Thank ya kindly.
Howdy. I reblog Portal stuff and periodically draw it too. :) Might want to have a look at both myaskblogs: askagladosfangirl and asksnarkyglados. :D
OOC account for vi-piltover-enforcer, et al. I just reblog shit.Got a question for some reason? Lemme see what you got.
This is an excellent idea. :D
Have you ever wondered why the personality cores seen in Portal are so much less expressive than those seen in Portal II? Why Wheatley’s voice is so much more human than the other cores’?
Here, have another headcanon about why Aperture’s process of digitizing human consciousness is even more terrifying than we originally imagined it to be.
THIS IS SO GREAT WOW
We’re going to Youmacon the first weekend of November. I’ll be the best Chell I can be when I’m white and actually chubby.
The life of a test subject in Aperture isn’t easy.
Constant threats on your life notwithstanding. It’s part of your job to run through a gauntlet of turrets and lasers and acid pits and mashy spike plates, day after day, for no purpose other than Science. Your ‘job’. You volunteered for a meager $60 and the promise you’ll be home by Christmas. You’ll be lucky if you live to see either, and you can forget about ever going home.
The staff don’t even recognise you as human. It’s like the orange jumpsuit strips you of your humanity. You’re just a barcode, a number on a page. Makes it easier for them to make bets about whether you’ll live or die, or how quickly you’ll fail, or cut footage of your injuries and tears into a Best Of video to laugh at during the next Employee Meet and Greet. The medical staff treat your injuries only enough so you can keep testing, but secretly hold out for the Science Option so they can pull you apart and stuff something Science-y in you for $120. You’re not human to them. You’re just a jumpsuit.
The robots didn’t want anything to do with you either, because you’re nothing more than a smelly sack of organs to them. How robots can smell is a mystery… but then, so much of Aperture is ‘why not’ that the stupid questions answer themselves. The cores will mislead you, wake you at every hour, pull cruel pranks to pay you back for the sin of having arms and legs and depth perception and the ability to eat. The androids look at you with disdain at worst, and pity at best. You can’t help but feel painfully small in their presence: they look human, but they’re stronger, faster, more attractive than any human could ever hope to be. And they’ll never know - or care - about you.
Not only that, but every test subject ends up living in the shadow of Chell. That’s not a fat joke; that’s the truth. No test subject ever came close. She was above and beyond the curve. Anything you do, or try to do, means you end up looking like you’re trying to follow her. Even if all you want to do is get through testing, eat something that isn’t going to make you sick, and them stumble back to your test chamber for a restless night in a painful bed, the jumpsuit is a symbol. She made it her symbol: a symbol rebellion against the system, freedom at any cost. Even if you don’t want to be seen as anything like her, you wear her uniform. You can’t escape her any more than you can escape Aperture. Chell, in her escape, trapped you in a worse fate.
The food is terrible. Every time you wake up the air smells starched with unnameable chemicals. Security assumes every furtive, fearful glance is a punishable offence. The cameras track your every movement, robbing you of privacy and peace and sanity. Every friend you make could be dead the next day. Every announcement over the speaker could be the last time you hear GLaDOS’ voice before she activates the acid in the sprinklers or the neurotoxin in the air vents.
Battered. Insulted. Threatened and ignored in equal measure. Highly expendable, and easily disposable.
The life of a test subject in Aperture isn’t easy. But if you can live for just one more day? That’s a victory in itself.