
“Focus on that position . . . where they turned back,” the corporal’s voice strained.
Five-Five felt nervous herself. She had not envied the way the grunts had to fight when she was a sniper, and now she felt far too exposed and close to the enemy. For all the Combine’s propaganda and neurological experiments on the troops, they had not quite made them fearless yet.
 
-----------Half-life2/Resistance-----------------
NOTE: Its now an "official" fanfic at http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1734062

Theotherguy
NUMBER 16..or 15


-Chapter 9-
Nostalgia

The scanner hit the door with a dull thud; seconds after Kliener slammed the door behind him. “Ha, that felt good!” Kleiner said with a laugh, wiping his hands together, an old clique. Ian and Tonya both rolled their eyes, and turned around to examine the dark room that lay before them.

It appeared to be a lobby of some sort, this place was probably a hotel, Ian surmised. Ian looked around. The room was of large size, and had black and white tiles on the floor. Roughly in its center was a reception desk, already covered with dust from a few collapsed ceiling beams (which must have fallen after The Citadel engulfed the hotel). There was a bell on the desk, along with scattered papers, and an 80’s era computer, with a shattered monitor. Behind the desk were several cupboards which still contained the keys of some of the guests.

It was like a roach motel, the customers checked in, but they never got the chance to check out. There were several overturned tables and chairs in the lobby, which appeared to have been knocked over either by The Citadel, or by some struggle in the invasion.

There was a bloodstain on one of the walls that ran down it, and seemed to have pooled on the ground. Whatever had left it was already gone.
“Ian, lets get out of here…” Tonya said hesitantly, looking back at the door. “No, we can’t just leave.” Ian exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder back at Tonya. Ian raised his hand, as if to suggest an idea. “How about you stay here with Kleiner, and I’ll look through the rooms to find anything useful.” Kleiner seemed to agree with this, as he was just as frightened as Tonya was.

“Alright,” said Ian with a sigh, as he turned and strolled to the nearest staircase. The staircase itself was wooden, not very good construction, as was custom of the half-timbered housing of the Czech Republic. Ian ascended the spiral staircase, which put an emphasis on his left leg, making it slightly sore.

Ian got to the second floor, this one was carpeted with dreary grey carpeting, and it was very dark, aside from the small amount of light provided by the four-pane window at its end.

Ian immediately began checking doors to see if they were open. Most were locked; until, of course, he got to one of the rooms that the maid’s trolley was next to. It was wide open, as the maid had probably just gone in there to clean before the invasion struck the area.

Ian gently pushed aside the door that read “205”, and without making any noise, he tiptoed into the room. As with the rest of the rooms in the hotel, this one had very little lighting, and it was quite hard to see. Ian noticed an unmade queen-sized bed in the middle of the room. There were a couple of suitcases on it. Ian checked the labels on one of the black bags.

“American Airlines Flight 268, Boston, MA” Ian read aloud from the orange tag. So these had been American tourists. They had come here for fun, or perhaps to get away from the US just before it was completely taken over by The Combine. Apparently, there weren’t many places left to hide from The Combine anymore.

On the nightstand next to the bed, Ian found something interesting. A yellow, solar powered radio. Ian thought that it might be useful to him, so he took it, and clipped it to his jeans pocket.

Just then, Ian heard a strange sound. It sounded a bit like a muffled cry, and a gurgle, coming from the bathroom of the suite. Adrenaline shot through Ian’s veins. Was it one of the tourists?

Ian quickly ran for the bathroom door, and opened it.

There was a great squeal as the white-painted door swung into the tiled bathroom; and then Ian was shocked at what he saw. The small window of the bathroom had been smashed, and kneeling in the center of the tiny room was none other than the maid; except she wasn’t the maid anymore.
In place of what should have been her head was a familiar yellow, throbbing mass that Ian had learned to fear. She had been head-crabbed. There was a moment when the thing was stunned, and when Ian was petrified by fear. Blood was oozing out of the place where the neck of the woman had been, and her hands were greatly deformed to resemble the branches of a tree.

Ian screamed as the thing began to wobble forward, and he slammed the door in its…well, he supposed it didn’t have a face anymore… But no mere door would stop this zombie. Ian heard many shrieks and bangs as twig-like fingers began tearing through the splintered door.

Ian didn’t want to wait and see if it could tear down the door. He ran back down the hallway, and sprinted as fast as he could down the stairs, breathing heavily out of fear and physical effort.

“The place is infected! Get out of here!” He yelled to Kleiner and Tonya. Kleiner asked no questions, and quickly opened the front door, allowing Ian and Tonya to follow before him.

Ian didn’t have time to explain, he just ran, along with the rest of them, through the dirt back into camp, adrenaline still running through him, and the solar radio bouncing at his side.

After a bit of sprinting, Ian signaled that they stop. He, Kleiner and Tonya were now a safe distance from the Inn, and were being slowly circled by a scanner.

Ian told them breathlessly about what had happened in room 205. Kleiner seemed to instantly understand. “Ah, now I see why they will let us explore the newly conquered buildings, they want us to flush out those…things.” He said, shuddering.

Nothing more was said as Ian, Tonya, and Kleiner slowly moved back to camp.

When they reached the door of the structure the slaves had built, there was a long line, as guards looked at what the slaves had brought from the newly-occupied city.

There were things of all kinds. Electronics, money, clothes, tools, flashlights, matches, beer, and cigarettes were among the things they gathered. The guards took all of the electronics, books, money, or anything with writing on it and threw it into a pile to be burned. Oddly enough, they let Ian keep his radio.

When they got into their structure, Ian immediately tried to get his radio to work. Even in the fading light, the solar panels on it would provide ample power to keep it running, Ian assumed.

Many of the slaves gathered around to see what Ian could find on the radio, even though it was doubtful that any radio stations still existed near by. There was absolutely nothing on the FM band, save for static, and an especially bold propaganda station that was no doubt coming from the Combine Citadel itself.

Ian and the others protested and spat at the sound of the propaganda, and Ian began searching the AM band. Mostly, it was just static, a lot like the FM band. Just when Ian began to give up out of despair that all civilization had ceased to exist, Ian began picking up a very faint signal. He could only pick up bits and pieces, but it was obviously not from The Combine.

“… Hello, If anyone can…pick…this up… I fear… all humanity… lost… sending out recordings… truth…news…” Ian twisted the knob, trying to get a better signal. “My name is Father Gregori… The Combine cannot trace this signal…I hope, at least. I fear that I am the only human signal left in the area, and I am sending this for all who have lost hope… I am resisting The Combine at every step… there are others like me… but we are very weak. The Combine has conquered our government, and probably all the other governments in the entire world by now. Our race is reduced to merely resisting in small groups. If you can hear this, and you are part of the resistance, fear not, you are not alone. I will send these transmissions to give you hope…”

The signal faded out, and then repeated itself several times.

“This is wonderful!” exclaimed Kleiner. But the others felt a sense of bitter-sweetness. Most of them had hoped that another world power would come to their aide to stop The Combine. But apparently, every country on the Earth had already fallen, and this gave them all a feeling of dread.

There was much discussion about this, and of possible resistance, but then it was late, and they all retired to their sleeping spaces. Ian continued to listen to the transmission deep into the night, the same thing over and over, and then quietly fell asleep.

There was Hope.

-Chapter 10-
Existence (coming soon)
 
This is the final part of the first section of the story. I might leave it here for now, as I read in another thread that fanfics were a "geeky" thing to do, which hadn't occurred to me until then. Anyway:

The building trembled suddenly, photographs flashed and tinkled as the walls shook them off. Grit sifted down from the ceiling, dust on the floor pattered against her body. A drainpipe on a building opposite came loose, teetered, collapsed in shards on the tarmac. The casual observer might have feared an earthquake, but none of the soldiers reacted. This happened at least once a day around Combine 17, the infinitely high tower that reached even beyond the scope of her former rifle. Its outer barrier stamped forwards and engulfed more of the city.
That was the extent of Jo’s knowledge of the Combine. Few other soldiers knew much else, except that their orders were to secure a perimeter around it to prevent guerrillas sneaking within the imposing teeth of the tower. The infantry had since adopted the label of Combine too, rather than just “guards”. At the brunt of the Resistance’s efforts, they felt they deserved recognition for their actions, and besides, the insults the guerrillas threw at them during the night labelled them so – “You dirty Combine bastards!”

Just as the quaking resided, the radio hissed again. As predicted, the guerrillas were staging a counterattack to retrieve their supplies.
“Second squad – we have enemy approaching, right flank.”
“Affirmative second squad, keep them pinned until we can get the medics up.”
“Roger that, Sergeant.”
“Third squad, fifteen enemies incoming – left-left flank.”
“Stay calm Corporal.”
The squad and platoon commanders conversed as the guerrilla groups moved towards the square. She could see sweat steaming up the goggles of Five-Six’s gas mask. The guerrillas moved quickly, following the route opened by the pathfinders. One had an RPG slung over his back; two others carried a machine gun. A few more seconds and they would be in the designated killing zone.
“Aim for the machine gun, kid.”
“You got it.” He sounded remarkably confident, despite the situation.
The soldier in the cupboard fired a three round burst. Instantly they were all shooting. The ammo belt shook along her fingers, black-blue smoke churned around them. The guerrillas hit the ground, caught in the open. From some damned place bullets buzzed through the kitchen.
“MG, two o’ clock!” She screamed.
Five-Six aimed the machine gun at the flashes of an enemy support weapon – but it was already displacing. He fired anyway, brick dust puffed gently.
Two soldiers were already down, one screaming, the other still. She slammed backwards as something collided with her chest, thought she was dead, but the ceramic vest covering her torso had deflected the bullets. Stumbling up, she saw three guerrillas appear at a door with the RPG.
“RPG, doorway, one o’ clock!” She yelled.
Five-Six swung the machine gun towards them and fired several bursts. Dust and grit hung in the air as the RPG group went down. She knew it was really blood.
A grenade exploded very close by and her ears were ringing.
The soldier in the cupboard slumped – a masked man appeared at the stairway - not a Combine soldier.
Guerrillas are in the building!
The reconnaissance patrol must have seen them. Now they were flanking the position. She sprung as he shot Five-Six; from this range, even the ceramic armour would not stop several shots like that. Her weapon rose; shot him through the goggles at ridiculously close range. Others scrambled up the stairs but she had them in the bag. One was screaming even as she leaped the whole staircase.

Someone else was at the bottom – she could not turn quickly enough - the barrel of a shotgun collided with her head. It hit repeatedly –
 
Seeing this thread get more popular I've added a dedicated Fan Fiction forum. Get some threads up :)
 
Yuppi!!!!!

Real thanks Munro, this I'll bring one up right now!!!
 
YAYAYAYAYAY! :thumbs: :thumbs: :thumbs:

Thanks!

anyways
__________________Half-life2/Resistance____________
NUMBER 16

-Chapter 10-
(renamed) Insomnia
During the night, Ian was awoken by a few sounds. There was a short burst of bangs, which sounded like machine gun fire, and then the muffled screams of what sounded like slaves and combine soldiers.

Ian’s immediate conclusion was that the facility was under attack. Obviously, some of the other slaves thought so as well, as many of them were springing up, and running towards the windows.

“What’s going on?” one of the men asked shakily, being pushed on through the crowd.

A man that was nearest to the window responded. “I think someone tried to rebel against the Combine guards! There is one guard dead, and I see two, no three of our countrymen dead and there are at least four of The Combine scrambling about the scene!”

Ian struggled to look over the crowd, and sure enough, in the dim light of the compound, there laid three bullet-riddled slaves, all of them lifeless in the slowly spreading pool of crimson around them. There was also a Combine guard nearby; it looked as though his thought had been slit by some sharp object.

After checking the pulse of the dead guard, one of the Combine troopers motioned to some unseen sentry, and instantly, the Compound lit up with searchlights, coming from the Combine Citadel, and sweeping all about the compound, searching for any other rebels that might be hiding in the area.

There were two shots, rather close together, and in one of the spotlights, Ian could see two more faint silhouettes of slaves, fallen in the mud.

There were several more minutes of this searching, but no more shots rang into the night. After a few more minutes, the voice of the commander boomed over the loudspeaker, extremely angered.

“This is unacceptable!” He practically screamed. “I cannot have slaves mercilessly killing our soldiers when we could be conquering! I thought we could trust you, slaves, I thought we could just study you, and that you would willingly accept our rule, but unluckily, I was wrong!” The commander grunted something unintelligible, and continued his rant. “There will be armed guards inside your structures now, and anyone who so much as stands up will be shot! There is also a curfew, anyone who is outside of the structures after sundown will also be shot! And I am letting you off easily, comrades! Tomorrow, you will all report to The Citadel, where you will be stripped of your belongings and clothing, and we will brand you with numbers, shave your heads, and issue you all uniforms and shock collars!” He said this with a laugh, and then shut off the speaker with an electronic thud.

The slaves looked at each other in dismay. “What just happened here?” Ian asked Dr. Kleiner. He simply sighed and said “I fear resistance will be impossible now, to say the least… Not that it was possible to begin with.”

Others however, were much more excited by this, and were happy that somehow, at least some of their countrymen could strike back at the All Mighty Combine. The dead slaves became somewhat martyrs to the others, and were held in very high regard.

Ian knew that the armed guards would soon be in the sleeping structures, and would probably be taking up belongings immediately, so he dug up one of the floorboards, and hastily hid his radio under it.

He was just in time as well, as a Combine soldier appeared in the structure, with his machine gun pointed, his laser sight shining on the walls.

“Everyone on the ground!” he yelled, pointing his gun all around the room. “Lie flat, face down, with your hands behind your heads!” He motioned with his gun this movement, as a couple of other soldiers entered the room as well.

The slaves obeyed this readily, and Ian quickly got to the ground, and hid his face, locking his fingers behind his head. He sensed that the others did the same.

Ian could hear the Combine soldiers systematically going through the room, searching people’s belongings, and clothes, searching for signs of rebellion, and treachery.

There were a few thuds, and the sound of broken glass. He could hear the Combine soldiers kicking people at random; but no one was shot. Without warning, Ian felt a jab of pain as a soldier kicked him in the side, and began searching his pockets, finding nothing. The soldier grunted, and moved on.

Ian hoped that they would not find his radio.

After about ten minutes of poking and prodding the slaves, the soldiers stopped, and told the slaves that they were to stay in this position until ordered to do differently.

Ian waited endlessly in the dark. One hour passed, and then two, Ian wondered how long he would be able to take it. He feared falling asleep; for fear that he would perhaps roll over, causing the guards to shoot him.
So, for the rest of the night, Ian stayed in that position, wide awake, listening to his own thoughts. He thought about Father Gregori and the resistance, he thought about his parents, Dr. Kleiner, Tonya, and he thought about what they would do to the slaves the next day. Sawdust got into Ian’s nose from the floorboards, and he smelt fresh wood. He did the best he could not to sneeze.

After a few more hours, Ian decided to chance looking around. He made a quick peek out of his right eye and saw the red-orange glow of a cigarette one of the Combine soldiers were smoking. So, the guards were definitely still awake. Ian felt a wave of impatience. How many hours until sunrise?


Chapter 11
Existence (coming soon)
 
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