Let It Snow
From space, the spot is a blur.
It looks too grey, clad in white, a swirl of strong wind and bad weather. To one of them, the sight is wondrous — with one hell of a storm like this, even the dried wheat field above could mean adventure.
Not that Rick knows a way to go back. None of them does. To the companion by his side, their present is good enough like this. With galaxies, boundless threads of stars, ever widening in his optic.
Maybe, for now, their stable fate is better — Wheatley remembers the wind too well to long for it. It might freeze him, faster than the terrible force which sucked him away. He no longer has faith in that world; but the forecast, with the calendar, is part of the few remains of Aperture that still haunt his system.
If there is anything he knows for sure, it's that this time of year is very, very cold.
_
The annex is not empty.
The hand of time did not destroy here. It just washed truth away, with its firm touch — it rounded the edges and melted the colours, making of these rooms an old, faded photograph. It is the aftermath of a promise, with no more truth than life, and leftovers that someone cannot let go of.
The party hats are covered in dust. The plates, unwashed, still hold the fake shine of plastic. Festoons and confetti lie about to tell the rest; they were the last thing to fall, and the last memento of warmth.
The heaviest loss was that of all sounds, of the ritual songs, of fleeting thanks and glimpses of folly. There were the roars of a man, encouraging people to discover their future where they dared not was applause, for the warm smell of chocolate and biscuits. The songs repeated themselves each year, almost erased by his powerful laughter.
Not even its echo haunts the place today.
Broken neon lights shed their efforts on a still typewriter.
Now that her halved existence is almost ignored, her ghost reaches for it, in the complex net of her security cameras. Too much was born under those keys — too much to forget, too much to let Caroline mingle with the growing darkness of the area.
Her desk held payments, praise and complaints. It drank the tears of her youth, the cold of her career, every time she had to inform desperate faces of a relative's death. The wooden board saw piles of paperwork and dreams — all too gone, too far to matter.
When she had to go, it still was a time of holidays. She had long stopped looking forward to it — her mother's wish to see her again, a voicemail growing fainter with each passing year, had been enough to make it unbearable.
They were the days of love and wishes. By the time she had to go, they were just full of regret.
She remembers the snow, restless and far, falling on the screens of her control room. She watches it now, with new eyes, like she used to do.
A lazy reminder, come from the useless days, tells her it is Christmas.
Her immediate response, hard-wired in her personality, would be answering she couldn't care less. Still, GLaDOS is equally self-conscious; and she acknowledges it would be but a waste of time, without an intelligence to talk to or a recipient to message.
She does not like to recall old mistakes. However, some meanings struggle to pass; it must be a need for growth, for confrontation, come alive through so many resets. Science whispers, she tries to listen.
Exchanges, chimneys, bad eating habits and cavities. It amuses her, almost as much as it grosses her out. It is a curious fact to think of — that some time ago, back when mankind expected a different future than fighting extraterrestrial empires, human beings held a festivity to fill up their bellies and escape bad weather.
She checks her data. As she predicted, it is snowing, as if the end of the world were to come. She expected it soon anyway.
She goes back to her eternal mission — slightly annoyed, but glad to be inside.
It is icy, white, unreal. Not so far from her life, yet a dream incarnate.
Chell lets her finger dig in it, without the need to explain. In between a blank page and a bleak future, her memory refuses to fight. It is a wonder she does not need to identify; it is pure and fresh, odourless, with no signs of immediate danger.
It is enough to her, as long as it appeases her thirst and freezes her skin. She feels it as it melts, spreading calm from the inside. Whatever it means, it will serve her well; it will teach her to sleep, to slow down the rhythm of her weary heart.
There is little else she might wish for — to lose track of the flakes as she did, long ago, with the passing of time, is the one perspective she sees in its reflection.
Coughing, bent, she lies down in the embrace. All she seeks right now is rest. And maybe, just beyond, there will be a message of hope — maybe these waters will wash the world anew, to bring her, or them all, another start.
For now, she forgets. But the awareness spreads in her.
This is a gift, and she is grateful.
notafilmnoirheroine/follyofyouth prompted:
I like pre-Portal Aperture! The people behind the cores, Aperture's history, actually smart human Wheatley, Caroline and the others as a well-developed people, etc. I really love the cores, P-Body, ATLAS, and GLaDOS.
For fic/art, either blatant silly fluff/crack or more serious, drama-tinged stuff. I like getting to know people's headcanons about everyday life at Aperture, be it about holidays or how people dealt with Aperture craziness. For anything else, I like surprises and I have no character whom I dislike!
This lovely girl, with a truly great taste in gaming, asked for a various range of themes and characters, which happen to be the very same ones I love. Although my original project was witty silliness, what I offer you as your Secret Santa is full of drama and angst. I apologize I can't offer much more than that, dear… but I hope you will enjoy anyway.