As a child he had dreamt of joining the army. His uncles were soldiers. His father was a soldier. His brother was a soldier. His parents had met because one of his uncles had introduced his sister to his squad. His grandparents on both sides? Soldiers. Great-grandparents? Soldiers. Heroes.
The Combine invasion ended that. The Seven Hour War was violent, but the Combine only killed resisting humans. Most resistance was gone within five hours, the last two hours were the surrender negotiations with the few remaining human soldiers still fighting, and with what was left of the UN. Doctor Breen had taken the lead in communicating with the Combine, and in the process found himself appointed the Administrator of Earth.
There were no heroes in that war.
Shortly after, even with two uncles killed and his brother wounded, he fell into line with the rest of mankind. Unlike many others, he still held his dreams as he grew. Dreams of heroism.
But then it all went wrong. His brother became Resistance, his father too. Many of Earth's former soldiers remained rebellious. By the time they had been brought in and arrested he was calling them traitors as vehemently as Breen, as the Civil Protection, as the crowd.
Only he, the former two, and few others in the crowd truly believed it. He had been informed they had been taken to Nova Prospekt and executed. He had at the time been glad that justice was served.
Going wrong wasn't over yet. His efforts to enlist and join the Overwatch were blocked by his relation to Resistance fighters. Their ghosts would haunt him, cast suspicious eyes upon him.
He wanted his dream. He wanted to fight for the right cause. His father had hated the President at the time of the invasion but he had still swore loyalty to him.
What, he told himself, was really the difference? Wallace Breen or President Whateverhisname. Breen was in charge. And that was who you had to be loyal to, no? He had to prove himself. He held onto his dream.
He enlisted in Civil Protection. Still watched, but given a chance. Here if he was a traitor he could do little damage, His Benefactors reasoned.
Going right had seemingly begun.
Within six months of finishing his training he had a reputation amongst the rest of the Civil Protection as a man with something to prove. Most others were out for the benefits of being a Metrocop, or were former police, or just plain bullies and cowards, but he liked to think of himself as cream of the crop material. He kept his uniform immaculate.
He spent much of his meagre pay on keeping it in top condition, his superiors eventually arranging some discounts in the precinct cafeteria for him. It inspired his precinct commander to encourage good grooming standards, and he liked to think he played a part in encouraging camaraderie across City 17 when Doctor Breen gave his blessing to a monthly prize amongst the Metrocop precincts for the best turned out Officers.
Promotion took a long time for him. Even with black boots mirror bright, mask clean as a bone and uniform flawless, he still had ghosts over him. His good arrest record, his efforts to help other officers meet quotas on paperwork, beatings, inspections.... All just chipping away slowly at the defences around the suspicion of his rulers.
Even in one raid, when he had shot a female resistance fighter that the other Metrocops had hesitated to shoot at, he'd not chased off that suspicion. If anything he felt for a few weeks his superiors seemed wary of a man so ready to gun down someone like that.
White flag, so what? And so what if she had turned out to be only eighteen? Old enough to be a traitor. And she hadn't stopped to remove her gun from her belt. She hadn't stopped coming at them.
And still they worried he was the traitor. Well, he could fix that.
If he wanted to no longer be seen as a traitor he had to prove he hated traitors too. He held his dream still.
He reported a number of suspicious officers soon after. It was routine enough and most had reasons, but one was the real deal. The officer had been reporting and paying for an unusually high rate of lost weapons, and by being caught, exposed a huge ring smuggling pistols and machine guns to rebel fighters.
They'd asked him to volunteer as part of the sting. He jumped at the chance. He delivered the weapons, which worked fine. He'd even demonstrated on a borrowed and old face mask just what a mess the bullets would do to a watermelon even with the mask on. Meanwhile the tracking beacons hidden inside each gun would be hard to find unless they took the whole gun to pieces.
He'd strode into the warehouse, crate of weapons passed over to the fighters. They'd told him to leave fast, and he did so. He'd confirmed they were there. He'd given them the traps. He'd been proud to learn they'd been sprung.
He'd expected that would be it. But then he was summoned to the Citadel. He reported to the Commander of the Civil Protection.
He'd had high hopes this was it. Finally, he could join the real soldiers. Finally he could do more than lead raids on pockets of crazed children and idiots thinking they were liberating Earth. Finally he'd be a Soldier.
He'd been wrong. He'd caught attentions all right. He'd been too good as a Metrocop. They wanted him as a Sergeant.
But that was his chance still. Prove he was a skilled leader. Maybe become a squad leader when they trusted him. Five long years as a basic Officer ended. Six as a Sergeant began. For the dream that still burned.
He reported suspect officer after suspect officer. He made bust after bust. He was ready to report on a suspect officer, Barney Calhoun, when the end began.
He'd still been holding onto the delusion when going right confirmed it had never began. That going wrong had always been there and now it made itself well known when he showed up.
The so-called Free Man. A psychotic madman worshipped by lunatics. He'd heard whispers of the Freeman. Resistance fighters were confident Doctor Freeman would lead them to victory.
He'd scoffed at it. Then he led his team to intercept.
Freeman tore through them. He'd come to, wounded, with Overwatch putting his men in bodybags. Two others had lived, but when he'd walked back into the precinct a day later he learned the story was he had died. Rumour had made him fight an epic battle, with a steel pipe against Freeman and his crowbar, after his gun jammed. He and Freeman had sparred for ten minutes, the Sergeant trying to buy time for the reinforcements to come and capture Freeman, even with the others dead or dying around him.
Some of the men had been disappointed to learn he'd never had a steel pipe, but had instead been saved by his facemask absorbing the crowbar blow. He had not mourned the loss of his false heroism - it was insane stories like that which had made Freeman out to be invincible, able to tear through squads with ease.
Except... hadn't that been true? Hadn't Freeman escaped? Wasn't the claim now that he was ripping apart the old seaside roads? He had dismissed the stories that outpost after outpost was threatened or no longer replying. Freeman had indeed escaped the so-called Black Mesa East, but his destination was said to be Nova Prospekt.
A fitting place for a traitor to meet his end. He'd enjoyed dreaming of what Freeman walked into.
And then it went wrong. All of it.
Nova Prospekt had fallen.
The Resistance had risen.
But he held his dream. He was closer than ever!
He was a soldier now in all but rank and job description. Seven days of fighting began, and slowly, the Overwatch lost ground. Metrocops were used as emergency conscripts.
Every Precinct house was attacked at least once. Many were burnt to the ground. One even turned on the Combine. Striders flattened the nest of traitors.
And now he was back. Freeman was back in the city, and heading for his position.
He and his fellow soldiers had held this street. Kept it safe. For thirty six hours straight. The Resistance had flung hundreds of their rebels at them and they had lost hundreds. They'd even managed to pin some rebels into a ruined building, forcing a stalemate. They could easily have wiped them out.
But the Overwatch knew Freeman was coming. They knew they could end this. Parade his head on a pole for all to see Let the world know that he was just a man. A dead man. The other rebels could wait.
The Resistance, it seemed, did not know their saviour was approaching. A woman emerged from the building and he recalled the raid those years ago.
She couldn't have been only eighteen. No children had been born for twenty years. She carried a white flag.
She was shot by a sniper within seconds.
Even he saw there was no gun.
He wondered if that had once been him. Back at that raid. How had he known she was armed?
Then it all became clear. What had really happened.
She hadn't been armed. His Sergeant had reported a missing pistol a day after.
How had he been so blind? The gun had been planted. He'd killed an unarmed woman trying to surrender. Even they had to arrest such individuals.
That wasn't the mark of a hero. Killing the unarmed, those surrendering... She could have faced justice, true justice. Taken to Nova Prospekt and executed as she...
...But that was no different. She'd still be unarmed. She'd still have been rendered harmless. She could have been re-educated.
How many had he killed? All unarmed? All sent off to death in the prison.
His dream realised now it was living alongside a system that made it false. Made it a lie.
Freeman was getting nearer. The others were getting ready...
No.
The Soldiers were getting ready.
He was just a traitor to mankind. And he hated traitors. Traitors like the soldiers.
Twenty wasted years and years of lies were fading. He realised the truth now. He'd dreamt of being a hero, a soldier. He'd become something else. Just a pawn, a policeman with delusions.
He knew what he had to do. Freeman rounded the corner, his orange suit not exactly subtle. A crossbow bolt slammed into the man on the machine gun mount. The others began to fire.
He fired too. Turning to his left and firing on the cops, the soldiers, the men beside him.
The rest of the barricade was stunned for a moment. He managed to reload and started firing on them.
The spell broke. They shot back.
It was strange. He was being hit, but somehow it didn't hurt. He was still able to shoot. Still able to fight. His leg buckled under him and he found his gun empty. He just picked out one from the body beside him.
He saw Orange jump over the barricade. Saw another gun join in his fight, then found he was lying back. Found he'd dropped his gun. Found he wasn't breathing any more.
He closed his eyes. It didn't make him a hero. After all he'd done. He'd betrayed everyone really. His final act of defiance, his final treachery.
In death he released his dream.