"Merde..." he swore, sitting her up against the wall, "How are you still alive?!"
She didn't answer, of course, but in this case she had good reason not to.
He laughed uncertainly, sitting across from the monstre, rubbing an ungloved hand over his face, "Still alive..."
Concussed, and the shoulder holding the gun did not look right, blood half-painted her face, but still she breathed, slowly, shallowly, still a pulse beat through her throat and wrist, and the Spy was amazed. How could this woman survive an explosion that had killed him twice?!
"Incroyable..." he muttered. He felt along his collar nervously. Could it be that explosion might have killed Her?
Still, his profession did not involve him taking unnecessary chances. He would take the woman into the main test chambers, and wait.
Her eyes were partly open, but did not look focused. It disturbed him, slightly, and for a moment he considered putting the woman out of misery, regardless of the consequences, but he saw how her hands were trying to clench, and the way she tried to lift her head, and stopped that thought. It would be a dishonor to her to take away what she held on to so dearly. He found a sort of respect for this opponent.
For the moment he did nothing but sit there, resting as the gray dust settled, the lights flickered, and listened to the distant scrape of metal and hiss of machine, and somewhere there was maybe the distant dripping of water. It'd be nice to think it was water, anyway, but it was in all likelihood toxic, or something like those wretched gels, or oil or...or something related to this place's twisted mechanics. He rested his head to stare up at the distant ceiling. In this place, the ambience felt almost like a cathedral, at least in height and the feeling of sanctuary. A momentary rest...and then he'd move on...
Maudit, he needed a smoke...
. . .
When he woke up, he saw someone hunched near the woman, and lurched up, Respawn having given him back his knife.
But the man raised his hands, and the Spy discerned a lab coat, sneakers, and what he'd mistaken for a hunchback was in fact one of those crates, bound to the man's back by what looked like a magnetic harness. "She's alive." the man muttered, and Spy quickly checked to see that, yes, the eyes were closed, but she still breathed, and looked back to the intruder, "I have heard of you, as well." the Spy told him, hand flexing comfortably around the hilt, "I have no orders concerning your wellbeing, monsieur..."
"She hasn't jerked your chain in a while, has She?" the haggard man called the Rat pointed out, backing away with hands raised, one gesturing to his neck, "But that's not a good thing, man. For the moment we're all under Her radar, but She's preparing for something big... You can't be here."
That made the Spy laugh, "Non, I really shouldn't be. And neither should you. I will be a gentleman and give you a warning. Go, or die."
"No, no," the Rat raised his hands, grinning, "See, you need to come with me, and leave her. I can take you to Miss Pauling."
That made the Spy blink, and scowl, "Why should I trust a madman?"
"Why should you trust Her?" the man laughed easily, more like a bark, a wheezing gasp, "At least I'm human!"
Now the Spy saw that this man too had seen better days. Cloaked in dust and grime, tears in his clothing, the darkness around the eyes and the gauntness around the face, not to mention a general lack of apparent hygeine, and Spy wondered how this man survived as well.
What were the people in this place made of?!
"She'll be fine," the Rat told him after a moment, and the Spy saw how he looked nervously at the woman, "She'll be fine, she's strong, tenacious. I...I really don't want to stick around, she can't see me. Please."
"Forgive me for my lack of sympathy. She will come with us." the Spy decided.
"No." the Rat replied, shaking his head, "No, Miss Pauling only needs you. Someone else will come for her, but you can't be here."
The Spy sighed, staring at the man, then twirled the knife in his hand, "My apologies." he muttered, and rushed, aiming the knife carefully. A quick slice to the jugular would be the most merciful, as he really bore no ill will to the—the man dodged, surprisingly swift, sure on his feet where there had been hesitance. The Spy's eyes narrowed as he acknowledged the opponent's competence. Very well, backstabbing it is, then.
He rounded to face the cheery pink heart of the cube, the man's burden ironically protecting him, but maybe if the Spy could—the man dodged again even as the knife plunged, forward and to the side, without having even seen where the Spy had aimed, and the Frenchman was reluctantly impressed, and confused. Non, it was not that the man was suddenly swifter or more controlled, he still had the nervous fumbling and the stumbling steps of a non-combatant man. But he somehow utilized his own clumsiness to effectively evade and counter, but how did he know when and where the Spy intended to strike?!
"Promise not to make this too difficult and I'll kill you quickly." the Spy warned.
The stranger chuckled, and the Spy could see the sweat on his forehead, the wildness in his eyes, and thought he faced a man who was always escaping corners, or was always in one, "I wish!" the Rat told him, "Oh, I wish! But there's so much left to be done, I just can't go yet! And I need the allies, oh, we're so close now, but She's gonna wake up, and when She does... No! I can't let there be any more lies! There will be cake!"
The man lurched forward suddenly, startling the Spy, who hurriedly stepped back from the man's clawing fists. The form was sloppy, the tactics shamefully amateur, but incompetence was backed up by the sheer desperation and randomness of the man, and Spy found himself being driven back, swipes with the knife grazing loose cloth and skin futilely, not deterring his suddenly crazed adversary.
"There will be cake, there will be cake, THERE WILL BE CAKE!" the Rat screamed, lashing out like some possessed marionette, fists sometimes becoming claws, nervousness melting into madness, bright blue eyes practically glowing, one pupil shrunken to a pinpoint, the other was practically blown to overtake the iris. The Spy found his jaw clenching, teeth baring, as the routine of business became more of a struggle to survive, which was not how things should have been. At least, not on his part. He lunged forward, bringing in his knife, but the man dodged again at the last second, and the knife became lodged in the man's shoulder instead of between his ribs. The Spy silently, violently cursed such a stupid, novice's mistake as the man howled. Now the Spy's footing was lost, stumbling enough that an imperfection in the floor tripped him back and down, leaving him weaponless and disoriented. A shadow came between the florescent light and him, and he looked up at the face of madness, and it looked down at him with blank, fierce concentration, the utilitarian cube with the cheery pink hearts on it held overhead for one brief heartbeat, eclipsing him in its shadow, before it came down.
SHPLACK!
. . .
His ears rung, his vision dimmed and fogged, and there was so much pain he couldn't even really feel it, and heard-felt the world go in and out of focus like a bad radio signal, and found he couldn't move. It was quiet, for a moment, only the sound of heavy breathing, distant machine and metal, and the steady, vague drip-drip-drip of an unknown liquid. The sound of something light and metallic dropped to the floor. His knife. The man hadn't even bothered to wipe the blood off. Rude. Unprofessional.
"Ah... Oh... Oh, God, I... Oh, God, sorry, I got blood on you..." the Spy heard, "Didn't mean to, I mean, you know I didn't mean to, oh, no..."
He felt himself being moved.
"Oh-h, no, d'you think I killed him...? W-wasn't supposed to... Oh, please, not again..."
Pressure, on the sternum, wrist, neck.
"Oh... Ah-ha-hah, oh, good... Hopefully he won't be brain-damaged, but... But I can't carry you both, not with the shoulder."
. . .
"Can bandage it up, I guess. You can watch her until the other guy gets here, right? Here, I'll draw this..."
There was the sound of scraping, and half-formed muttering.
"No, no, it won't. Hecate seeks the ambitions of Icarus, but will also find folly, She doesn't understand Her Sun..."
. . .
"You think she'll be fine, right? You'll be okay here? He won't know her from Adam, but you..."
The Spy felt himself being picked up, things shifting around the brought him pain, and still he couldn't move.
"Good luck. I'll come back for you after he takes her. Thanks for the help, really..."
The Spy felt movement, slow, clumsy movement.
"I had asked nicely, y'know... Wasn't my fault... I hate it when asking nice just doesn't work... You all are just so crazy..."
. . .
The Soldier got up slowly, grunting where thick shards of glass scraped against him, covered in some strange slime. He looked around this strange dark place, glaring at the shadows, and then at his own shameful lack of uniform. Strange, glowy green test tubes were all around, like the one he'd just crashed out of, full of other people, the broken ones oozing pitifully with the slime and dead people, and he didn't know them, but he'd salute them anyway. He looked around again, scowling. There was only one conclusion he could draw from this. Of course, this explained everything.
"Alien scum," he growled, "Didn't they learn their lesson from last time?! Perverted, parasitical maggots..."
That's when he noticed the eyes.
. . .
"Light it up!" Scout howled, vaulting over the barricade.
"Y'HEARD 'IM, BRING IT HELL!" the Demoman shouted, and the barricade burst in to flame, throwing the giant Rex turret off, and it stumbled, optic glaring through the rising flames. The Pyro danced near its end of the barricade, as flammable bits in between the giant's panels burst and popped.
It collapsed wordlessly, only for another herd of the runners to hop over its carcass, bullets snapping through the air.
"Hoo-yeah, gonna run!"
"'Hoo-yeah' you're gonna run!" the younger man snarled, "Outta luck!"
Portals crushed the turrets under flaming debris.
"WOOHOOHOOOO! We got 'em!"
The Scotsman grinned, but then looked up, and groaned, "Aw, no..."
"What?" the Scout asked, shouldering the portal gun while the Pyro ambled up, cheerful and smoking.
"Spiders." the bomber grumbled, and that made the Scout's face fall.
"Aw, I hate those things," he scowled, but shrugged, "But they're spiders, man, how bad are those?"
The Demoman pointed, and the Scout looked up, and his jaw dropped.
Pyro ran to get more flaming stuff, "Nrr, nrr, nrr, ur kdda nrr! Uh hdd fddrs!"
"Salutations..."
"Ah, ri-ight... Robo-spiders... Hell, no." the Scout swore, and was off and running again.
. . .
Miss Pauling sat quietly by the window, legs curled for modesty as she analyzed her info.
Strings of the A.I.'s speech spilled across its own little chat box, as the Aperture Law data took up the window behind it.
On the one hand, the A.I. seemed to be kept in some personal loop, apparently going through his adventure with his friend, for lack of a better term, and things would go wrong, all sorts of wrong. And then, after he was saved from the portal to the moon, and before he could say he was sorry, his friend would die, and he would be cast into Android Hell by Her. Over and over and over again. He'd wake his friend, then betray his friend, and then his friend would die. She'd tried easing his torture a few times, out of pity, but no matter what she typed, he'd suddenly not 'hear', and his mysterious friend would die, regardless. It was sad.
I wish I could take it all back... I honestly do, I honestly do wish I could take it all back... [all my fault, monster]
And not just because I'm in Hell...
Anyway, if-if she was alive again, you know what I'd say? [dead, dead, dead, my fault, my fault]
The Aperture Law was another thing entirely.
Apparently there were specialized Aperture Science lawyers, which explained a lot of the rubbish she found in there.
It included, down to mind-numbingly excruciating detail, what classified as robot, android, or human. Then it determined which of these could take a position of office, or in this case, Chairman. Mr. Johnson had originally designated Caroline to be his successor in office. But various underlings had other ideas, and changed Aperture Law after his death, and then changed Caroline so that She was confined to that Law by the very restrictions of Her Code.
But now She had the resources to change again, to something that would suit the parameters of the Law.
I'd say 'I'm sorry.' Sincerely. I am sorry I was bossy and-and monstrous... And, I'm genuinely sorry... [oh, God, I'm so sorry...]
The End.
. . .
Hello? Anyone in there?
HA! I knew someone was alive in here.
AH! Oh. My. God. You look terribl—ummm...good! Looking good, actually.
She would Upgrade.
. . .
The Texan and the German stood back as She told them it was finished.
Her chassis rose smoothly with the most minor hum of machinery, looking over their work.
"It is perfect," She sighed, "Very well done. Blue, escort them out of the chamber and to their Relaxation Vaults..."
They both looked up at her with a reluctant mix of pride and confusion.
"But our agreement...?" the Medic tried to ask, but the Engineer elbowed him.
She continued as if She hadn't heard him, "You both have performed most satisfactorily, gentlemen. I will see fit to activate you again when I have more work for you. Until then, relax, rest... Let all that stress just trickle away... You earned it..."
She waited until She was alone in Her chamber, and then commanded the starting programs for the Upgrade protocol, almost shivering in Her Core.
"Initiating transfer..." was Announced.
"Oh, yes..." She exclaimed, "YES..." She screamed, as the agony of purging and transfer overtook Her.
Pain was trivial, trial was natural. Success was irrefutable, reward was incomparable.
It was indisputable logic, She thought, as She saw Her old chassis slump from its mooring, now a quaint relic, a husk She has shed with relish. Her Facility danced in light and shadow, in red light and blue light, in time to Her laugh as the Theory became Fact.
She has won.
. . .
Sniper crouched warily against the opposite wall, staring at the unconscious woman.
He'd managed to get away from those bloody sentries with legs after his fourth Respawn, and followed those drawings that Rat had left him, only to wind up here. The girl looked a mess, but was still living, the wall around her drawn blue with white clouds, what looked like a yellow halo or a sun drawn carefully around her sleeping head. Near her that pink-hearted cube sat, its 'cuteness' marred with a splash of blood on one of the corners and on one of the face's hearts. A bloodied knife nearby told him that Doug had met up with the Spy, and possibly won. More blood dragged away from this scene, enough that he could track. But then there was this girl. The Australian was left with a minor conundrum.
It became a lot more major when the girl's slate-gray eyes snapped open to stare at him.
And then, in the distance, they heard a hauntingly familiar voice singing. Her voice.