The Last Christmas
The last Christmas shared by the Aperture employees was no different than any other.
In the early hours of their final workday, the same numerous groups as every year left their posts in relief. There was lively chatter accompanying their steps; it kept growing with their number, in the cramped offices and the halls, until a river of people poured on the stairs. Small crowds formed in front of the elevators, and the patient rides began.
In spite of the happy sound of their voices, a great number of the scientists drifted into silence halfway through the path. Not many of them ever looked forward to celebrating in Aperture.
To most of them, the twisted festive spirit had been among the first telltale signs of something gone seriously wrong with the company's policy. Some of them still remembered the first greeting cards they had read, written in the same overly optimistic tones they were now immune to.
Some of them believed Aperture had been the worst mistake of their lives. And yet there they were, one more Christmas later.
By the time the employees gathered in their respective main halls, the ritual had all been laid out. Despite the crisis, which had weighed hard enough on the budget to drastically reduce the safety equipment in all departments, each of them got their small share of mass-produced chocolate and candy canes. With the slice of cake, of course, came the jokes about cyanide; those who had worked for Aperture long enough always took them seriously, just to be safe.
The first thing they had been taught was dancing around the truth. That party, like all Christmas parties in Aperture, was full of lies.
Tired scientists rested their elbows on the desks, only wishing to go home. There were sad, empty eyes, willing to escape from both the damn place and the family that awaited them in the other damn place. Many of them, the ones whose eyes were the coldest, had not seen a friendly face in years. The most courageous only gave in to idle chatter, ready to fill the vast void of Aperture with at least the impression of a friendly voice.
There was cake, a recorded voice that had been talking for decades, and so much loneliness in that last Christmas. The hole that had replaced important people of the past was much like the winter breezes — unforgiving, without a sign of end.
And yet, mere months later, the people who remembered it were far from just a few.
Pictures of that and many other times accompanied them, as the neon lights of all tiers faded and the doors were locked. Abandoned to an airtight destiny, their minds rushed to recall similar images — the casual touch of a colleague's hand, a shared glass of orange juice, secretive laughs at the boss and his unoriginal jokes.
A current of contacts, of other people's memories. It flew throughout the whole facility, at the speed of the neurotoxin.
And everyone understood, joined in the last moments they were left — in the difficulty of life, being together had made it so much better.
Yes, there is a surpriiise I had in store. A true surpriiise. The good stuff.
These are the first days of my fourth year in this fandom. So much has happened since the late December night in which I laid down my controller, nearly in tears, as Cara Mia played on my screen for the first time of many. There have been few constants for which I am grateful, and this is one of them.
Portal has been and is a wonderful ride. There is nothing about this series that I don't love, and don't aspire to reach myself as a creator. The atmosphere, the art, the feelings can be lived in so many different ways. That is why I have been hooked from the start, and why I don't mean to leave behind this game anytime soon.
We all know, though, that one's own view and passion are so much better when they can be shared.
I can't quite put in words what — and whom — the Portal fandom has brought to me over time. I have had fun, I have been moved, I have spent happy hours with friends while wracking our brains in co-op chambers, I have talked to people from all over the world, in our anniversary chats, and I cannot wait to finish setting up our first anniversary games. It is so important, to me, to be a part of it all.
This gift is mainly dedicated to armonah, babycharmanderkeckleon, mvtk42,mercuryhomophony and silverstreams, for giving us the chance of setting up a Portal Secret Santa this year, and to every portal-secret-santa participant ever. Your work is highly valued and appreciated. Thank you so much for dedicating your time to your fandom companions.
However, this is gift for all of you. Whenever you joined our fandom, whatever you enjoy doing in it — if you are a Portal fan, these words are for you.
Please, do not misunderstand the sadness of my text. It was inspired by one of the greatest lessons that Portal teaches us; life is hard and deeply tragic, but human contact makes it so much more bearable. Regardless of how it ends, being close to someone helps us grow, walk, change. Never feel regret for what you believe are mistakes; what is done is done, and all that matters is getting on your feet again. Value whoever is around you, for they can help you up. Try to see past the formalities society often imposes on us — it is one of the keys to happiness.
You are all important and precious for being brought me and us all something new. You all matter to me.
And this is my way of thanking every single one of you.