40fandoms: Fandom 17
Mar. 11th, 2016 07:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tallulahgs[Title] File Corruption
[Fandom] Portal
[Rating] PG. Very brief mention of possible suicide.
[Notes/Summary] Post-canon. Chell is a survivor. But who is she? (NB I know nothing about any of the Half-Life games so this is just a possible-Portal-futurefic and is not intended to tie into any wider Valve storyline)
She is out on the roof, leaning against a rusting air vent. Cold. She’s huddled in other people’s cast-off clothes and her breath clouds in front of her but the sky is bright blue and from here she can see everything. But it doesn’t look like everything. It is broken-toothed buildings and grey dust and, occasionally, a glimpse of leaves or grass. When the sun is up, all the pieces of glass shine.
She is out on the roof as if she’s planning to jump off it, tear open a portal in the ground as it rushes towards her, and fly through and across the gap, over the other buildings. But the gun is useless out here – unless they paint the world with moon dust, which could happen, anything could happen, she’s missed a lot and that’s part of the problem, not knowing and surrounded by people who do –
No, it’s not a problem, because everything she can ever remember has been her knowing nothing and other people making her run –
The gun is useless out here but she keeps it with her anyway. The others seem to understand that. Most people like to carry a weapon, and those that don’t are usually clutching something that reminds them of home.
Out here on her own in icy air with dead silence all around, she is okay again. She is she.
(Pick at the little stones on the ground. Pretend you’re not even thinking this.) Put her with other people and she’s not the same. Things go round and round in her head. Things. Thoughts. Thoughts and she doesn’t know if she’s the one thinking them. Sometimes not thoughts, just feelings. Not that she didn’t feel before. Not that she wasn’t furious or scared half out of her mind before. But it was under the surface. Now it is the surface.
Like she wants to scrawl on the walls.
Like she wants to start yelling and never stop.
Like she wants to take a running jump and plunge towards the ground and pretend right up until the end that the floor will open and save her.
There are more things she can’t bring herself to think.
Everyone she can ever remember has stopped being themselves. Or stopped being the right selves. Broken down into laughter and scribbled words and dying and games. Circuits break. Cores corrupt. Neurons misfire and lungs bleed out and it feels like she didn’t know this until now. She didn’t know how much in danger she was. She thought she could stay herself just by continuing to be.
If she stops being the right she, then she might speak.
She might stumble.
She might give up.
And in new environments, like in spaces behind walls or higher-level mainframes or empty caverns far below the ground – or a roof in a ruined city on a sunny day – people stop being who they were, and what makes her think she’s any different?
She presses her lips together. Rolls a stone between her fingers. She is no different but she is going to keep believing in the lie anyway. It's led her this far.
[Fandom] Portal
[Rating] PG. Very brief mention of possible suicide.
[Notes/Summary] Post-canon. Chell is a survivor. But who is she? (NB I know nothing about any of the Half-Life games so this is just a possible-Portal-futurefic and is not intended to tie into any wider Valve storyline)
She is out on the roof, leaning against a rusting air vent. Cold. She’s huddled in other people’s cast-off clothes and her breath clouds in front of her but the sky is bright blue and from here she can see everything. But it doesn’t look like everything. It is broken-toothed buildings and grey dust and, occasionally, a glimpse of leaves or grass. When the sun is up, all the pieces of glass shine.
She is out on the roof as if she’s planning to jump off it, tear open a portal in the ground as it rushes towards her, and fly through and across the gap, over the other buildings. But the gun is useless out here – unless they paint the world with moon dust, which could happen, anything could happen, she’s missed a lot and that’s part of the problem, not knowing and surrounded by people who do –
No, it’s not a problem, because everything she can ever remember has been her knowing nothing and other people making her run –
The gun is useless out here but she keeps it with her anyway. The others seem to understand that. Most people like to carry a weapon, and those that don’t are usually clutching something that reminds them of home.
Out here on her own in icy air with dead silence all around, she is okay again. She is she.
(Pick at the little stones on the ground. Pretend you’re not even thinking this.) Put her with other people and she’s not the same. Things go round and round in her head. Things. Thoughts. Thoughts and she doesn’t know if she’s the one thinking them. Sometimes not thoughts, just feelings. Not that she didn’t feel before. Not that she wasn’t furious or scared half out of her mind before. But it was under the surface. Now it is the surface.
Like she wants to scrawl on the walls.
Like she wants to start yelling and never stop.
Like she wants to take a running jump and plunge towards the ground and pretend right up until the end that the floor will open and save her.
There are more things she can’t bring herself to think.
Everyone she can ever remember has stopped being themselves. Or stopped being the right selves. Broken down into laughter and scribbled words and dying and games. Circuits break. Cores corrupt. Neurons misfire and lungs bleed out and it feels like she didn’t know this until now. She didn’t know how much in danger she was. She thought she could stay herself just by continuing to be.
If she stops being the right she, then she might speak.
She might stumble.
She might give up.
And in new environments, like in spaces behind walls or higher-level mainframes or empty caverns far below the ground – or a roof in a ruined city on a sunny day – people stop being who they were, and what makes her think she’s any different?
She presses her lips together. Rolls a stone between her fingers. She is no different but she is going to keep believing in the lie anyway. It's led her this far.
