So, having ideas sucks. This story was the worst. It clawed at me from the inside whenever I stopped writing. It forced me to improve it, to make it perfect, to send it out into the world because it hated being trapped inside me. As it is, I never write chapters beforehand, I consistently write a single chapter, publish, and move to the next. I didn't edit this one a whole lot, because the idea was going to rip me open from the inside, so hopefully publishing it will calm it down.
URGENT: Before reading any of this, go listen to the song "Exile Vilify." Like 10 times. Don't even think about ignoring me. Go. Do it. I can wait. I'll listen to it, too. I probably would have done so anyway.
ALSO: I'm going to put a lot of things into this fanfic that tie into some of the random things in Rattman's dens. One of them is The Girls of Aperture Science calendar. Look that up, too.
DISCLAIMER: I wish I owned any of these characters. Then I could make this legit.
August 29, 1983
Tap, tap, tap.
The rhythm brings order to a chaotic mind. Voices shouting, screaming to be heard over the deafening noise. Each one convincing me in turn that they are the most important, the most trustworthy, only to be drowned out by a fiercer, louder opponent. They berate me. Antagonize me. Some of them just cry.
Tap, tap, tap.
There are voices I know.
"A danger to this facility, to us all-"
"-major health issues-"
"-rehabilitation-"
Voices I don't know.
"We're on the edge here. Artificial intelligence-"
"-you don't have to be alone. Never again-"
Voices that shout and plead to be heard. I don't know what they want. I never have. It's not my fault-
"Doug Rattman?"
My fingers pause in midair as I look up. The voices cease as if on cue, and for the first time I realize I have not been tapping my desk, but the keys of my computer. This is fortunate, because the last person who was caught staring off into space in the presence of Cave Johnson still won't talk about the incident. Luckily, the man standing in front of me is not Cave Johnson, and also luckily, he is not actually looking at what I have typed.
"Boss wants me to deliver these." A booklet lands on my cluttered desk with a small thud, stirring a few papers. "New calendars."
"Calendars?" I ask, looking back at my computer. I am glad for the interruption, but I had been hoping for something even slightly more interesting. "It's nearly September already. Shame to use a calendar for only four months."
The man chuckles. "Yeah, wastes paper and all that nonsense. Fortunately our wonderful boss doesn't care about that shit. All he knows is, it's money he can take off our paychecks."
I pick up the calendar, slightly intrigued. The front reads: "The Girls of Aperture Science, 1983." It features a bikini-clad woman who most likely knows nothing about Aperture or science.
The man winks at me. "Cave Johnson's basic formula. Give the men pictures of pretty girls, they work harder for less pay. He's right, too." He chuckles again at his own wit and saunters away to the next room.
I look down at the calendar again. The girl is certainly very pretty. I'm sure no one in Aperture would understand if I told them that it didn't matter whatsoever. That the girl is empty.
Sighing, I lift myself from my chair and walk the two steps that it takes to cover the entire length of my claustrophobic office. Confined spaces nearly always make me nervous as hell, and this is by far the worst. I've avoided airplanes, buses, and empty rooms as much as possible since I was diagnosed, but it's difficult to avoid the office that you work in every single day. The clutter helps.
I take the old calendar off of the wall (last year's was The Technology of Aperture Science – not nearly as interesting) and toss it into the trash bin. I begin to hang up the new one, which is open to this month, but on a rebellious whim I flip it to September instead. I'm not sure why it gives me the sense of freedom that it does, turning the calendar page a few days ahead, but the model for August wasn't all that nice looking, anyway.
The first thing I notice about September's model is that she is not empty. Somehow I know that this woman was the only one who hadn't volunteered to pose in suggestive clothing, and the only one who wouldn't accept payment for it, merely out of her defiance. She has the same blank smile as the rest, but her green eyes are hard, and for a minute I feel the pain of the poor man holding the camera as those eyes bored holes in him. She hid it almost too well, but she was angry as hell to be there.
She is beautiful.
People often tell me that it terrifies them, how well I can read people. I always reply that, when you are simply observing humanity, you learn much more than when you are a part of it, following the same instinct and drive as everyone else. I do not see much more of these people.
I hold the calendar up to the wall and stick a pushpin through it. Shoving the girl to the back of my mind for the time being, I sit back down at my desk, interested. I still have not read what I typed so mindlessly into the computer.
The text on my screen reads:
glados glados glados glados glados
Ooooh, plot twist! ;D