Chapter 2 - Abnormal
When he is sent to communicate the results, it is always the hardest subjects. Doug is used to it — just like he is used to his colleagues, or rather their nasty habit of dumping on him the worst of the Aperture experience.
These are the days of the big project. No matter how many times he calls it "attempted activation of potentially lethal AI", nobody ever seems to take it seriously; and in his department, the reign of portal technology, funds and working hours are shortened to the point of ridiculous.
Portals — the one significant discovery in Aperture's history, in his opinion. So expensive, always in such danger of being stolen, and yet so effective. Emergency procedure or not, the result is the same; these days, Doug is never left with much to do in his lab. So, when the examiners really don't feel like working, he is sent to deal with the recruits.
He is not fond of these candidates. As far as he knows, most of them only seem to want their easy sixty bucks. And it is unspoken, but palpable, among the truths supervisors conceal — just like happened to most Aperture employees, they never get exactly what they bargained for.
Doug's subjects, however, are always complicated. The profile of this one doesn't make things better — reading it was enough to make him wish for even more coffee.
The worn chair he sits to face is already occupied. This lady does not look impatient nor eager; she seems to always expect problems, and be ready for them all. She wears old baggy clothes and a perfect frown.
The sight forms bizarre connections in Doug's mind. The fragile balance of his own always made him a keen observer. A colleague's comment fills his memory; back in the break room, he was telling how he felt intimidated when she, in response of one seemingly bothersome question, started writing binary like hell.
She must be a programmer, he guesses, or something of the sort. One of those geniuses that just find you, and whom you never expected.
"Douglas Rattmann, Portal Technology researcher, miss," he blurts out tentatively. "Aperture Science thanks you for your collaboration."
The hand he reaches out to her drops on the table. She is making him nervous — her eyes, quite fierce for the average young lady, are enough to tell she won't take anything of Aperture's fancy protocol. After a few seconds of silence, he notices pen and paper in her hand.
"I- I hope your wait wasn't too tedious, miss. Feel free to enjoy your slice of cake, you know. You're welcome to it."
There isn't a single trace of crumbs on the saucer; from the way she looks at it, and the perfect layout of the pottery, Doug understands her fair share of dessert will stay completely untouched.
That was the meaning of the message, he guesses. She hates lies — it's all about serious business.
"As you probably can guess, I came here to report on your application as a voluntary test subject. It is my duty to shed light on the standard procedures, and to let you know - well, let you know as much as I can."
Which actually is, by any means, a joke, when Doug himself has no idea what is going on.
In spite of her unique results, in spite of her more unique self, what puzzles him the most is the whole surname matter. Redacted data in test subject applications is what he believes to be the rarest occurence in all Aperture bureaucracy, and, indeed, one that is never left in the hands of most workers. He may be a long-term employee, generally considered a brilliant scientist, but he knows too well how unpopular he is; this kind of secret, although familiar, is one he never came across firsthand.
He tries to focus on the past — his vague recollections of the standard regulations, the heap of papers he read just once, may provide an answer, or at least something close to that. He counts the possibilities, the few times when he was not told what guests' names were. And he can definitely tell that, in Aperture, silence always spreads its wings when two topics come up — groundbreaking projects or, less often, competitors.
The feeling of Black Mesa having something to do with her kicks in fast. Whether this is a kind of agreement or — he shivers — Aperture trying to sell part of his hard work, well, he cannot say. In fact, he cannot even guess if his suspects make sense, or it is just another of the forms his anxiety so loves to be embodied by. He tries to read her, and fails.
She keeps staring, never tired, never upset. She is just strong. He feels he is losing his calm, and rushes to the next part.
"You certainly did well, miss," he answers honestly, still not knowing how to explain she has been rejected. "Very well, in more than one way. But the examiners told me to focus onone quality in particular, you see — there is this value that is completely out of the average. Quite interesting."
His guts promise that the words she is scribbling are going to do anything but play along. His guts are always right. The tight, nervous calligraphy Doug finds himself reading sends a clear message; what she cares about is the goal, and any comment is useless. She needs a single answer, with nothing in between.
"You are right, of course," he admits. He always ended up being defeated when it came to protests. Although tinged with hostility, he feels nothing but genuine awe at the thought of Aperture's lawyers.
"According to your results, your level of tenacity is 99th percentile. And - listen, I am not glad to tell you this. But by the testing standards Aperture adopted, it was enough for you to rank 1498th in our list. Your position is way below the acceptable limit."
He feels his teeth quiver at the glare she shoots back.
"I know I am asking much of you, but please, try to understand, miss. You would set a standard of yours. A testing method Aperture has never even dreamt of trying. You would make a terrific subject, in fact, but just- just too beyond the average, if you even started getting down to business. And we have regulations, some limits our system – our new AI system, too – must compute within. That is why you are not deemed suitable for testing. I am so-"
In the very moment she stands up, he feels something is going terribly wrong. And it doesn't come from her, from the raging storm in her eyes, nor from the finger she just raised. It is the echo of a sound, of screams, of doors being sealed in the newest wing.
Living in Aperture comes with an instinct. When it becomes more than just your workplace, you can never get it wrong.
He grabs her wrist, and years of worries — infinite rows of bad feelings, pain, suspects never listened to — flash between their faces in less than one second. She is tough, angry, and the single right person that could exist in this moment. Of all people, he learns then, she is the only one who will truly understand one day.
"Follow me," he pleads. "Trust me."
The way to the cryo-chambers is covered so fast that, to his light and nervous feet, it feels like falling. It becomes less than one minute of blurred greys, of lights going out, of growing cold. Her arm between his fingers feels frailer than his own; it could twist, it could break anytime. But Doug does not need to see her in action — from now, from today, he knows she will make it. He desperately wants her to.
"Please, wait here and be quiet," he whispers as the glass slides closed. "You are safe now, Chell."
Her eyes widen in surprise, full of too many questions to show them all — her name, her safety, her future blur in a cloud of uncertainty. It is the last thing she perceives, and the first she holds in her heart when she awakens among glass walls. It the last time she sees his face.
"I will come back," Doug mutters, trying to give it the sound of a promise. Then, with the feeble hope to keep it, he flings himself behind the first grate he can find.
Hello, dear readers!
Go to the first chapter for more info about the nature of the story.
Chell headcanon for this chapter: she is a test subject who comes from the outside. I portrayed her as someone with good qualifications, possibly an expert in computing and programming (maybe Black Mesa?) who strives to enter Aperture as an employee.