It's a miracle you're still standing.
There's sand in your boots, your skin is caked in dirt, and your head is as noisy as ever. With no breaks, rising tension, and an ever strengthening desire for everything to stop, it seems the only thing keeping you awake is adrenaline. You really wouldn't be surprised if that were true.
How much time has passed? You've been relying more on whatever time it was in whatever world you were in, but less than an hour ago it was 2:00 AM in a cold morning, and now, all of a sudden, everything is blazing hot and it's near lunch.
Someone else's lunch, you guess, in this current scenario.
The robotic voice is droning on, something about wanting information. You can hear them - him? - but whatever it was saying went through one ear and out the other.
You're so tired.
You wished medication worked on you. Maybe the pharmacy from one of the earlier worlds would have helped you, but Petra was the only one who benefited from that visit. Not that you're not glad she was able to take her meds again; you would just appreciate it more if you could've had some too. Unfortunately, they did nothing to help you, either not making you feel any better, or worse, making you ill. Horribly ill; you remember being bedridden and fainting whenever you so much as sat upright. Somehow, now that you recall it, becoming that ill again is much more preferable to you than being the leader of the New Order of the Stone. Even if your illness shouldn't have made any sense with the medication.
Something tugs at your arm, and you jolt awake, not even realizing that your eyes were drooping, or that your friends were desperately calling your name. You see Petra being dragged to the machine behind the four of you, and you're awake immediately.
"Wait, why not just take me?"
Everything stops. Your friends are horrified, the mind-controlled citizens freeze. PAMA thinks.
There's an inkling of regret at the back of your head, but you do your best to ignore it.
"Why would I do that?" PAMA finally asks you.
"I have the Flint and Steel," you say, trying to grab at whatever reasoning sounded even remotely valid in your head, "and my friends won't tell you anything. They're too stubborn, but I'm willing to let you know whatever you need to."
You swallow. As you continue spurting out nonsense after nonsense (when have you not?) tears begin to form at the edges of your eyes, your breath is shaking, and you honest to god wish you kept your mouth shut. But it's so hot and you're suffocating, you're exhausted, and you can't stand another moment of seeing your friends in danger.
Bad days were more than enough pain to have to endure; having them during all the Portal hopping was unnecessary and unappreciated.
Your friends should know that you want this, right?
You can hear them pleading for you to stop, trying to persuade PAMA otherwise, but he seems convinced, and you're dragged off. Less vaguely than you liked, you feel your arms forcefully spreading and being locked to the sides of the machine. Everything is blurry as noises swarm around you, as the heat swelters, as everything is too warm and dry and your mind and body shut down, going at a speed remarkably faster than the slow torture of these past days.
You don't know how much more you can take.
Your eyes droop and your head drops, trying your best to accept the situation, fighting against your ever present, ever unappreciated determination and heroism.
This is the closest you can ever get.
Before you know it, everything goes to black, and then red, and there are screams and sobs everywhere, information overflowing, and there's red red red red everywhere, glowing and pulsing and the haze swimming, and it's no different than you feel everyday. Like some twisted version of home.
Regretfully, you feel to sigh.
The more you keep going, the more and more it seems like there is no escape.
How unfortunate.