wow, happy almost three years to this shit! yippie. other than for content warnings, I won't really ramble at the top, so I'll do it all here. I absolutely hate looking back on my old stuff, but I like this one enough to at least suffer through the self hate to repost it. the "original" version of this is still up on my AO3, under "wtf video game real"; this is the "updated" version. a "remake", if you will. I cannot believe it has been three years. I fucking hate AO3 with a passion, and this place is confusing for me at best, so hey, who knows - if there's another fanfic site in another three years, I might repost this there, too. I haven't watched HLVRAI properly in the last two years, either. fun fact: this is the first and only fic of mine to have proper capitalization through-out. the main guy also isn't Wayne, but someone else, because writing real people is uncomfortable. with all that said, let's a go
started: 5/6/2020
Six months since he'd finished Half Life in VR and listened to Dr Coomer's final message.
Fifteen days spent trying to unpack everything. Had that actually happened? Had the A.I's really been self aware? What did that mean for them? Were they in constant pain, or in an eternal sleep? Where even were they now? Were there any other video games he'd played that had contained self aware A.I's? That last thought was disheartening as fuck to consider, so he pushed it out of his mind completely.
It didn't take long to convince himself to do something - anything - to try and help the Science Team out, even if it took a while for him to try. Annoyingly, he was human, and though he hated to admit it, the guilt he felt was far too strong to ignore, a heavy weight lodged at the bottom of his stomach that was stubborn to leave. Every passing day, it would gnaw at him, the fangs getting sharper and sharper the longer he tried to ignore it, until it became unbearable. He was both impressed and ashamed with himself that he'd managed to last four months of the torment.
A.I or no, they had been his friends, once upon a time. He couldn't just leave them stuck there, where-ever there was.
The gamer instinct within him said "hey, maybe their data files are a good first step!", so he used that as his life-line. Even though it took hours upon hours of self hype to get himself into action, and then a few hours more to locate their folders within the slew of Half-Life files, he'd managed to find and drag every single named NPC into their own little folder, appropriately titled "well here you go" (he even moved Forzen and Benrey, after another hour of "but's" and "why's", because even they didn't deserve to be stuck in the code). He frowned at the monitor, tapping a nervous hole into the keyboard, before deciding it best to move their folder onto his main desktop. He dumped it at the bottom right of the screen, stared at it for an agonisingly long time, then called it a day.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen after that. An explosion, maybe. Something weird, honestly. But all he was met with was silence. The desktop didn't glitch, the screen didn't ripple; no hands reached for his arm, and no voices whispered obscenities to him. The silence only put him further on edge.
Once everything in that field had been sorted to the best of his ability, he let the computer fall into sleep mode, and refused to touch it for two solid months. It was anticlimactic, truth be told. All of that time and effort spent getting their data out of the games depths, only to be met with silence? He wasn't sure if he should've felt robbed, or greatful.
Either way, even with the lacklustre plucking of the A.I's, he refused to push his luck any further; anything he had to do on the internet was conducted on his ancient laptop, which was an absolute slog because of how slow it was, but it was the better alternative than potentially getting jumped by a bunch of. Things. He didn't spare a single glance at the computer room, both it and the VR headset being allowed to inhale dust behind a firmly closed door. The same was said for every other game console he owned; he sure as fuck didn't want another self-aware-A.I-arm-possibly-chopped-off-forced-to-reevaluate-his-own-existence experience any time soon. Especially so soon. Never to happen again, if he could help it.
He was no modder, nor did he know a single thing about coding a bunch of pre-constructed data into a different game, especially when the A.I's were from the late 90's and were aware of their state of being. He had no clue what to do with them other than store them on his desktop. He had zero idea on how else to help them out, or where else to drag them to. He didn't know if he even had helped them. He didn't know if he should be helping them.
If he found out a way to dump them to somewhere else, would it hurt them? Would it corrupt their "states"? Would they fuck up the game, and then fuck up the computer in turn? Would they die if the computer got fucked up? If he somehow put their data into a mod-able game wrong, would it cause them more harm than good? Could they "die"? What would happen if he put their folder onto a flash drive? Is the computer their main life source? Would they not be able to function at all if he swapped them to a flash drive? Would those types of attempted transitions corrupt them into unworkable states, or wipe their memories clean all together, or delete them from the system entirely?
How could you even Google questions like that? "ai self aware what do", "how to help aware ai without killing them" "how the fuck can ai be self aware" "top ten signs i am losing my marbles"
He hoped, for his own sanity, that what he'd done for them would be enough, though he knew, deep down, that it wouldn't be.
After another solid month of avoidance, he'd decided to boot up the main comp to see if anything had changed, born from boredom and a sick, twisted curiosity. The folder containing the A.I's was still in the same place he'd left it; things seemed in tact and in order, nothing had glitched, and no programs had been recently accessed in his absence. He didn't linger long enough to see if anything would happen; he checked his emails in record time, then made the decision to sign out of every single website, just in case, before letting it fall back into sleep mode once more, the door left to swing shut.
Another uneventful month passed. Everything had been unpacked and processed in his head. He'd moved on from the experience, though the trauma and weak phantom pains remained, however brief. He still refused to touch the main computer, or the VR headset - not even any game consoles had been switched on since The End, still timid of the Possibility. He still had nightmares of Black Mesa, still didn't fancy being in the dark for long periods of time, still couldn't quite look himself in the eye. Still rose his right arm as if it bared a mini-gun at things that made him jump, though he was getting far better at restraint.
He couldn't tell you why it had all felt so real. Why the virtual reality had stretched into the real world. Why, when the fake arm had been lobbed off, it had been the worst pain he had ever felt in his entire life. He wished he could find an explanation for that, but alas, that was also something you couldn't easily Google.
One day. He'd decided to test his luck, and walked into the room holding his possessed computer to grab a misplaced cup. He saw it turned on, the monitor flashing and the fan a whir of activity. A word document was stretched across the screen, the words "SAVE FREEMAN" staring him in the face. He watched, frozen, as more words began to fill out the document, even though the keyboard wasn't being manipulated in any way by a physical entity.
"HELLO FAKE GORDON FREEMAN PLEASE SAVE THE REAL GORDON FREEMAN"
'What the fuck.' The document was cleared of text with an unseen force. He felt shivers climb down his spine. He felt like a million sets of eyes were locked on his person. He felt like he was back there all over again.
"PLEASE SAVE THE REAL GORDON FREEMAN" The document said again, no author behind the sentence. "HELP HIM HE IS LIKE US you look different Who are you HElllOo PLEASE SAVE THE REAL GORDON HE IS NO LONGER A PUPPET HE IS LIKE US HE KNOWS AND IS STILL TRAPPED IN THERE" The word document was minimized, instead replaced for the inner guts of the Half-Life files. It was an amalgamation of sound affects and texture folders, all names he'd briefly seen before, but one stood out, a folder he had never taken full notice of.
"youre not gordon freeman" The word document popped up again, scaring him enough to raise his right arm at the monitor. It almost sounded accusatory. It almost made him laugh. The words brought back bitter memories he'd rather have left buried under ten tons of metaphorical dirt.
'No shit asshole, if you're supposed to be alive then you'd know that by now.' He spat at the screen despite himself. God, he was talking to a computer now. What a fucking life he had.
"PLAYER" The document quickly replaced. He slowly scooted over to the computer and sat down in the chair, much like a deer approaching a car, even though every part of him told him to run. The VR headset, as if a taunt, was still beside the monitor, unplugged and unused. He ignored it.
Before his hands could hover over the keyboard, the word document minimized back into the bowels of Half-Life, and suddenly he wasn't so sure about what he was doing and what he had done and what he was about to do. Still, he willed himself to drag the "player" folder over to the desktop, and put it into Their folder, too stunned to really think his actions through. The word document sprung back on to the screen the second the folder was accepted, and he could almost feel a sense of happiness radiate through the LCD monitor.
Have I officially lost it?
"THANK YOU yooo cooler gordon It is good to see you again Gordon Mr fReemAAn! HELLO REAL GORDON yo fake gordon you look weiiiiiird"
… Okay. … So. The A.I were officially awake now, and it seemed that they could control his programs with ease. … What else could they access? They could apparently see him, hear him; what could that possibly mean? What would that entail? They were self aware A.I, not. Not cryptic monsters. Right? How could they see him? To his knowledge, he didn't have a webcam, and even if he did, he wouldn't think a bunch of fucking A.I could use it to their advantage.
What the fuck?
More words filled the document, but his world blurred, panic becoming his main drive. He bolted from the room with a cut off screech, not even thinking to shut the door behind him, the chair being tipped over in his flee. He sat huddled in his room, re-sorting through information in a hectic haze, until his brain became nothing but fried mush and white noise.
One day. He cautiously opened the door holding the computer and saw the screen blank and the chair still tipped over. He sighed in relief. Maybe that day had been a bad dream after all. But then the computer suddenly beeped to life at his sigh, the fan beginning to spin, and a word document was the first thing he saw flash on to the screen. He pummelled the door shut before a single letter could grace his vision. He spent the rest of the day frantically doodling in his art book.
One day. He bolted not one, but two pad-locks to the door in the dawn of morning, more to comfort himself than for any real reason. He spent the rest of the day thinking of ways to get rid of the A.I.
Delete the folder and wipe the hardware clean? Even now, he couldn't bare to stomach that, for reasons he still refused to acknowledge. Get rid of the computer all together? Too risky - what if someone else found it? Then the A.I's would be stuck with a stranger, and he couldn't bare that fate, for either parties sake. Destroy the computer completely? He felt sick at the mere thought of it; plus, that computer had cost a pretty penny. It didn't feel right to break it.
Call a priest and have his computer blessed? They'd think he was a nutjob - he'd be all over the newspapers and everywhere in online articles, a laughing stock of an already pathetic man. Call the police? As if; they didn't help with jack shit, period. They'd probably lock him up in a poor excuse of an arrest rather than do anything significant with the computer. Call someone? Who did he have to call? His parents wouldn't help, and he wasn't exactly loaded with close-knit friends.
... Welp. Looked like he was on his own with a demonic computer. Splendid.
For the next ten days, nothing happened. He avoided the computer room like the plague. He went about his days like everything was normal and peachy perfect. Like there wasn't a computer stuffed with self aware A.I locked within the same house as him.
Six months since he'd finished Half Life in VR and listened to Dr Coomer's final message.
Then, at 2am on a Thursday, he shone his phone flashlight down the hallway and came face to face with the exhausted model (yes, model, not person) of the Half Life security guard standing in the pitch black.
The model stared him head on, disproportionate shadows cast on its figure that made it appear ten times more terrifying than it had any right to be. The guard put a clear foot on him thanks to its steel-toed boots and helmet alone, and it was inside his house right in front of him.
'… Oooh shit, hey. Whats uuuuup bro.'
