Survivors
She crawls into that dirty hole with a horrified respect.
There is no telling what poor soul was here, or which fate might have swallowed them in the bowels of Aperture. She kneels anyway, slipping through the new portals with the resolve only defiant cheaters have.
She watches the signs they left behind, intently. They are the first human trace she has seen in hours. These menacing words are all she has left, in all likelihood, of this miserable soul – at this point, she has left behind all hope of meeting anyone.
She is alone, and she never believed in ghosts.
But here, among the pictures and the paths left by the markers, she can still graze against a presence. The bare hint of life behind those writings alleviates the weight of her isolation, just with a warning, or a poorly written verse.
In this place, where all ties to anything are dead, she still feels a connection.
This person is just like her. That is the point. She has no idea how she knows – she just does, for reasons alien to her. She traces the walls with her fingers, tile by tile, and the feeling of a lingering hand against hers touches back.
Hunger, loneliness, no help. They are joined by all that. And this den, littered and grazed with the markings of survival, is like a shrine to their shared destiny.
There is more to their story than just words. The empty cans, the tanks, cardboard beds built to walk through restless dreams. She considers dozing off on that milestone of tenacity – to follows in their steps, to pay her respects, push her limits.
But the unknown out there is smart, and she knows better. She is not going to make stupid mistakes.
She wonders if her companion in misfortune made them instead.
Despite the taste of death soaking the air, she wants to believe they didn't. The messages are clear enough, after all. They both learnt quicker than the others.
There is no getting out of here, if not alone.
And she is sure of it, whatever it may mean – they must be the only ones who made it.