Inhuman
She remembers the first time she had to announce a death.
Not so much because of the family – they turned into a jumble of screams right away, as the world became sirens, insults, security. Their faces were lost soon enough in her escape.
More than them, she remembers herself. She recalls the whole way to her doorstep, from the moonlit dust on the stairway to her heels on the ground. She had drifted home, locked the door, and cried all night.
By the third time it happened, she understood there was no other way. Something had to be kicked out. It would either be her or the cracks in her voice.
So she built herself anew.
Over the years, she lost count of the casualties. They even stopped summoning the relatives at one point. Yet, until they chose to print them on paper to save time, the grim announcements were hers to give. After all, her hands were already dirty enough for everyone else.
She also remembers the way her voice had grown cold and mechanical. She had stopped focusing on their reactions, for the sake of survival. To this day, she can rebuild her own expression in her mind – the face she put on in the role of a messenger, of someone who has nothing to do with it.
She had built herself a mirror of innocence.
Nobody ever believed that, even for a moment. Nobody was that stupid. But it was her role to pin the blame on error and fate, just like everyone else in Aperture did.
She was no different. Only more important.
It is a strange memory to focus on, in front of the monstrous chassis swinging within her eyes. It isn't what she expected, to say the least. Even so, she knows it makes perfect sense.
Years of misleading, of acting, of regrets shower on her like rain. All she can do is watch – she stands in the wake of her whole past, in front of her destiny.
It fully dawns on her. She is going to be that hideous thing.
And she thinks, made numb by pain, that maybe she has always been.