Killing Isn't Hard

Summary: Gordon Freeman was very confused. One-shot.
Rating: T, some people die, but they aren't important.
Disclaimer: Gordon Freeman and all things Half-Life belong to Valve.
More Notes: Gordon needs a snack break. Fifteen years? My guesstimate before Episode One came out, and I'm sticking with it. Mood? "...dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had..." Guy really needs a snack break.

Gordon Freeman was very confused.

It didn't stop him from killing. It didn't even slow him down.

He had to wonder when he got so good at doing it, though.

Pull the trigger, the pistol in his hand went off. His opponent's head snaps back, blood spraying from the neat little hole he just formed right between the eyes.

It was a little worrying, really, if he stopped to think about it. Didn't have time, apparently hadn't had time for about fifteen years.

...But not hard.

People had to train to do this?

Need to reload, duck for cover. Keep moving, keep moving. Three shots fire, three flatlines echo in the devastated city he only knew as City 17. No one had bothered to tell him what it used to be called.

Maybe they didn't remember?

But of course, they didn't bother to tell him much at all.

Enemy fire flew past his head to thud into the wall, chunks of concrete peppering his auburn hair gray.

Did he like killing?

A certain amount of satisfaction, yes.

The clink of a grenade reached his ears, and he dove from cover. A bullet pinged into his shoulder, jerking it to the side, but he quickly regained his footing and rammed the butt of his gun into the faceplate of a faceless soldier.

But did he like killing?

The crowbar in his other fist descended on the staggered soldier's head.

He'd like to think he didn't.

There was a crack, he's teeth were gritted. The soldier went down, and the pistol was used again. Another flateline.

But he was very very indifferent.

Was it okay to get this use to killing? He didn't even flinch anymore.

If he stopped to think about it, he would realize he was hungry (The sandwich a resistance member had reverently given him hadn't helped much.), he was tired (Sleep was made up by people who didn't have to singlehandedly win a rebellion.), Alyx Vance was a fully grown twenty-five year old woman who five days ago was a ten year old girl hiding behind her mother's leg at Black Mesa, his friend Barney Calhoun had a disturbing amount of wrinkles, Dr. Vance had less limbs and Dr. Kleiner had even less hair, and that some of the blood on his hazard suit was his. What he did bother to realize is that people needed his help, he was running low on pulse rifle ammo, and that if he ever saw that man with a briefcase again, he was going to shoot him as many times as he could.

Then he would like killing.

A lot.

Gordon blinked down at the body of his latest kill, crouched and riffled through his pockets for usable ammo.

"Dr. Freeman!"

A civilian garbed in uniform blue carefully stepped around the dead. Freeman paid them no heed, trailing bloody footprints, thick lenses glinting harshly in the late evening sun. They met beside the body of a fallen Combine, at the mouth of an alley.

"I was watching from the building across the street, thought you might need this more then me." The civilian presented a box of MP7 ammunition.

"Thank you." Freeman's voice was surprisingly soft, his eyes exceedingly green. He set about reloading his submachine gun with monotonous speed that spoke of countless repetition.

"No, thank you."

Gordon paused, lifting his head.

"Kick some ass, Doc. Cause I can't."

Gordon's ankle throbbed, his shoulder ached, his mouth was dry, but Gordon smiled, ramming home an ammunition clip with a snick of finality. "Oh, I will."