She dreamed of falling.
Her body tumbled and twisted as she plummeted downwards, blood rushing to her head and pounding like a drum, in rhythm to the sound of a slow clap from an external source.
"Oh good, that's still working." That voice- the controlling voice. It was present here too.
She noticed the numerals- golden imprints emblazoned at regular intervals upon the slate-grey walls of the tunnel, steadily decreasing and alerting her to how fast she truly was falling.
3750 feet.
The ground would be getting closer by now- how far down could this chute have possibly been built? Glancing down, she saw nothing but darkness beneath her long-fall boots. Time to see how well they could work.
4000 feet.
She would have screamed, but as she opened her mouth no sound escaped from her throat. She was mute in this dream too, it seemed.
4250 feet.
The walls cracked replaced by russet dirt. Slats of wood that sectioned off the tunnel collapsed beneath her boots, disintegrating- the impact of her body combined with years of age treating the wood as though it were no more than glass. Mentally bracing herself for the impact, heart in her throat, she dropped like a pebble.
Her eyelids flew apart.
Chell inhaled sharply through her nose as she rose up to lean on her elbows, drinking in the familiar sights of beige walls and moss-green carpet, her desk, of a small, outdated and unplugged television screen, of a miniature fridge that she had not gained access to as yet… The crocheted brown blanket she had fallen asleep under days -weeks? Months? - ago was abrasive and rough against her pale, vitamin-deficient skin.
Her personal prison cell.
She ignored the voice that rang out over the intercom, telling her exactly how long she had been held in this room. She was tempted to ignore the voice's instructions, but that had never worked well for her either.
The Aperture Mental Health and Wellbeing Institution always made it their priority to make sure that their patients were still able to walk, and woke them periodically for short tests to ensure they were still alive.
This was where the worst of them ended up. The criminally insane- those who wanted to take over the world, who killed others for pleasure, who had no shot at redemption. According to law, society couldn't just euthanize those people, so the solution was to lock them up and keep them on ice.
Chell's reason for being locked up had something to do with her dreams, a series of hallucinations and delusions where she followed a voice, a voice that told her what to do, one that guided her and made her who she was. She had no concept of what she had done in these moments- had only followed what the voice had told her- but she had been informed during her own trial that she was guilty of murdering her closest friend (something to do with fire) and assaulting people who asked whether she was still 'there'. The professionals had killed the voice with their medications and their people in toneless, white coats, but it was coming back.
They were wrong. The voice was coming back to her. The visions were disturbing her sleep again.
She jumped as one of the nurses- a male, Chell noticed- knocked on the door and called to her to watch out as he opened the door and entered, carrying a clipboard under his arm.
Back to her.
"Still not talking?" He asked as he strode into the room. She didn't reply, and he sighed, dictating as he jotted down a couple of notes on his clipboard.
"Very… minor case… serious brain damage," Blue eyes dimmed as he concentrated- he was obviously rather new to the job. "Can you talk? Say 'apple' if you understand."
Trying not to glare (did the clipboard not say that 'mute' meant 'not capable of talking'?) she jumped on the spot, her now-standard response to questioning. He made another note, nodded, and approached her.
"Everything is fine, remain calm," he informed her, and all Chell could focus on was the shade of his eyes. They inexplicably reminded her of a vision from her dream- a talking robot who told her what to do. Not the main voice, but another one who tried to control her. 'Wheatley,' if she remembered correctly. She wasn't sure why this character deserved a name over the others, but she was nonetheless startled at the recognition. She staggered back, distrust flaring through her like a flame, but not before a syringe could pierce her arm with what she was sure would be another industrial-strength sedative.
He was sending her back to her dreams- to voices and falling and fire and cubes and shining rings of blue and orange fire that transported her to where she wished to go.
Who would have this reality?
The voice cheered.