the ghost of hl2rp past
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- Feb 11, 2022
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As I am uninvolved with the server itself, and this piece was written for another interpretation of the Half-Life setting entirely, I cannot promise that its contents will match with the likeness of Willard's Half-Life fan-universe.
For the sake of not confusing readers and causing issues for those who spend tireless hours meticulously crafting the world for the server, the contents of this story should be digested and enjoyed as a separate and isolated entity from that of the lore curated for Willard.
For the sake of not confusing readers and causing issues for those who spend tireless hours meticulously crafting the world for the server, the contents of this story should be digested and enjoyed as a separate and isolated entity from that of the lore curated for Willard.
04:03 AM, COMBINE CENTRALIZED TIME
SECTOR 37
SYNTHETIC SPAWNING FIELDS, CITY 433 RE-EDUCATIONAL LABOUR REASSIGNMENT CAMP B9
"Careful," Itzhak warned. "Don't trip."
Itzhak's calloused and wilted hand reached out across the threshold of their small wooden craft, linking arms with Temitope to pull him aboard and into the vessel. The two inmates lowered themselves onto the seats, and the boat moaned with a drawn-out croak as they settled. Itzhak then reached for one of the oars and, with a loud heave, pushed the boat off from the shore and into the water of the artificial lake. The sun had yet to rise, but the bright, luminous glow that emanated from the rippling waters of the strange lake cast a nearly blinding, colorless light up onto the faces of the two inmates. Many such bodies of water littered the landscape; circular lakes carved out of the Earth by the Combine for a particular purpose, dotting up and down the plains. A dark, night-veiled landscape dotted in bright white circles encapsulating shapeless silhouettes within.
Temitope watched as the other inmates toiling at the edges of the lakes grew smaller and smaller, while Itzhak slowly rowed the oars back and forth towards their destination. A mutual silence developed between the two, accompanied by the ambiance of the water colliding with the boat, the swishing of Itzhak's oars, and the distant, thunderous footfalls of tripod silhouettes against a dim-lit morning sky.
Eventually, Temitope turned to Itzhak to break the silence.
"What are you in for?" the Yoruba man spoke, tilting himself to the side slightly to get a better vantage of his fellow inmate amid the bewildered lighting.
"I punched someone who stole my ration from the bread line," Itzhak answered gruffly between heaves. He briefly turned back to Temitope to add to that: "The blow killed him. You?"
"I'd be lying if I said I knew," Temitope murmured with irritation. "One moment, I am working in the furnaces burning scraps. Now, I am here. Doing this." Temitope emphasized brazenly with his hands, then exhaled a tiresome sigh. He idly turned his head to the shapes of mountains in the distance, only barely contrasting from the early morning darkness that was eminently fleeting.
Itzhak blew air as they grew further and further away from the shore. "That overseer said it was pod twelve that was acting up," he inquired of Temitope. "Right?"
"Yes, just a bit further now."
"Good."
Temitope grabbed the rim of the craft and peered over into the nearly opaque, glowing water of the spawning pool, searching for distorted shapes beneath the waves. They go on for another fifteen minutes, until he leans forward and nudges Itzhak's leg to grasp his attention.
"Right here, right here- stop rowing. Pod twelve."
Itzhak stopped in his tracks, placing the oars horizontally atop of the vessel as it settled into a declining drift over the spot. The two slowly rose, carefully balancing themselves so as to not tip over into the illuminated pool. There, less than a meter beneath them, was a dark shape with innumerous cords and wires connected to it. Temitope got down on his knees and leaned over the edge of the boat to get a closer look. He pointed towards the bottom of the shape, where a red light pulsed back up from beneath the ripples.
"There,” Temitope spoke, “I think that's why it hasn't emerged. The protein tube is stuck." Itzhak simply curled his lip inward as he slowly looked between Temitope and the thing below, deep in thought. He then picked up one of the oars and dipped it into the water towards the stuck tube. He continued to lower it until it hit a solid surface, his hands and wrists entirely submerged into the alien pool. Swiftly, he struck the tube with the paddle-end of the oar, sending ripples through the water as he repeated the motion again and again.
Eventually, the tube disconnected, dissipating as its dark shape diminished deeper into the bottom of the pool. Itzhak let out a sigh of relief and leaned back into the boat, and Temitope joined him briefly. Their reprieve was then consequently interrupted as low bubbling began to trickle up from the water beside their boat. The two looked over at the bubbling, and saw the shape beneath the water moving. And it was getting bigger.
And bigger.
And bigger.
Until suddenly, a large, organic carapace breached the surface of the water beside the boat, sending a large wave that ushered the vessel back with reckless abandon. The two inmates yelped, clutching the edges of the boat as their craft was sent away from the emerging beast. The tripod's legs rose from the water, wound up in cords, cables and tubes that had likely been a part of its growing process. As it came to a standing position, the remaining tubes disconnected and fell back into the glowing water, and the cables that wrapped themselves around the legs of the beast snapped upon being stressed to their breaking points.
Itzhak and Temitope got back up from the bottom of their boat, both equally drenched, and gazed up at the rising beast they had awoken, dripping with the mercurial, glowing liquid that had birthed it. It turned toward the relatively small craft that the two inmates sat in, fumbling its legs closer to them as if it had just begun to learn how to walk on its three spear-like limbs, and hovered its primary gun over the boat, as if the cannon was the antenna of a curious insect.
The two inmates, while standing before an alien war machine that was perfectly capable of killing them both, were equally speechless in the moment. As if time itself had simply stopped, the beast muttered a soft and distorted groan to the two that had helped it. The strider nudged the boat with its large gun, which rightly frightened the two aboard and ushered out another yelp. The strider did it again, as if toying with them- much to the lack of amusement from Itzhak and Temitope.
Then, as if a beckoning grasped its attention, the strider's 'head' swung east. A guttural cry reverberated from the newly cloned war machine, of which its sound sent ripples through the waves surrounding the boat and sent chills over the two inmates. It rose back up to a full, standing position that stood far above the small boat, and began slowly making its way out of the lake, one large step at a time.
Temitope was the first to speak, nearly a minute after the strider began to trek. "...Let's get back to the overseer already," he whimpered.
Itzhak offered no formal protest to the motion, fastly reaching for the oars once again.
Given that it’s implausible that the Combine would only have the machines they brought with them during the Seven Hour War, I figured they’d establish some local means of producing these creatures.
Also inspired by Battlestar Galactica’s resurrection tubs that the human Cylons revive from after being destroyed/killed.
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