(Untitled)

[blueshifted]

The Combine razor train speeds along toward its destination, black metal gleaming in the sun like knife efficiently cutting through all the chaos of the world. Even from the outside, it looks evil. Deadly. Unearthly.

Inside, suspicions are confirmed; the spartan, narrow corridors are filled with all forms of munitions and turrets - the weapons of

Comments

[smelltheashes]

The metrocops don't like the sound of that, not one bit. They're human, after all- bastards, the lot of them, but still human- and that means they've still got the capacity for worry. Trains aren't supposed to shake. Something is wrong.

The Overwatch... well, they're not so human any more. There might be a little bit of brain left that can still do the fear response, but when the train starts acting abnormally their response is to immediately start trying to find out why. The appropriate response to an abnormal situation is diagnosis, after all.

[smelltheashes]

The diagnosis won't be found inside the train, that's for sure. Once the Overwatch exhaust all other avenues, they go to MetroCops to inform them of the situation. They really can't afford to stop the train, and the brakes will take some time to engage... but the sooner they stop the train, the sooner they can deal with whatever's outside.

[remindmeof_me]

Good luck with that. Whatever's outside isn't going away. It's just getting worse, like hailstones going completely out of control as a thunderstorm gets worse.

Here's a hint, kids: it's not a thunderstorm. Thunderstorms don't generally open pulse cannon fire on whoever sticks his head out of a train first. And hailstones? Don't explode.

[subject_lj_here]

Chell cackles happily when the first Overwatch goes flying after a volley of pulse fire.

"Serves him," she chimes, before swinging her gun back to the door and firing at it and the train experimentally. "How are we on mines?"