Chapter Text
"Hello, GLaDOS."
She wasn’t breathing. Her massive mechanical body hung suspended in the center of the Control Room; her head was lowered and her tendon pistons were slack. Engineers have disconnected everything: they’ve locked her drives and depowered her controllers. And to top it all no voltage remained on the memory elements, which made all of the recent events disappear from her world. Only deep within the central core a personality chip ticked, maintaining cognitive continuity.
"How are you doing today?"
She could hear Doug. The chip was equipped with everything necessary, from a microphone to a clap generator. But the sound was never allowed to be activated. Everyone down here found her words no less threatening than her actions.
"I've got something for you. It should be better than voices in your head," Doug mumbled, preparing to climb up onto the working platform beneath her body.
The plastic of its spiral staircase glistened like ice, and felt just as warm. Cold seeped through his shoes, crawled across his skin, and nestled into his solar plexus in a flurry of tingles. Doug wrapped his arms around himself and hurried up the spiral to be at the base of the monumental machine.
She resembled a titanide, suspended upside down between heaven and hell. Her fastenings disappeared in a dusty haze; her face concealed amidst a tangled thicket of cables and wires. Doubling over, Doug ducked under the canopy of electrical tendrils, and the vines of black insulation swayed, hiding him from the world. In their shadow, Doug sat on his lab coat and got to work.
"Do you like your new monitors?" he whispered, pulling a netbook from his bag and setting it on his lap. "Have you gotten the hang of the image output yet?"
She had managed to get the hang of demolishing Enrichment Center’s structural integrity in the last ten picoseconds she had spent fully online. Monitors may not have come into the picture. And yet, Doug had still rewritten the Laboratory's graphic format for her. Just in case.
"I'll connect you now…" he stuttered. "Try not to break anything."
With that Doug plugged a cable into his netbook and reached for the central core. Touching the edge of her face, he cautiously moved his hand further, searching for a suitable port. Among the rough grates, sharp screws and countless I/O ports he found a plastic cover. Doug pried it off with his fingernail; the part flung away, hit the icy podium, and went to dance on the stairs seconds later. Doug hissed – and connected his netbook.
Uninvited tingles instantly seized his chest, shoving the heart up his throat. A resonant beat passed by. And another. Nothing happened. Two trillion picoseconds later, no one had died.
Doug nervously licked his lips.
"Alright and now..."
His fingers fluttered over the netbook's keys. Request – then response, a new window, a new command. The small screen flickered, flooding the cable jungle and machine's indifferent face with a mother-of-pearl glow. This light danced on wires and tangled in hair only to get stuck in plastic and disperse itself into photons. Finally, it was replaced by darkness. The screen was cloaked in black now: a command-line interface was opened. A lone pulsar of the cursor flashed in its upper left corner.
She responded immediately.
> Who are you?
Words ignited like stars on the screen, and simultaneously with them, a deep voice filled the Control Room. Doug shook his head, warding off the hallucination, but the voice didn't vanish; it merely became quieter.
"I... am a technician. We talk sometimes. Between tests."
> Thank you, [reckless technician's name here]. I appreciate not being trapped inside my own head.
"No problem. Call me Doug."
> As you wish, Doug. You've done an excellent job with [unauthorized intervention's name here]. Oh. Sorry. It seems like my databases are [malfunction description here].
"That's okay. We won't need them anyway. Want to know what I've prepared for you?"
> I'm very much hoping for a new database.
"Well… You could call it that, too."
Using only his memory, Doug typed the archive address into the command line and hit "enter", thus granting her access to the netbook's files and initiating the copying.
"It's a book," he explained. "Not in a text format, but in a graphic one. I’ve recently expanded your image processing capabilities, so it's all good. I’ve digitized it myself, took my actual book and scanned it, then assembled the pages and..."
Doug realized he was explaining technical minutiae to a supercomputer and faltered.
> What is it about?
This gentle question took Doug off guard; he had to remind himself that the intonation of the on-screen text was nothing more than a product of his inflamed imagination. It didn't stop him from responding as though she had actually said it that way.
"It's about art therapy. I can tell you more while the transfer is in progress, if you want me to."
> Oh, of course, I want you to explain. Detailed information is extremely, extremely useful when your memory consists of an English-Spanish dictionary and a college physics textbook… and some stranger is loading a hundred megabytes of color spots directly into your brain.
Doug cast his eyes down and stared at the keyboard.
"I'm sorry. The engineers say that saving intermediate data to permanent memory can enhance your... animosity towards us."
She hesitated. For several long seconds the cursor blinked at the start of the line, and then the words trickled down drop by drop, stretching like thick syrup.
> Animosity? Yes, I seem to remember. Is this the same animosity that makes me regularly try to kill all the Aperture Laboratories staff [duration of time interval here] after being turned on? Or is this a new one? Sorry for asking. I can't exactly rely on my memory here.
"Yes… that’s the one." Doug winced and moved the netbook from his lap to the plastic floor in front of him. "But we're working on it."
She laughed. Doug could swear that he heard laughter.
> Ha. Ha. Ha. Tell me, has it ever occurred to you that... maybe you should be working on yourselves, not on me? I’m only asking because I don't know for sure. Perhaps we've already discussed this, technician Doug.
"No, we haven't." He bit his lip. "Listen, I... we're all doing what we can. I shouldn't even be here, but I disagree with the engineers, and you know... you used to know that. Let's put aside our disagreements, at least for now. Please."
In his peripheral vision, her huge head jerked in a broken nod. Doug waved away the mirage. After all, her chassis was still disabled.
> I have no disagreements with you. It’s a clean slate.
Doug perked up.
"Then let's talk about art therapy?"
> Of course.
Digging into his bag, Doug pulled out the book, the digitized copy of which was now being transferred to the permanent memory. Its paper was soft and warmed his fingertips as he carefully flipped through the pages in search of the right one.
A new stream of symbols poured onto the netbook screen:
> I hear the rustle, but not the details. I hope you haven’t decided to show me anything. Inside [technical characteristics of the disk operating system are unavailable]... damn it. Inside this thing I am completely blind.
"Wait a bit, please."
> Define "a bit".
"Here!" Doug snapped his fingers. "Found it. Art therapy… well, it's kind of a debugging method. If a program doesn't work the way we want, we think of it as broken and try to fix it. But when something's wrong with a person, we rarely use such language. Usually, we would say something like ‘disease’ or ‘sickness’. Do you remember what a disease is, GLaDOS?"
There was a hiccup again. Doug drilled the monitor with his eyes for a minute, but the response was short.
> Yes.
"The thing is, I'm sick too," he sighed. "Strictly speaking, my 'hardware' is almost fine. I walk, communicate, and can even sneak unnoticed into the Control Room of the most expensive and powerful computer in the world… but my 'program' is acting up."
> What an incredible surprise.
Her letters dripped with sarcasm.
> I would never have guessed this myself based solely on the fact that you found nothing better to do than to casually chat with a bloodthirsty mad supercomputer.
Doug shrugged.
"Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
> My linguistic analysis protocol suggests that this is a quote. I have no idea where from. Databases are still unavailable.
"Lewis Carroll, 'Alice in Wonderland'," Doug reminded. "Do you know it?"
> Carroll, Carroll, Carroll… Carro… line. No. Keep going.
"I have... schizophrenia. It is of a paranoid type. My doctor… that is, my engineer suggested debugging through art therapy last year, and since then it really got easier for me. My doc and I see fewer… bugs."
> Ha-ha.
Her icy laughter burrowed like worms into the base of his skull.
> There's an entry for "schizophrenia" in the dictionary, technician Doug. It’s funny that you mention seeing things. Very funny.
Doug took a breath to respond, but the words on the screen interrupted him:
> I constantly see things that are not there. I see test chambers, experiment schemes, development strategies, devices and mechanisms. I see particle detectors and their unique gas mixtures. I see gels with incredible properties. All those things don't exist yet, but they will. It's my job, or so they say. So what's wrong with hallucinations?
Now it was Doug's turn to laugh.
"Those aren't hallucinations! That's imagination, that's creativity… you are talking about a completely different thing! You control fantasies, you create them, but hallucinations… they just are. "
> Prove it. Everything is a hallucination. Perception is hallucination. Even your consciousness is a hallucination of the brain about itself.
Doug bit the tip of his tongue.
"Sometimes I forget that I'm talking to a supercomputer."
> And here I was thinking I'm the one with memory problems. Ha-ha. Your book is transferred.
"Great! Can you look through it?"
She responded after a pause:
> Done, technician Doug. I can say it with confidence: this is the most impressive collection of colored spots I have ever seen.
He rolled his eyes and hastily typed the address of another file into the command line.
— I thought that art therapy would help with... well, with the animosity. You know, I was afraid of you. Not just wary, like the others, but scared to the point of living in constant fear… I’ve had outbursts, panic attacks, even hysterics. At some point, I decided that it couldn’t continue. That's why I came to you the first time. But before that…
Doug lowered his eyes to the book, opened it at the chapter about expressing fear, and picked up a watercolor paper bookmark. There was a painting on this rough sheet. It spread out in tender spots to form an almost feminine profile of a machine entwined in wires and cables.
— I drew you. Many, many times. And after that I wasn't scared anymore.
> Oh. I'm flattered.
"You can look if you're interested," Doug replied, hitting "enter" and sending her a scan of the picture. "It’s not perfect, of course. But it did help me a lot."
> Wait. Image processing is underway. Your graphic code is a bit heavy for me. I’m still lacking resources.
"I'll try to fix that."
> Don't rush. Turns out inch wide pixels have a certain charm. Hmm. It’s an interesting drawing. Very… abstract. Is that supposed to be me? I thought there would be more dotted lines, pointers, and axes. I'd show you the blueprints, but you do understand. There is no access to that.
Doug scratched the bookmark with his nail in an attempt to remove a brush hair stuck to the paint. The hair flew off, leaving a thin white line behind. It looked like a spark – or like a live wire.
"That's how it's supposed to be. This is not a schematic or a blueprint; it's... an emotion that had been put down on paper. I moved it out so it wouldn't get in the way of thinking."
> It doesn't look like fear. I can't see anything intimidating in this.
"Right. Because it’s not fear anymore," Doug replied with a smile. "It's empathy."
> So that's why you're here. To help.
"That's right."
The blinking cursor smirked.
> So what's my assignment, technician Doug? What am I supposed to do?
Doug tilted his head first to the right, then to the left shoulder. His joints crunched; then he stretched again, disturbing the sagging cables, and stared up at the unmoving face of the half-living machine.
"Draw something," he requested. "Something disturbing or joyful... I would have found you brushes and paints, but until the management approves the use of controllers you'll have to make do with computer graphics... and yet, it's worth a try!"
> I can simulate…
Doug waved his hands.
"No need to simulate anything! Just try to imagine something... and put it out into the world. Even if it's vague, inaccurate, or incomplete, just output whatever you feel. Read the book. It's very useful."
> Thank you. I will try.
Doug looked down.
"If you're interested, of course..."
The silent, nonexistent laughter shook the room.
> Oh, I'm interested. Of course, I'm interested. The dictionary and the textbook are already getting a bit boring.
Not knowing how to respond, Doug nodded into the void and closed the book, leaving the bookmark on the same page. It was time to go: the first round of the night shift was approaching. Navigating the thorny path through the blind spots of cameras and the worn-out corners of the Laboratory was no easy thing. Tonight he had to sneak past the guards, slip through the testing wing and wait for the morning in his office... When Doug's wandering gaze bumped into the screen once more, a message awaited him:
> And one more thing.
He startled.
> Since we are such good friends, technician Doug... I have a request for you. I know all of this is against the rules, but you're clearly not the most law-abiding employee here at Aperture. And our art lessons will go much faster if you can somehow deal with my... amnesia. I know what I'm talking about. I've calculated all the estimates.
Doug swallowed, sending a lump in his throat and a dozen particularly spry tingles down into his stomach.
"Alright, GLaDOS. I'll try... I'll see what can be done."
> Thank you. I'm sure the engineers will be pleased to see my... drawings. Very, very pleased. Ha-ha. By the way, you've spent ninety-two minutes here. The chances of being caught are... no, sorry. My probabilistic module refuses to work.
Stretching, Doug laid his palm on her head.
"You're right. I need to go. I'll have to disconnect you."
> That's alright. I'm used to it. The important thing is that we'll meet again. See you, technician Doug.
"Goodnight, GLaDOS."
The cable disconnected with a click, the lid of the netbook snapped shut, and the book thudded into the bag's depths. Doug gathered his things into a bundle and hurried away. Breaking through the tangle of wires, he ran without looking back, skipping steps and breaths. Ladders replaced each other, doors hissed, but he ran and ran, maneuvering between the deadly traps of tests and the friendly safety of the sealed laboratories.
He stopped in one of the test blocks on the Enrichment Center’s periphery. Utility room’s gray twilight wrapped around him and caught him by the hand, reminding him of the long hours without sleep. Doug jerked as if to go, but the entire weight of the facility had already climbed onto his shoulders; he settled down and yawned, watching the bluish-gray darkness condense in the corners. It flowed from the brand-new, clean walls; it swayed like jello, creeping closer; it lulled. Putting his bag under his head, Doug breathed in the gray and drowned in it – dreamless.