Half-Life NPCs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smelltheashes) wrote2011-05-19 10:28 pm
smelltheashes) wrote2011-05-19 10:28 pm
In progress
The door opens from Milliways onto the narrow metal passages of a ship's interior. "Told Ms. Vance we'd meet her here," says Shephard, "'n then we'd git you together with our froggy wannabes. I reckon I don't got to tell you 'bout keepin' your point of origin out of the conversation."
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The fifteen people gathered in the galley don't look particularly soldierlike, for the most part. Oh, the three Indonesian-looking women on the end know how to carry themselves and their weapons, and the straw-haired short fellow in the middle looks like he's been fighting all his life, but the rest of them....
"Most of these folks're here 'cause they've used SCUBA shit," says Shephard in a low tone that doesn't carry far. "Jimbo there, he's Aussie Resistance. The women on the end were police divers back in Jakarta before the war. Those two there, they were dive instructors in Fernando Noronha. Lady with the red hair told me she worked for Disney, used t'do SCUBA shows at Epcot or some kind of shit like that... 'n then we got Freeman, he wants in on it too."
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He crosses his arms and looks at the group, mentally sorting the likely graduates from the likelier dropouts. It's mostly guesstimation - guesstimation drawn from years of experience, but still guesstimation.
"Well, if he thinks he can handle it, more power to 'im. I ain't one to stop 'im."
He looks over the group again. "I'd like to talk to them for a bit before we get this thing going. Just so they all know what they're gettin' into."
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The talk should be interesting.
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"On behalf of Miss Vance, ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to welcome you to Naval Special Warfare 101. No one invited you here. No one requested you attend this course. You volunteered. And you can volunteer to leave us any time you wish. Seven days a week, 24 hours a day. All you gotta do is raise your hand, yell 'I quit', and you're free to go. No questions asked. You'll be free to go back to doing whatever fucked-up shit you were into before you came here. It's that easy."
He unslings his machine gun, sets it down on the table in front of him. "In the next few days, we're not going to try to train you. We're going to try to kill you. We're going to ask you to do things you think are beyond the limits of your endurance. You will run faster, swim farther, and dig deeper than you thought humanly possible. When you are tired, you will be pushed. When you are hungry, you will go without food. When you are cold, the wind will be your blanket. You will suffer, you will sweat, and you will bleed."
He looks over the class again. "When and if you graduate, you will become part of a brotherhood. You will become the eyes and ears of this Resistance. You will meet the enemy where he does not expect you. You will hit hard, hit fast, and most of all, you will make sure that no donkey-dick Combine motherfucker gets another 40 winks so long as he lives."
A beat.
"15 people comprise this class. Maybe two or three of you clowns will make it. The rest of you will drop out or receive serious injuries in the course of training. If there is any doubt in your mind as to whether or not you want to go through this course, do yourself a favor, do me and the Sergeant-Major a favor: drop out now."
There's no response.
He paces the length of the galley, then stops.
"So. Nobody, huh?"
Again, silence.
"...so fucking be it. Salt flats, people. Let's get there."