Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Apr 29, 2011 18:09:02 GMT -5
A Half Life 2 fan-fiction I started but never made much more progress with. I loved the idea of exploring a Combine oppressed North African city with a complete melting pot of a large number of religious and ethnic groups with the resistance operating in the open deserts.
If someone from the modding community picked this idea up, brohugs would ensue.
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The dark blade through the sun blistered golden wild-plate. An almost poetic image thought the cloudy headed former scholar who lay on Citizen transport T-75J. Rows of rusted corrugated iron that composed the dubious frame of this train were swathed in smooth patterns of desert dust that got everywhere, in their suitcases their shoes, their blue boiler suits.
Seemingly endless, the route to Combine controlled City 35 was long and straight, tracks carved a dark line through the permanent golden sand and debris of the North African deserts. Where the space in the train car was vacant, the glare of the sun revealed the musky hue of the air and made the car feel uncomfortable and cloudy as the inside of an un-kept motor.
Vivan Marcas (former PH.D) blinked groggily into a new, crappy day. Last night was his oasis of enjoyment and bliss from the post-7 hour war world. He and some fellow passengers had commandeered what was left of a decaying dining car, got some cheap beer and drunk themselves blind. Vivan spent the evening laughing at pretty much anything anyone said, in an utter state of inebriation. He was paying for it today, in headaches and braincells.
After several moments of just laying there blinking into the florescent lamp glow, only partially conscious he realised how much his spine hurt from the jagged edges of the cheap iron train seats he lay on. His head craned round to examine the cabin; just two rows of these seats down either side of the main isle. All sorts of food stains and graffiti and other unsightly, mysterious blemishes marred the train. The windows were cracked in places and there was even the tell-tale signs of a bullet hole in the glass.
Vivans car was occupied by three others, two woman and a man. Neither of them had uttered a word in his company throughout the five day long train journey from City 29 on the Mediterranean coast or even in the two day long ferry ride before that. He had only their melancholy faces and serial numbers to remember them by; 27-613, 11-722 and 63-994. These numbers burnt to his memory by hours of just awkward silences between meals and other business.
Two hours after getting up Marcus, relatively clear-minded checked his beaten up old clock. Twelve hours until their destination. While he did this he checked his suitcase. He was right to be paranoid about checking on his few worldly possessions regularly, the metrocops liked to confiscate items almost randomly simply because they could. Vivan always wondered what thugs and bullies were employed under those white masks and black flak vests.
Looking away, the disgruntled man got his first good look at the City 35 citadel. Since the 7 hour war he had been transferred between cities in Eastern Europe, England, the former United States and a couple in Asia. None of those citadels had impressed him as much as this one. Out of a stretched, thin, yellow, hazy horizon of oblivion rose a dark blade that protruded at a perfectly vertical angle out of the desert and seemed to rise so high up into the cloud-less sky he wondered how such a building could be so structurally sound. However, he couldn't pick out any distinguishing details from this distance.
Vivan stopped gawking at the incomprehensibly huge building and rummaged carefully through his suitcase and pulled out the pistol. His fathers old service issue 9mm side arm. He could be shot if the CP's found this among his baggage, possession of a any firearm was generally an execution worthy offence under combine rule, much like so many other actions. On some days, he wondered why he carried it around. Self defence? An action against our benefactors? Suicide when he just couldn't hold out any longer? Whatever the reason, he still had the memory of his mother and father in his head, if all he could do to honour their memory and love was to carry around an old handgun than he would do it.
---
Just thought I'd post it for abit of feedback.
If someone from the modding community picked this idea up, brohugs would ensue.
---
The dark blade through the sun blistered golden wild-plate. An almost poetic image thought the cloudy headed former scholar who lay on Citizen transport T-75J. Rows of rusted corrugated iron that composed the dubious frame of this train were swathed in smooth patterns of desert dust that got everywhere, in their suitcases their shoes, their blue boiler suits.
Seemingly endless, the route to Combine controlled City 35 was long and straight, tracks carved a dark line through the permanent golden sand and debris of the North African deserts. Where the space in the train car was vacant, the glare of the sun revealed the musky hue of the air and made the car feel uncomfortable and cloudy as the inside of an un-kept motor.
Vivan Marcas (former PH.D) blinked groggily into a new, crappy day. Last night was his oasis of enjoyment and bliss from the post-7 hour war world. He and some fellow passengers had commandeered what was left of a decaying dining car, got some cheap beer and drunk themselves blind. Vivan spent the evening laughing at pretty much anything anyone said, in an utter state of inebriation. He was paying for it today, in headaches and braincells.
After several moments of just laying there blinking into the florescent lamp glow, only partially conscious he realised how much his spine hurt from the jagged edges of the cheap iron train seats he lay on. His head craned round to examine the cabin; just two rows of these seats down either side of the main isle. All sorts of food stains and graffiti and other unsightly, mysterious blemishes marred the train. The windows were cracked in places and there was even the tell-tale signs of a bullet hole in the glass.
Vivans car was occupied by three others, two woman and a man. Neither of them had uttered a word in his company throughout the five day long train journey from City 29 on the Mediterranean coast or even in the two day long ferry ride before that. He had only their melancholy faces and serial numbers to remember them by; 27-613, 11-722 and 63-994. These numbers burnt to his memory by hours of just awkward silences between meals and other business.
Two hours after getting up Marcus, relatively clear-minded checked his beaten up old clock. Twelve hours until their destination. While he did this he checked his suitcase. He was right to be paranoid about checking on his few worldly possessions regularly, the metrocops liked to confiscate items almost randomly simply because they could. Vivan always wondered what thugs and bullies were employed under those white masks and black flak vests.
Looking away, the disgruntled man got his first good look at the City 35 citadel. Since the 7 hour war he had been transferred between cities in Eastern Europe, England, the former United States and a couple in Asia. None of those citadels had impressed him as much as this one. Out of a stretched, thin, yellow, hazy horizon of oblivion rose a dark blade that protruded at a perfectly vertical angle out of the desert and seemed to rise so high up into the cloud-less sky he wondered how such a building could be so structurally sound. However, he couldn't pick out any distinguishing details from this distance.
Vivan stopped gawking at the incomprehensibly huge building and rummaged carefully through his suitcase and pulled out the pistol. His fathers old service issue 9mm side arm. He could be shot if the CP's found this among his baggage, possession of a any firearm was generally an execution worthy offence under combine rule, much like so many other actions. On some days, he wondered why he carried it around. Self defence? An action against our benefactors? Suicide when he just couldn't hold out any longer? Whatever the reason, he still had the memory of his mother and father in his head, if all he could do to honour their memory and love was to carry around an old handgun than he would do it.
---
Just thought I'd post it for abit of feedback.
