Hello, potential friend

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What is Half-Life²: Anticitizen?

Half-Life²: Anticitizen is the temporal name of the project I was dumb enough to start that consists of me writing out Half-Life 2’s story based on many of the old concepts and original ideas. What you just read was the prologue.

What to expect

I will be uploading this story one chapter at a time, HOWEVER I will not upload a chapter as soon as I have finished writing it. If my time on fanfiction.net has taught me anything, it’s that writing a story one chapter at a time is a bad idea. Don’t worry, I will not wait until I’ve finished the entire story, but I will make sure that everything is properly planned out.

My version of  the story will draw inspiration from various sources, including Raising The Bar, the Half-Life wiki and any other sources I find about Half-Life 2’s original story. Now, because there are many different versions depending on what stage of production you look at, I will mix everything I find at will, INCLUDING the final retail version of Half-Life 2. Several cut enemies will be integrated, some existing characters and enemies will be based more on their concept art or old models than their final versions (I might include images when I do this, just for extra clarity), sometimes I’ll just make stuff up in order to make this story work as an adaptation.

Don’t expect chapter 1 to be out any time soon. Like I said, I’m gonna make sure I have everything planned before I start uploading. I am currently unable to put any type of estimate on how long this will take.

Half-Life 1 is untouched in this story, it is canon as it appears in-game. So no Kingpin or Mr. Friendly.

Yes, this story does take place 10 years after Half-Life 1, rather than the canonical 20 years. That’s just what the original G-Man scenes say.

What is still open to change?

Pretty much everything.

The title. I am not 100% sure about the title yet, I went with “Anticitizen” because it sounded good and it fits the story.

POV. I am still debating whether or not I should make it 3rd person instead of 1st.

To talk or not to talk. Do I try to make a silent protagonist work? Or do I keep Gordon’s talking to a minimum?

What exactly I will and won’t include. There is so much cut content for Half-Life 2, I can’t possibly integrate everything. Luckily, the written format lends itself to much better to easily integrating many different things than the video game format. You don’t have to worry about AI programming, modelling or engaging gameplay. Just write well.

Even this prologue might be altered later. This is just a preview.

 Please let your interest in this project show, it’ll help get the next chapter done faster. If there’s any interest, I might post more updates along the process of creation. Everything will be posted under the tag “anticitizen”.

Any and all suggestions/feedback/questions/criticism are welcome! (as long as you are civil)

The Vortigaunt then walked to the contraption that held another one of its kind in its dark liquid. It placed its two-fingered hand against the glass and, despite its alien features, I could see sadness fall across its face. “The Vorti-cells drain power from my kin to support the Combine’s machinery. Those who enter them seldom emerge. The few who do are weakened almost to the point of collapse. Truly, it is a fate far worse than the shackles I bear.” The shackles were different from the ones worn by the Nihilanth-enslaved Vortigaunts. Instead of shining green, they were a dull gray. Their design remained very similar, though. Wrist bracelets, a collar, but also a sort of codpiece that I didn’t remember seeing on the Nihilanth’s slaves. Apparently the Combine deemed it necessary to cover the Vortigaunts’ loins – even though they housed no visible organs of any kind.

The Vortigaunt proceeded to grab a broom from against the wall and told me it had to resume its duty or suffer punishment. It seemed rather ironic, almost comedic even, that an alien race powerful enough to power factories was also being employed to sweep the streets. Recalling the instructions Jeremy had given me, I asked the Vortigaunt if he knew how I could get to the Manhack Arcade, where Barney was supposed to meet me. “Ah,” he responded pensively. “The Manhack Arcade. The hall of the unwitting executioners.” He proceeded to give me clear directions. I was to go to a place he called the Stenographer’s Chasm and then continue in a straight line. I wondered what he meant by ‘unwitting executioners’, but before I knew it, he had already said his goodbyes and disappeared around the corner.

The strange encounter had left me confused and a bit shaken, but I resolutely continued my journey and followed the Vortigaunt’s directions. I had a hard time imagining what this ‘Stenographer’s Chasm’ could be, but I could never have imagined what it turned out to be. An enormous, Combine-modified warehouse consisting of one long room that extended far into the ground, filled with rows of workers perched on stools behind desks, frantically typing on typewriter-like machines. But the stools and desks weren’t on the ground: they were mounted onto single, suspended rails that ran across the room. There were multiple levels of these rails and desks reaching all the way to the ceiling and down into the chasm. The workers had nowhere to go. My guess was that at the end of their shift or when their quota was fulfilled, the rails transported them to a place where they could safely dismount their stools. Until then, they could do nothing but work. I didn’t know what it was they were doing. What kind of paperwork could the Combine have? They didn’t seem like the type to bother with those kinds of things too much. Then again, an intergalactic empire is bound to have some unavoidable paperwork. Probably keeping track of resources and the like.

More disturbing sights awaited me, though. It all began at a building that produced a continuous sound of whirring and chugging, like a giant steam engine. Looking through the window, I saw a black and white tiled hall that was filled with enormous, diagonal pistons moving back and forth. At their base, people were working on the large engines that seemed to drive the pistons. I then realized that the engines weren’t just large, the figures knelt at their base were also small… they were children. Children, no older than twelve, were working on heavy machinery under the watch of Metrocops. And that wasn’t the only factory where children were being forced into labor. A bit further down the street was a smaller brick building that housed a large furnace. More children were stationed at a conveyor belt that lead into the furnace. They took white, ellipsoid objects from barrels and placed them onto the conveyor. They weren’t being burned in the furnace: they reemerged out of the side, attached to the ends of poles, and were transported into another machine. I had seen the white objects before on the brown-robed, flamethrower-wielding beings in the station and on posters that Jeremy had referred to as ‘Cremators’. These were Cremator heads. I tore myself away from the windows and continued my way through the industrial area. I never looked through another window again.

The factories eventually made way for a busier commercial district, which is where I find myself now. It’s the busiest place I’ve seen in this city, apart from the military parade. This must once have been a street with many successful shops, but now most of the display windows stand empty. One of the buildings still in use houses the same ration dispensers I also saw in the station. Another one showcases multiple television screens, all of which display the Combine logo.

“Can you believe it? Free TVs!” says a citizen gazing through the window.

“Don’t get too excited,” his companion replies in a cynical tone. “Those things only have one channel: the Consulcast.” He points over his shoulder at the cluster of screens overhead, where the Consul’s many faces are still naming the values of a true citizen.

But the Consulcast nor the free TVs are the reason why there is so much traffic on this street corner. In fact, I’d wager the Combine strategically placed those here so that as many citizens as possible would be exposed to the propaganda. The real eye-catcher everyone seems to be here for is across the street: the Manhack Arcade. It’s a large building that forms the corner of the street. Completely Combine-made, no recycling of old buildings. The people in the street flock towards the wide entrance on the corner, which is flanked by two Metrocops. Above it hang a number of yellow posters and banners and even more screens, all showing Combine logos and imagery.

I wonder if I should go in. Jeremy told me Barney would meet me at the Manhack Arcade, but it’s unclear if that means outside or inside. It seem risky going into a Combine facility, but it doesn’t seem like the citizens get scanned like they did at the checkpoints, and I could probably slip by the two guarding Metrocops unnoticed by hiding in the crowd.

I wait a little longer, hoping Barney will show himself. The clouds have gotten darker still, and before long a light drizzle starts pouring from the sky. Not only am I not dressed for rainy weather, I also want to avoid getting into too much contact with this water, which, judging from the greenish color of the clouds it originates from, could have all kinds of toxins or undesirable pH values. And so, when an exceptionally dense group of people approaches the entrance to the Arcade, I join them and walk past the Metrocops without either of them giving me a second glance.

Inside is a corridor that leads to the main room. Like the Stenographer’s Chasm, it’s long, tall, and extends down into the ground. Instead of rails with desks and tired workers, this room is filled with catwalks leading to strange machines. Citizens queue in front of them and when it’s their turn, they step onto a pedestal in front of the machines, grab hold of two control handles and lean forward to place their heads in some sort of virtual reality display built into the arcade.

A screen above the player allows bystanders to follow the game. A citizen near me has just started: at first, the screen shows only a grid of red lines in a black void. Then, the grid bends and reshapes itself into a three-dimensional environment that resembles a ruined building. Several humanoid shapes appear in yellow and orange tints, like heat vision, but with a clear red outline to them. The player navigates the environment, seemingly flying, and moves towards the outlined targets. The targets start moving around, trying to evade the player, but eventually he catches up to one. It’s not clear what happens, but when the player bumps into the target, the red outline disappears and a score of one hundred appears in the bottom right corner of the screen. “Ha ha, got one!” the player exclaims. Another nearby player is already at a score of eight hundred, when one of the targets suddenly rushes at him, holding up some kind of long object. The screen goes black and the words ‘GAME OVER’ appear on the screen. “Damn it!” the man shouts. “I was almost at my high score!”

Something’s not right. The way the targets move – it doesn’t look like a video game character. Much too erratic and lifelike. And from what I’ve seen of the Combine so far, I doubt they would put effort into providing ground-breaking AI technology for their panem et circenses. The Vortigaunt’s words echo through my mind: ‘the hall of the unwitting executioners’. I can put two and two together, but I don’t want to. I refuse to believe that what I fear is true. People slaughtering their own, cheering while they do it – and without ever realizing what they did. Or, at least, I deeply hope they don’t.

I don’t want to stay here any longer. Watching these innocent people enjoying the Combine’s twisted games turns my stomach. I have to find Barney. But how can I simultaneously hide from the real Metrocops and try to get Barney to see me?

As I pace through the room, I notice a Metrocop eyeing me. It’s hard to tell with the gas masks, but it seems like his gaze is following me. Is he Barney or a suspicious guard? I try to act inconspicuous and wait for a signal. Suddenly, the Metrocop turns away and walks towards a door. He interacts with the locking mechanism and it opens before him. He throws another prolonged glance in my direction before stepping through, out of sight. I wait. The door doesn’t close behind him. I cautiously make my way to the door. It leads to some sort of backstage corridor, clearly a ‘staff only’ area. I can’t see the Metrocop. I look around the Arcade one last time, but none of the remaining guards seem to notice me, so I enter the corridor. It’s cold and dark, and my footsteps are loud on the metal floor. I arrive in a small room with one of those Combine consoles. The wall is lined with a rack containing dozens of small, deactivated drones whose purpose I can’t discern. I hear the door I entered through close.

“Hey, you!” I hear from one of the neighboring corridors. A Metrocop – the one I followed in here – enters the room. “Do you have your identification?” He menacingly steps towards me. Seems it wasn’t Barney after all. Tough luck. “You are not supposed to be in here. I need to see your identification.”

Well, I seem to have gotten myself into a sticky situation. The Metrocop is trying to drive me into a corner, drawing his stun baton. “Overwatch, restricted incursion in progress in sector 8. Permission to enact civil judgement?” he says to seemingly no one. There’s a short blip and a burst of static following his question. I’m not thrilled about the prospect of ‘civil judgement’, so I decide not to wait until he gets his answer from whoever Overwatch is. I place my hands on my head, feigning surrender, while I scan the exits. The corridor back to the main Arcade hall is sealed and I can’t tell where the others lead, so I’ll have to trust my instincts.

Either the Metrocop has received his permission from Overwatch, or my eyes darting around the room have made him suspicious, because he suddenly swings his stun stick at my head. I try to duck and the blow lands against my elbow, sending a shock through my entire arm as blue sparks fly from the weapon. In response, I kick at his shin as hard as I can. He grunts and loses his balance, and I take the opportunity to dart down the nearest corridor. I hear the Metrocop’s heavy boots give chase behind me as he mumbles a status report to Overwatch. I round a corner, praying I won’t run into a dead end. I see a T junction ahead. Suddenly, I hear a deafening bang behind me, and the sound of a bullet hitting metal. Damn. He has a gun. I have to reach the junction as fast as possible. No time to look which way to go. As the echo of the gunshot fades out, I speed off into the left corridor just before another bullet plunges itself into the wall.

Suddenly, my surroundings open up into a larger room that’s two thirds Combine architecture and one third concrete rubble, remainders of whatever building was here before they installed their Arcade. I could get out through the collapsed walls and floors, but I’d be an easy shot. There’s also what looks like a Combine elevator with a bright red button inside it. I have milliseconds to make a decision. How far behind is he? Can I pull it off?

I slam my fist into the red button, rush back out of the elevator and then dive behind a half-collapsed wall. The doors close and the elevator starts to rise as I flatten myself against the concrete, bent rebar poking into my shoulder. My left arm is numb from the shock of the baton. I hear the Metrocop charging into the room. I hold my breath and pray he falls for my trick. It’s a trick as old as time. He stands still and I wait, my heartbeat ear-deafening.

“Subject is headed for top floor, secure perimeter around elevator.” I have to keep myself from sighing in relief. He isn’t gone yet. In fact, he seems to just stand still in front of the elevator. He must be waiting for the elevator to reach its destination. If he waits for the top floor units to report an empty elevator, my cover is blown.

“Copy,” he says. My functional right hand grabs hold of a loose chunk of concrete near me. I hear him walk a few steps, and then a couple of beeps. “Elevator power disengaged. Heading to your location.” With that, he walks out of the room, and I can finally breathe again. They don’t know the elevator is empty yet. They think they have me trapped in an unpowered elevator. Now to finally get out of here.

Easier said than done, as it turns out. The ruins are a concrete maze, and I constantly have to watch my step. It doesn’t help that the rain that seeps down through the broken ceilings makes everything slippery. The downpour has changed into an outright storm: the water beats down loudly on the concrete and every now and then a roaring thunderclap tears through the sky. Meanwhile, I guess the Metrocops discovered I wasn’t in the elevator after all, because I suddenly hear the cold, disembodied female voice – Overwatch, I assume – echo through the air once more: “Individual, you are charged with anti-civil activities: 63 criminal trespass, 148 resisting arrest, 243 assault on Protection Team. All local Protection units: code alert: locate, contain, prosecute.”

I spot one of the lambdas painted by the resistance group on a pillar. It leads the way down a slope of collapsed floor into a sub-street level area. Knowing the Metrocops are looking for me again, I try to speed up my pace a little while heading down – a mistake. The wet rubble gives way and I lose my footing. The world spins around me as I slide and tumble down the slope. I try to shield my head with my arms. I roll over the floor after reaching the bottom before coming to a stop.

I lie on my back as my surroundings come back into focus. I’m in some sort of underground sewer chamber: I see a ladder on the wall leading up to a manhole cover and there’s a grate in the ceiling through which light and rain pours down in a small waterfall, though the ground I lie on is thankfully dry. I do a quick damage report: my palms are chafed and I’ll undoubtedly have a few bruises, but no lasting damage. I’m lucky I didn’t hit my head on any of the protruding edges of the concrete.

I become aware of a sound, just barely audible over the storm. It sounds like a fire – no, more like a flamethrower. At the same moment, I notice the dancing orange light on the brick wall, and my nostrils are assaulted with the stench of burning flesh. I immediately jolt up. Pain shoots through my back at the sudden movement. I look around and immediately spot the source of the sound: there’s a Cremator standing on the opposite side of the room. The two lanky, leathery-skinned arms sticking out of its brown robe carry a heavy flamethrower which, I notice for the first time seeing one up close, is connected to a spherical fuel tank in the middle of its stomach with a thin tube. ‘Flamethrower’ might be an incorrect word, however. Instead of producing flames, it shoots the green particle jets I also noticed being used to clean trains in the station. It must be some sort of corrosive liquid that only affects organic matter. The source of the orange light on the walls turns out to be a burning pile of charred flesh being sprayed by the Cremator. The flesh is being set ablaze by the green particles, but not only that: where the jets hit the flesh directly, it seems to blacken and disintegrate. Despite the fact that the corpses have turned black as coal and have been turned into an amorphous, ever-shrinking pile, I can still make out just enough to see that these were once people.

The Cremator stops what it’s doing and turns its white, oval head towards me, alerted by my sudden movement. Its tiny, expressionless eyes lock onto me. I hear mechanical breathing from the Cremator’s mouth-tube as it steps closer. It tilts its head like a curious animal before it points the nozzle of its weapon towards me. I could try to run, but I doubt I could get far enough to evade the scorching cloud. I briefly wonder if I should not have moved an played dead. It probably wouldn’t have saved me from being disintegrated.

“Cremator! Stand down!” A Metrocop charges in and stands between me and the Cremator. “This prisoner is property of Civil Protection and is to be transferred to Nova Prospekt for processing.” The Cremator tilts its head again, then turns around and returns to its previous work. The Metrocop turns around to face me. I should be worried, but I’m not. Despite its distortion, I have already recognized his voice. I once again hear the click of the mask detaching and am greeted by Barney’s smug grin. I’ve never been happier to see that stupid grin.

“So Gordon, is this what you call ‘not drawing any attention to yourself’? You’ve got practically every Metrocop in the sector looking for you!” He reaches out and grabs my arm to pull me onto my feet. The numbness from the stun baton is almost gone, though it now hurts from the fall instead. As I rub my elbow, I glance at the Cremator. It seems to be minding its own business, but I don’t feel comfortable hanging around near it much longer, and I wonder if it’s a good idea for Barney to unmask himself and be so friendly with me in its presence. Barney follows my gaze and says “Don’t worry about him, he won’t bother us again. They’re not too bright, these Cremators. Mindless synths. They were made to be janitors, primarily. Destroy biological waste, contain the Xen infestation…” He looks down at the charred corpses grimly. “… clean up after the Civil Protection patrols.” He beckons me and starts walking. “The reason he was about to disintegrate you is because you are not a registered citizen or Combine unit. So to him, you would have to be either a Xenian creature or a very lively corpse. Either way, you were considered ‘unauthorized biological mass’ and had to be disposed of.”

We enter an underground utility tunnel. The sounds of the storm fade away as we follow the cables and pipelines down the dimly lit corridor. “You’re lucky I found you,” Barney remarks. “Those Immolators of theirs can give you a nasty burn. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you at the Arcade, I was held up by unforeseen complications on my shift. I had just gotten back to Dr. Kleiner’s lab when I heard the local CP units go crazy over some guy causing trouble at the Arcade.” He flashes me a smirk. I tell him what happened at the Arcade, with the Metrocop I had thought was him. “You got baited,” he replies. “Some CPs will bait citizens into breaking rules, like trespassing, just so they can enact some civil judgement.”

We march through the underground network in silence for a while before I cautiously bring up Jeremy. Barney sighs sadly and lightly shakes his head. “Yeah, I heard what happened.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment, seemingly choosing his next words carefully. “Listen, Gordon… don’t worry about it, okay? I can probably pull some strings to make sure he turns out okay.” He doesn’t sound all that certain. “Either way, don’t blame yourself. Each of us knows the risk in what we’re doing. We’re all prepared to... go all the way for our cause.” I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. Barney is being uncharacteristically serious and grim. This is not the same man I knew before Black Mesa. Then again, the same goes for myself.

His face lightens up again and he slips back into his usual grin when we go down a side tunnel with another lambda, at the end of which is a short staircase with a metal door. “Well Gordon, looks like we’re finally here.” He opens the door and the sound of machinery pours out. Not harsh, loud and aggressive, like the Combine factories, but light beeps and clicks over a soft hum. A familiar sound that invites me inside. The sound of science.

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Consul screens

Stenographer's Chasm

Piston hall

Cremator factory

Manhack Arcade exterior + Citadel

Manhack Arcade interior

Cremator

Underground

And for the first time, there aren't just images for reference, but also sound: here is the original Vortigaunt voice.

“Surprised to see me?” Barney asks, noticing the probably visible confusion on my face. “Well, that makes two of us, Gordon. Where’ve you been? It’s been ten years, man!” Ten years. So the man in the suit was telling the truth. It’s really been ten years since Black Mesa. What happened in that time? “Sorry about the scare earlier, I had to put on a show for the cameras,” Barney says, pointing over his shoulder at the disabled scanner on the ceiling. “Listen, I know you have a lot of questions but I can’t keep you here too long. I’ve been working undercover with Civil Protection, we need to get you out of here before they get suspicious. All I can tell you for now is that if you thought Black Mesa was as bad as it could get, well… you’re in for a nasty surprise.” He turns around and starts fiddling with the console. Symbols flash on the screens, the same symbols that I saw on the Consul’s broadcasts and the red bands on the shoulders of the Metrocop uniforms. Whatever they are, Barney seems to understand them.

“Okay Gordon, we’re gonna try to get you to Dr. Kleiner’s lab. It’s not too far from here, in an old warehouse in an industrial part of the city.” Kleiner? Does he mean… Isaac Kleiner? Could he be alive too? “I can’t take you there personally unfortunately, I have a shift to get to if I don’t want to blow my cover. But I’ll let one of my guys in the streets know you’re coming, he’ll show you the way.” Barney walks to a small window that looks out over an equally small courtyard. He opens it and looks out. “Go through that door over there. You should be able to get to the plaza. My guy will meet you there.” He walks back to the desk and starts putting the front of his mask back in place.

I look through the window. It’s about an eight foot drop; nothing I can’t handle. The claustrophobic courtyard is empty save for a trashcan lying on its side on the mossy tiles. The door Barney was talking about is the only entrance or exit. I look back to the once again unrecognizable Barney. I briefly thank him, and he salutes me with two fingers. “I’ll see you later, Gordon. Try not to draw any attention to yourself,” his distorted voice sounds through the mask. I nod him goodbye and swing my leg over the windowsill, effortlessly jumping down and landing safely. I look up and see the window being closed. I guess I’m on my own again.

The rusty door takes me to a small boiler room, which leads into a short corridor. I let my instincts and the faint sound of the Consul’s voice guide me through the station and I soon find myself in the entrance hall. Like the rest of the building, it is a dilapidated remnant of former glory. What once were ticket booths have been transformed into some sort of dispensing machine, which slowly spits out featureless brown packages into the eager hands of the shabby citizens who form a long, patient queue under the watchful eye of Metrocops. Above them, the Consul spouts the same repeating message: “Welcome to City 17.”

A woman walks by, clutching her newly received package against her chest. I can now see some of the alien symbols on the brown, paper-like exterior, as well as some readable text: 4 rations. She glances at me but quickly directs her eyes back to the ground in front of her as she walks towards the exit. I follow her to the large, wooden double doors. She takes one hand off the ration packet to open the door, but in doing so looses her grip on the packet and drops it on the floor with a soft thud. She nervously glances around as she quickly picks it back up again, and I decide to help out by opening the door for her. I try to give her the warmest smile I can fake as she walks by. “We can’t be seen talking to each other,” is the only thing she mutters to me under her breath as she heads out into the daylight.

Although… daylight might be an exaggeration. The sight that greets me when I step outside is no different in tone than the station and the train ride before it, yet it still shakes me to my core. The plaza consists of a small, empty fountain surrounded by dead hedges and flanked by two tall pillars, each topped with a bronze statue of a prancing horse. Plastic bags, empty bottles and other kinds of small trash litter the otherwise empty street surrounding the plaza, and the only vehicle is a large armored car surrounded by a patrol of Metrocops. The few citizens that walk the street keep as close to the surrounding buildings – abandoned stores and boarded-off hotels – as possible. It is then that my eye falls on the gigantic structure that emerges beyond the buildings. It’s a looming spire of rust brown metal that forms an irregular shape I recognize from the various posters around the train station. Its exact height is impossible to tell as it disappears into the greenish clouds that obstruct the sky, but there is no doubt it is incredibly large – so large, in fact, that I’m amazed it took me so long to notice it. Several of the metal plates that layer the outside of the structure seem to move at very slow paces, almost as if the building is alive, and sometimes it looks like something flies in to or out of one of the many slits and crevices in the jagged exterior.

I tear my gaze away from the ominous sight and scan the plaza more attentively. Barney said he would have a guy tell me where to go once I got out of the station, but I can’t spot a single citizen not minding their own business like their lives depend on it – which they probably do. I walk down the stairs in front of the station’s entrance. I follow the citizens’ example and keep close to the buildings, heading the opposite way of the Metrocop patrol. I duck into a shadowy doorway to get out of their sightline and look around again when I hear a hushed “Hey!” coming from a bit further down the street that sprouts from the plaza. I see a young man beckoning me from another doorway. I glance around for Metrocops, decide that the coast is clear and hurry towards him. He is dark-haired, wears the same familiar citizen’s uniform and looks to be about my age… come to think of it, what is my age? Barney was about my age at Black Mesa, but the ten years since then are clearly visible on him, while the few times I’ve seen my own reflection since my ‘awakening’ hadn’t shown me any changes in my own appearance.

The man pulls me out of my thoughts when he grabs my arm and pulls me into the shadow of the doorway. “You’re Freeman, right?” I nod. “The name’s Jeremy. Barney told me to get you to Kleiner’s.” He looks at my chest, where Samuel had earlier noted the absence of an identity tag. “We won’t be able to get you through checkpoints since you’re not a registered citizen. Just follow me.” He starts walking down the street and looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s great to have you with us, Freeman. There’s no doubt you’ll be a great help in our fight against the Combine.”

I follow Jeremy through the abandoned streets of City 17. He seems to be excellent at avoiding Civil Protection, because we never cross them; I only ever see them in adjacent streets. Sometimes they are accompanied by an armored vehicle, sometimes they are stationed at a barricade of black metal, watching people get scanned before a gate opens to let them through. I guess these are the checkpoints we can’t pass through – or at least I can’t. While we walk, my guide confirms what I already knew: after the Resonance Cascade, Earth was invaded by an alien empire he calls the ‘Combine’, who laid waste to the planet and enslaved humanity. The otherworldly skyscraper in the middle of the city – called the Citadel – is their bastion. Apparently, every city has its own Citadel, but the one in City 17 is special in that it is also the residence of the Consul – Earth’s new leader.

He then tells me about a resistance group fighting back against the Combine rule. He says there are many resistance fighters outside of the city, but that Barney and Dr. Kleiner lead the more covert operatives within City 17. He remarks that I probably know Kleiner and I nod. I don’t just know Isaac Kleiner, he was my professor and mentor at MIT. I was one of his favorite and ‘most promising’ students (his words), and when I applied for the position of research associate at Black Mesa, it was Kleiner’s recommendation that got me the job, where I worked alongside him on the Anomalous Materials team until… Well, let’s try not to think about that too much now. It seems there are bigger issues at hand than regret.

Even though we successfully evade the Metrocops and their checkpoints, the Combine is visible everywhere in one way or another. For a start there is the Citadel always towering over the rooftops, a menacing silhouette on the dark sky. But the old, human-built buildings have also been corrupted by Combine technology. Large, complex locking mechanisms cling onto old wooden doors like tumorous growths. Smaller versions of the enormous wall I saw surrounding the city fill up gaps they themselves made, obsidian metal swallowing brick and stone. Watchtowers and other Combine structures have been planted on top of buildings, walls and roofs bending under their weight. Cables and pipelines run across and through walls like vines sprouting from concrete. There’s something almost fascinating about how the stoic, geometric order of the human city and the clean, essentialist order of the Combine tech overlap in a patchwork with chaos and destruction wherever they meet.

A rhythmic sound has been growing louder for a while now. Upon listening more closely, I realize it’s the sound of marching. An army marching. Jeremy rounds a corner and stops dead in his tracks. “Damn it… not good.” Down the street, at an intersection with a wide boulevard, I see dozens of soldiers walking in formation. They look a lot like Metrocops, but their masks are dark gray and they wear thick padding in camouflage colors instead of the black uniforms. They carry automatic rifles and their heavy combat boots send echoing thuds through the streets. I see several people standing by, watching the military procession walk down the street. My companion walks closer and I cautiously follow him. “Really not good. We have to cross this street, but this parade blocks our path.” He looks to both sides as if estimating its length. “I can’t even see the synths yet. This could easily go on for another twenty minutes. We can’t wait that long.” He looks up at the buildings flanking the street and points to a skyway that connects two apartment buildings on either side. “There.” I follow him down the street as he heads towards a large opening in the wall of the apartment building with the skyway. The opening is closed off by a cast iron fence, but its lock seems to have been broken for a long time and Jeremy simply pushes it open. It turns out to be a passage to a courtyard between the apartment buildings, with dark, vigilant windows and balconies looking out over it.

“Okay, you’re not supposed to come here if you don’t live here, so technically we’re trespassing,” Jeremy says to me as we make our way to the exterior staircase on one of the high walls surrounding the courtyard. “Then again, you were already illegal, so-” He cuts himself off abruptly freezes, seemingly listening. Over the still loud marching I can hear a soft, mechanical whirr with an occasional beep. Jeremy looks up and immediately grabs me. “Combot!” he shouts as he pulls me in the direction of the nearest door. I catch a brief glimpse of a floating drone with a single yellow eye before a bright, white flash blinds me. I stumble backwards and Jeremy, presumably also blinded, starts swearing with panic in his voice. The slow beeps of the drone turn into an alarm as I slowly regain my sense of sight, and when I can properly see again I find it’s still hovering in the same spot. By now I have seen enough examples of Combine technology to recognize that this so-called Combot is another one. Four metal flaps surround its eye, which has now turned red as it shines its flashlight onto us and continues its alarm.

Jeremy grabs me again and pushes me towards the staircase. “Look, it’s too late now. They know we’re here, there will be Metrocops swarming all over this place in half a minute. You gotta get out of here and get to Kleiner’s. I’ll hold them off.”

I try to object but am interrupted by a distant female voice echoing through the air: “Attention, Civil Protection team: unauthorized civil activity detected in residential block 67B. Investigate and report.”

Jeremy looks to the sky as if he’s looking for the source of the disembodied voice and then looks back to me. “Go through the residential block across the street, through the industrial district. Barney will meet you at the Manhack Arcade.” He points to something on the wall next to the stairs: between the various graffiti is a familiar Greek letter drawn in orange paint. “Follow the lambdas. They indicate safe routes for Resistance allies. Go!”

I hesitate for a second. I don’t want to leave him behind in the clutches of Civil Protection, but he doesn’t seem like he’s planning on going anywhere, so I give him a respectful nod before turning around and running up the stairs. I go as fast as I can, and I am almost at the top when I hear footsteps and the shriek of the broken gate. I look down and see several Metrocops run onto the courtyard with their batons ready. Jeremy puts his hands on his head before he gets grabbed by two Metrocops and forced onto his knees. One Metrocop steps forward. He looks different than the others, wearing a trench coat and carrying some kind of radio pack on his back. He asks Jeremy a question I can’t understand and when he doesn’t get an answer, he gestures to one of the Metrocops holding Jeremy down. A flash of blue as a stun baton is planted in Jeremy’s side. His body shakes a second before he falls to the ground. The trench coat-wearing Metrocop, probably an officer, barks a couple of brief orders. I can only understand a couple of words: “There were two”. I have to get out of here.

I ascend the final steps as quickly and as quietly as I can. There’s a wooden door at the top. I fidget with the handle. It’s unlocked. I open it, slip inside, and close it behind me. No time to rest. I hear the Metrocops coming up the stairs, and the Combot’s light seeps through the crack under the door. Got to keep moving. I scan the hallway. Apartment doors. Staircase. It’s dark: there are no windows and the lights don’t work, but there is daylight coming from around a corner down the hall. My footsteps echo on the brown ceramic tiles as I run past the closed doors and onto the skyway we had seen from below. Down in the street, the Combine troops are still marching. There are different units among them now. Hulking, mechanical figures, appearing to be almost eight feet tall, carrying enormous alien weaponry no human would be able to carry. These must be the synths Jeremy mentioned. Nestled deep in the armor between the bulky shoulders is something that doesn’t seem completely mechanical. I don’t stay to have a better look. Something tells me it would only disturb me.

I hear Metrocops banging on doors as I start making my way down the stairs of the building on the other side of the road, occasionally followed by a crash of splintering wood. The Metrocops bark orders at panicking citizens as they search the apartments. I use their preoccupation to put more distance between us, sincerely hoping my actions don’t get any of the inhabitants into serious trouble. I descend creaky stairs that wrap around the grating of an elevator shaft. A man stands in a doorway, curious about the noises that echo all the way from the other building, while a woman behind him urges him to go inside and close the door before they get here. I make brief eye contact with the man as I descend. My look must give away that I’m the cause of the tumult, because he whispers to me: “Go through the back door on the ground floor. I never saw you.” Another plea from the woman and he retreats into his apartment and closes the door.

I’m not sure I can trust the man. He might be leading me into a trap, or maybe he will point the Metrocops to where I went when they come knocking on his door. But right now, I have little choice but to accept all the help I can get if I ever want to reach Dr. Kleiner. When I reach the ground floor, there is an entrance hall with rows of mailboxes and a transparent door that leads out into a large street. I can see why the man told me to go out the back: it’s the street where the hordes of soldiers are still marching. I look around for a back door and find it in a windowless, unlit room filled with cardboard boxes. I have to move some of them to get the door open. Beyond the door is a courtyard much like the one where we got spotted by the Combot. The coast seems clear.

I can already tell which way I have to go. Amidst a tapestry of graffiti, there is another lambda drawn in orange spray paint next to a narrow passage. As I follow its guidance, I wonder why they chose this symbol for their ‘safe passages’. I mean, I can certainly guess where they got it from. Word must have gotten out about the Lambda lab’s part in stopping the Resonance Cascade – though, ultimately, it hardly saved Earth. Plus, no one at Black Mesa can really be praised for solving a problem we caused.

Having time to think again as I walk through the alleyway, I ponder exactly what happened to me during the ten years I was in the dark void. By now, I have come to the conclusion that I haven’t aged. My hair and beard haven’t grown, I haven’t gained or lost weight, my joints and muscles aren’t sore. But at the same time, my wounds and bruises from the Black Mesa incident seem to have completely healed. None of the clothes I’m wearing are clothes I have ever owned, yet my glasses are the ones I had on me during the Black Mesa disaster. The ones I managed not to lose throughout all the perils I faced and were cracked and stained with blood by the end, but now rest on my face clean and unscathed.

My memories of the void are a blur, like a distant dream. If it weren’t for the radically changed world I find myself in, I would think it never happened. On top of that, my memories from before the void have also gone blurry – or, rather, before Black Mesa. I can remember Black Mesa like it was yesterday, but my life before Black Mesa (MIT, high school, my parental home…) feels like a vaguely remembered childhood memory, even the things that happened when I was well over twenty. Is this his doing? Is he trying to erase the person I was, only to leave a mindless fighting machine in his stead? Or is it merely a result of the deterioration of a mind over the course of ten years of isolation?

I’m no longer walking between apartment buildings. The streets are narrow and the walls are all brick and pipes and steel beams. Steam rises from grates in the ground and mixes with the faint fog that hangs between the buildings. There is a constant whir of machinery coming from behind the walls. A train passes overhead on the elevated tracks while a lone Combot combs the empty streets. I try my best to stay out of its sight. The train sounds its horn. The Combot rounds a corner. I get the impression the sky has gotten even darker since I left the station.

A strange contraption stands lonely on the sidewalk. It’s a cylindrical tank filled with red liquid, cradled in a humming machine with green gauge lights and power cables running into the wall behind it. Like all other Combine technology, it looks extremely out of place, like someone just dropped it on the street and punched jagged holes into the wall to fit the cables. The Combine clearly plant their machines and facilities wherever they need them without a care for whatever was there before. It makes me angry, of course, but the irony doesn’t escape me. After all, it’s exactly what we did on Xen.

There is a silhouette in the dark liquid. Vaguely humanoid, curled up into a fetal position. I can just about discern a large red eye, half-closed, on the creature’s head. Even through the thick liquid, the shape appears… familiar. It seems impossible to believe, but it almost looks like…

“The Freeman.”

The voice behind me startles me and I spin around. Before me stands a green, hunched over figure with shackles around its long neck, wrists and ankles. All of its red eyes are on me and a vestigial third arm extends itself towards me. If there was any doubt about the creature in the tank, here it is unmistakable: I am standing in front of a Vortigaunt.

“At last, the Combine’s reckoning has come.”

Chapter 3

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Yes, you read this right: chapter 2 of Anticitizen, which has been in production since July 2020, is finally finished! And boy, is it a long one! 4000 words, and yet we still haven't even gotten to Dr. Kleiner's lab! (Don't worry, we'll get there soon).

Anywho, here are the accompanying images:

Beta Citadel

Combot

Metropolice officer

Combine Guard synth

Industrial district

Vorti-cell

I'm very excited to finally have this done and ready to be read. I think (and really hope) the next chapter won't take as long. As I said in the last progress update, I have been doing a lot of overarching planning for the story which will make writing easier.

I have made a rough estimate of the story and predict it will be about 32 chapters long, though it's much more likely to be more than that than less, judging from the fact that it's taking 3 chapters just to get to Kleiner's lab. The thing is, you can't predict the length things will have in this story by looking at their length in the game. The opening requires a lot of describing and mood-setting so it's much longer than the short intro in the game. Story parts will be longer than they are in the game, while action parts will be shorter than they are in the game (looking at you, 'Canals' and 'Highway' sections).

By the way, I have started uploading Anticitizen to Reddit now under the name EthanLM427. Do with that what you want.

“This is my third transfer this year, you know,” my co-passenger continues, ignoring my continued silence. “I spent my last trimester in City 49, and 45 before that. But no matter how many times I get relocated, I… I never get used to it.” He softly shakes his head and looks down at his fingers, playing with a loose bit of leather that has peeled off his suitcase. “The name’s Samuel, by the way,” he says in a lighter tone, sitting up. “I noticed you don’t have a tag on your uniform.” He brings his hand up to his chest and taps a stitched-on strip of grey fabric with his index finger. It says ‘G-11789RF’. “You’d better do something about that before a Metrocop catches you without one.”

My head spins. The sudden overload of impulses is too much for my still foggy mind. While trying to piece together what is going on I look to my left. There is another passenger sitting some ten feet away from me, his arms crossed and his suitcase on a seat next to him. I spot a third passenger, an Asian-looking woman, at the far end of the car, sitting next to the door. Everyone is wearing the same uniform. None of them look like they want to be on this train.

I suddenly realize that I have been avoiding looking out of the windows. There is a pit in my stomach, a sickening feeling of dread that tells me I already know what I would see. I do it anyway. I shift in my seat, turning my head around to look out of the window behind me. It’s even worse than I expected. Just like in the vision, the landscape is a desolate wasteland. Skeletons of trees crown the small hills that pop up all over the plains. The ground is cracked and there isn’t a stream of water as far as the eye can see, which isn’t all that far. The sky is completely covered in dark, greenish gray clouds that sometimes drift down to envelop the land in a disgusting smog. The sun is nothing more than a slightly brighter spot in the thick carpet, standing low above the horizon. Here and there a silhouette stands out from its surroundings by its jagged, square shape: abandoned buildings that look as if they have been picked up and dropped from a great height. A pipeline runs parallel to the rails, and I see another train track in the distance.

Just when I think the world is completely devoid of life, movement in the periphery of my vision catches my attention. Something is running beside the train, flashing past because of their lower speed. I recognize the green, three-legged creatures. Their piercing, supersonic squeals still echo through my head. Looking further into the distance again, I start noticing more signs of life. I spot a bullsquid, the large amphibian beast with acidic spit that almost cost me my life several times, in a muddy ditch. I am also relieved to see what seem to be normal crows flying to and from some of the trees, but there are some things creeping around that I have never seen before. A flat reptile with a wide mouth and four chimney-like limbs protruding from its sides, with tufts of hair on the end of each of them. Tall, tripedal insects with ambiguous organs dangling between their stalky legs. Somewhere deep inside, the scientist in me is fascinated by the alien sights and wants to study them more closely. But that man died the moment the crystal hit the beam. This Gordon Freeman just wants to avert his eyes and hope never to see anything again that reminds him of how terrifying the universe can be.

A train slides into view on the parallel track. It seems to be freight train, but it’s a model I have never seen before. The locomotive is tall, streamlined and has a sharp nose with a single headlight illuminating its path. I don’t see any windows or other indications of a control room. The thing is made of a dark, obsidian-like metal that also covers the wheels, making it seem like the train is just sliding over the dusty ground. The cars directly behind the locomotive are in the same style, but further to the back there are also some more normal looking cars with containers. I notice Samuel has gotten up from his seat and is looking over my shoulder. “Look!” he says, pointing in the distance. On the path of the other train, a gargantuan shadow looms over its surroundings, hunched over, arms spread as if bracing for impact. Its dark blue exoskeleton and single glowing red eye almost seem to mirror the image of the vehicle speeding towards it. A low, wailing horn sounds from the train as the distance between the two shrinks. The monster doesn’t flinch. It stands its ground, determined, until the train hits. The locomotive doesn’t even slow down. The monster, despite being quite a bit taller than the train, gets violently pushed out of the way and, though it is hard to tell from this distance, quite possibly cut in half by the locomotive.

“Razor Trains, man,” Samuel says with a hint of awe. “I would feel much safer if we were aboard one of those.”

Our view of the other train gets obstructed by a nearby building. There seems to be a sudden increase in the number of ruins near the track, as brick walls suddenly make up all we can see through the window. “Looks like we’re almost there,” Samuel notes. I try to look ahead and see we are heading towards a gigantic wall made of the same dark metal as the Razor Train. Behind it, tall apartment buildings and skyscrapers stand in much better condition than the buildings on this side of the wall – though they, too, show signs of ruin and neglect. “There it is,” Samuel says, “City 17.” He scoffs. “They all look the same from the outside, don’t they?” The wall grows ever nearer, until everything suddenly goes dark as we enter a tunnel, the only source of light now being the few functional lamps on the ceiling. “I heard living conditions are supposed to be much better in 17 than they were in 49, though. The air is much cleaner here since it’s so close to the Air Exchange. I guess that’s why the Consul moved here.”

The other male passenger, who visibly has been growing increasingly bothered with Samuel’s talking, suddenly speaks up: “Yeah, well, there’s also much heavier security, so if you don’t want to get us all into trouble, you’d best quiet down a bit once we’ve arrived.” Samuel looks at the man offendedly. He opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but decides against it and looks the other way, shaking his head.

When we emerge from the tunnel, it barely makes a difference for the amount light streaming in through the windows. The already dim light the sun manages to squeeze through the clouds is now also blocked by the tall buildings. It might as well be nighttime. The view outside is somehow more depressing than the wastelands: near-empty streets lit by slender lampposts, only inhabited by abandoned cars, trash and a lone citizen clutching something against his chest as he makes his way from one patch of light to the next. The railway is elevated a good fourteen feet above the street, and now and then I catch a glimpse of people behind the windows of the second floors we pass by. They fly by too fast to properly see what they are doing, but the rooms in which they reside all seem as bare and featureless as the beige shirts they are all wearing.

The train starts to slow down and I see the female passenger stand up and pick up her suitcase. The man also stands up and grabs onto a metal bar that runs along the ceiling for stability. Shortly after, the train comes to a shrieking halt at an empty platform. Once the carriages have stopped shaking and the train lets out a sigh of relief, the doors on either end of the car open, letting in a cold draft that paces down the aisle and brings life to the scraps dotted around on the once-red carpet. Samuel stands up and arches his back. “Well, end of the line,” he mutters before following the other passengers outside. I stand up on still shaky legs and do the same, stepping down onto the hard ground of the outside world.

The train platform is a desolate concrete slab, flanked on both sides by the steel and plexiglass walls  of trains and cut in half by a row of benches and pillars that support the overhead shelter. At the end are stairs leading into a hole in the ground that hungrily swallows the passengers heading down. I keep following them, heading down into a chilly tunnel that reeks of rotting trash. Our footsteps echo as we walk past branches of the tunnel that have signs with arrows and numbers to guide non-existent travelers to their platforms. As we follow the main flow of the tunnel I start hearing a distant voice from up the large stairs at the end, but by the time I reach the stairs, it has stopped.

We emerge into what must once have been the majestic main terminal hall of the station, but has now been transformed into a twisted version of its original purpose. A roof of translucent glass arches over a gaping abyss that cuts through the hall, leaving only a narrow strip of the original black and white tiled floor around it. The gap is about thirty feet across and has a chain link fence surrounding it. I walk up to the fence and look down. Several train tracks run along or across the ravine at differing heights and angles. Several trains are stationed on the rails, suspended above the seemingly bottomless gorge. All of them are the same model as the train I saw plow through the creature on the wastelands – Razor Trains. The smoke that pours down from the locomotives and the tunnels, combined with the cycloptic headlights on the trains, make for a mesmerizing display of light and shadows.

There’s a walkway across the chasm, accessible through stairs to my left. Seeing no other way forward, I take the stairs up to the walkway, only to see a strange figure standing in the middle of the path, watching over the passengers traversing the room. A man in a black uniform with red markings on the chest and shoulders. His face is enveloped by a white gasmask with lenses that glow a faint yellow. His leather glove is clenched around a baton that he softly taps against his hip as he follows passing civilians with his obscured eyes. I suspect this might be one of the “Metrocops” Samuel mentioned, and I know that whatever he is, it can’t be good news for me if he sees me.

As I’m looking around for another way, my eye falls on a large vertical screen hanging in the center of the largest wall, in front of a circular stained glass window. It displays only a set of strange symbols on a bluish green background, but suddenly a face appears on the screen. I immediately recognize it as the balding, solemn-faced man from the posters on the train. Under the face, a message appears: THE CONSUL SAYS… WELCOME.

“Welcome,” the face starts speaking through unseen speakers, “Welcome to City 17. You have chosen, or been chosen, to relocate to one of our finest remaining urban centers.” His voice is stoic, but strangely comforting. “I thought so much of City 17 that I elected to establish my administration here, in the Citadel so thoughtfully provided by Our Benefactors. I have been proud to call City 17 my home. And so, whether you are here to stay or passing through on your way to parts unknown…” The Consul smiles warmly, “Welcome to City 17. It’s safer here.” The Consul’s face fades away, and the screen goes back to the illegible symbols. I look back to the Metrocop, only to see him looking back at me. I freeze.

“Move along,” a voice sounds from the mask, distorted as if through a walkie-talkie. He gestures with his baton, and I realize it’s in my best interest to just walk past him as if nothing is going on. I have just passed the Metrocop when I make the mistake of looking down, through the metal grating, into the abyss below. I am not usually one to get vertigo – I had gunfights on cliffsides and on rocks floating between dimensions for crying out loud – but the sight makes my head spin, and I have to lean on the railing for a moment. As I’m catching my breath, I hear the low bellow of a Razor Train horn coming from underneath me. I carefully look down again to see another train arrive on a track that runs along the side of the ravine. Judging from the disgusting greenish splats on the locomotive, it might very well be the one I witnessed plow through the monster – or maybe that is something that regularly happens. I then notice something walk to the nose of the train on a steel platform besides the track. From my top-down perspective, it’s hard to tell what it is – but it sure doesn’t seem to be human. I see brown robes, a white, oval head and long, slender arms holding something that resembles a flamethrower. It points the nozzle at the train at starts spraying it with jets of sickly green… gas? Liquid? Fire? Energy? It’s hard to tell, but when the spraying stops and the being walks over to the precarious, narrow platform on the other side of the track to start spraying the other side of the locomotive, it seems to have removed all of the filth from the train’s hull.

The voice of the Consul startles me as he repeats the same welcoming message. I glance over my shoulder and am relieved to see the Metrocop doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me. I decide to get a move on and quicken my pace as I continue traversing the walkway. When I finally reach the other side, I go down another set of stairs and see a doorway leading into another room. The tables that are spread around it and what seem to be the remains of a shuttered counter lead me to believe that this used to be cafeteria. Now it just has a few tired travelers resting their heads on their hands, the only voice heard being the Consul’s coming from another large screen. I make my way between the tables and dilapidated potted plants to another doorway. Passing by, I hear a man at a table quietly mutter to himself: “They’re always departing but they never arrive… and the ones that do arrive, they never leave… you never see them go, they’re always full… no one ever gets on but they’re always…” He keeps muttering, when there’s suddenly screaming on the other side of the room. I see a man struggling against two Metrocops, thrashing around and shouting that he didn’t do anything. One of the Metrocops lifts his baton, which suddenly glows with electricity, before bringing it down on the man’s back, bringing him to his knees. The man doesn’t stop struggling and tries to crawl away. The other Metrocop pulls something from a holster on his belt and points it at him. There’s a loud bang and then a brief silence… “Welcome to City 17. It’s safer here,” the Consul’s ever hollower sounding message echoes. The two Metrocops drag the man away. Everyone goes about their business, and I decide to do the same.

The doorway from the cafeteria leads to a corridor. Posters on the wall catch my attention. They are bigger than the ones I saw on the train, but look just as much like textbook propaganda. They all bear the number 17 in one of the corners. One of them depicts the Consul with the words “It’s great to be part of the greater good”. Another depicts a Metrocop and says “Civil Protection: They’re here for you”. But one particular poster catches my attention: it shows a familiar figure in brown robes holding a flamethrower-like object. I can now more clearly see its head: it’s white, metallic, and shaped like flattened ball. It has two beady, tubular eyes and a third orifice that probably serves as its mouth. “Keep it clean… or he will”.

As I’m walking through the corridor, looking at the posters, I notice a vending machine. “The Consul’s Private Reserve”. It takes me a moment to realize that it dispenses cans of water. For free, it would seem. I’m looking at the buttons on the machine, considering pressing one, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. A bewildered looking man spins me around and grabs me by my shoulders, bringing his face very close to mine.

“Don’t drink the water,” he says. His eyes frantically dart around and his breaths are shaky. “They put something in it, to… to make you forget. I don’t even remember how I got here…” He slowly lets go of me and looks around. “I…” His voice trembles and he walks away, shaking his head. I decide to pass on the water.

The corridor leads me around a corner to a fenced-off waiting line, where citizens cue up to be scanned by a camera-like contraption hanging from the ceiling. Most people are sent straight ahead, but some get taken aside by a Metrocop and are escorted through a gate marked “NOVA PROSPEKT”. I’m not sure what exactly is going on, but I know it is a situation I would rather avoid. I turn around to leave, but am suddenly stopped by a voice: “You, citizen!” I turn back around and see a Metrocop beckoning me from a side door. “Come with me, now!” I look around, weighing up my options. Can I run? No, that’s ridiculous. The scene in the cafeteria proved that Metrocops are ruthless, and without my H.E.V. Suit I don’t stand a chance against multiple armed individuals. I have no choice but to follow him and hope I can overpower him when he’s alone.

I follow the Metrocop into a narrow hallway, past a door behind which I hear a man protesting and trying to defend himself. I get lead into a small office. “Back up,” the Metrocop says with a soft push before closing the door and walking over to an alien looking console with a triptych of monitors above it. I frantically look around the office – a desk, a filing cabinet, another of those ceiling scanners, a chair with leather straps on the armrests and suspicious red stains on the floor around it… Anything I can use as a weapon? Perhaps the desk lamp…

While I am frantically looking around for a way out, the Metrocop pushes some buttons on the console and the scanner disappears into the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m gonna need me some privacy for this,” he says with a chuckle. Before I can make a run for the lamp, he turns around and brings his hands up to the sides of his head. “Now…” There’s a click as the front part of the mask comes loose. When he takes it off, I, for the first time in too long, look into the eyes of a friend. “About that beer I owed ya!”

Chapter 2

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So, here is chapter one of Anticitizen! I’m so excited to finally get this out there. I have a couple more things to say, but first, as promised, here are a few images to aid the visualization of some of the things I described. (Don’t take any of the images literally, there might be differences between them and the story)

Wasteland

Wasteland creature 1: Stampeder

Wasteland creature 2: Tripod hopper

Razor Train

Train Station Abyss

Beta Metrocop

Consul

Propaganda posters

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So, this first chapter was very descriptive but I had to do a lot of scene-setting. Even if y’all know what a Metrocop looks like, I have to describe them from scratch because (1) I want this story to be readable for people who have never played HL2, (2) I need to make clear to all you HL2 fans what looks the same and what looks different and (2+1) since it’s from Gordon’s perspective I can’t just go “oh look it’s a Metrocop” since it’s his first time seeing one.

Undoubtedly you are now bursting with anticipation for the next chapter. Well, you can probably guess what I’m about to say: it’s gonna take some time. I have started writing it and it’s mapped out and all, but you know, I still have to actually write most of it.

Oh, before I forget, following a suggestion by @perfect-trash-king​ (thanks by the way) I will be posting this story on Ao3 Ao2+1 too, so if you for some reason much prefer that platform over Tumblr I guess you can head over there. Or you could follow it on both platforms. And don’t forget it’s also being uploaded to Fanfiction, so you could follow it there as well. Or don’t. You do you.