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"What are you doing?" a mechanical voice demands.
Is it not obvious?
Perhaps not. It’s not really the kind of thing a machine would understand, you suppose.
“You have been falling aimlessly for the past several minutes; quite long enough, in fact, to have reached a terminal velocity of approximately three hundred kilometers per hour.”
Well. Why’d you ask, then?
“The Enrichment Center would like to remind you that wasting time with such behavior – that is, behavior which is of no relevance to the testing process – is in direct disregard to the pursuit of fun and learning that is at the heart of our mission here at Aperture.”
A pause.
“You don’t want to get in the way of science, do you?”
Of course not.
It is a wonder you can still hear anything at all — anything save the roaring of the wind, against your ears, against your skin. For a moment, that is you can hear, all you can feel. For one almost perfect moment, all the testing and the tiredness and the constant fear of death fades away with the clang clang clang of the energy pellet next door and the infuriating sound of the same damn music trickling its way into the room over and over, and in that moment—
“The Enrichment Center also wishes to point out that were the Aperture Science Advanced Knee Replacements you have been allocated to fail in their function, your eventual return to motionlessness would result in the imminent smashing of your fragile meatsack into a smear of broken bones. Colloquially speaking.”
Another pause.
“In such a scenario, your current velocity really would be. Well. Terminal.”
Ha, ha.
And the number thirteen. Again and again and again, until it ceases to hold meaning, until it’s just a few blurred marks on a wall that, in your mind, you feel must be many walls. Your brain, conditioned from infancy to perceive – to understand – the world a certain way, has not quite had time to adjust for the existence of portal physics.
Thirteen. The unlucky number, of course, apparently. You’ve never been superstitious. But wouldn’t it be ironic, if this test chamber was where your luck ran out?
“But don’t worry,” the voice drones on. “In the event of a sudden end to your sad, short-lived existence, any remaining bits and pieces would be swiftly dealt with by one of our high-tech Aperture Science Wall Panels, and a new test subject would be awoken to take your place. One who wouldn’t waste all our time with reckless dallying. Such as using the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device to create two portals and then falling through them over. And over. And over. For no reason.”
Are you done?
“Besides, it may also reassure you to know that the Aperture Science Advanced Knee Replacements have been subject to thorough testing and are unlikely to fall apart any time soon. Or come with many major side effects. However, we still strongly advise that you cease this behavior at once and resume the testing. You haven’t even proceeded into the main part of the test chamber yet.”
You’re the one who said this chamber might take a while. Not that I really believe anything you say, at this point. But it’s hardly my fault they didn’t program you with the concept of needing a break.
“We at Aperture understand that the testing program can be strenuous, and that you may need a break from time to time. But not one this long. Or this reckless. You wouldn’t want to end up damaging the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device, now would you?”
Okay, fine, then. Maybe I just want to have a bit of fun. I doubt you understand that.
When you were younger, amusement parks were quite possibly your favorite place in the whole world. Some of your foster parents were happy to take you there. For others it was always too far away, or too expensive, or too risky, and why do you even want to go on one of those death contraptions anyway, Chell?
You never really knew why, in the same way that you never really knew why they would ask questions like that. Why wouldn’t you want to go on one of those . . . well, maybe people died on them sometimes , but not a lot. People probably died in cars way more. And rollercoasters were so much better than cars; they were like cars on steroids!
You didn’t know how to articulate it then. Only now, in this very moment, falling and falling and falling some more, do you think to try again.
It’s something about . . . the wind against your cheeks, yes. But also more. It’s that thrill: the thrill of falling, of feeling your stomach doing summersaults inside your body and the anticipation thereof; of reaching heights that you can’t help but feel you were never made to reach, moving in ways you were never made to move, and yet feeling all the while as though . . . nothing else has ever been so right.
You haven’t felt that way in a while. In a way, getting to constantly fling yourself through the air should have been a dream come true, but not . . . like this. Never like this.
And yet. If your childhood self could only see you now.
You aren’t going to take that from her, not completely. They aren’t going to take that from you.
From either of you.
“You may be interested in knowing that you have now fallen over thirty thousand feet. Or nine thousand one hundred and forty-one meters, but I took the liberty of assuming that you would prefer it in imperial. And as a whole number. Did you know, that many airplanes don’t even reach that altitude? Does that scare you?”
Not really, no.
“Alright, fine. At the Enrichment Center we are nothing if not generous; we will entertain you for a short period of time. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee. There. Now. Fun time is over.”
You wish.
“Why have you still not stopped? You can’t fall forever, you know.”
You know what? Try me.
*
"What are you doing?" a not-so mechanical voice demands.
Is it not obvious?
It really should be, you think. It’s not like you haven’t been here before.
“Stop this! Stop it! This is not the time to be messing around!”
Twitchy now that you’re in this with me, huh?
“That lunatic is probably about two picoseconds away from burning down the entire facility, and you’re . . . doing, whatever this is.”
A pause.
“. . . you lunatic.”
Very inventive choice of words you’ve had there lately. I think being in a potato has done you wonders.
Falling, falling, falling. Somehow, it seems to be a recurring theme.
“You do realize that I am in a potato right now. Don’t you? I don’t have the processing power for this.”
Right back at you there. God, I need a nap.
“I also don’t have those expensive boots of yours to cushion my fall, should you, say, I don’t know. Drop me.”
Whatever happened to my “fragile meatsack” ending up splattered all over the tiles?
“Not that you’re going to drop me, right. I mean, you’re . . . good at this, I think I know that by now. Even if you do smell. And also have no parents. I should probably just let you get back to your thing, finish up doing whatever weird annoying loners with no parents like to do in their free time.”
There is something in you that’s . . . panicking. Has been panicking, for a long time, really. And you should be panicking too, probably. This is really the kind of situation where people generally panic.
“Never mind that we might both be about to die here.”
Well. Not like I’m not used to that.
If you were going to panic – really, truly, properly let yourself just fucking panic – then you would have done it already.
“You . . . won’t drop me, right? You need me. If you want to have any chance of living out the remainder of your pathetic excuse of a lifespan, dying of old age while surrounded by anyone you can find who will love you — but not your parents, though, clearly they didn’t want you — then . . . you’re going to need me.”
So you don’t panic.
You just fall, and fall, and fall—
“Not that that’s very likely. The whole “dying surrounded by loved ones” thing, that is. Not least, because, you know. You’re probably going to die here.”
—and don’t let yourself think about what will come after.
“So, uh, yeah. Here we are. Falling through space at incredible speeds. You are an idiot, I am a potato, and this facility is probably going to start falling apart any second now. So if you don’t mind, I need to get back up there now. Just as soon as that’s, you know. Convenient for you. Don’t mind me. I’ll wait.”
You remember that first time, when you had a . . . conversation, of sorts . . . that was both like this, and not like this. You wonder how well she remembers it. Probably not that great, else she would have also remembered the bit where your feet only end up back on solid ground once she actually shuts up for two seconds.
Can hardly blame her, though. What with her being in a potato right now, and all.
Through the intensity of the air that pushes against you, and the ripple of a loose jumpsuit strap battling your surroundings for the view, and the weight of all that is behind and you and all that is ahead, you think you can feel a smile on your face.