"I had imagined it so many times—what I would say to her, what she would say to me when we met again. But letters are just words on a page. Seeing her in person is different," Andrew said. He sighed. "Especially the blindfold. I knew she had lost her eyes—letters told me that much. But seeing it in person... it hits harder."
"You shouldn't pity Jane," Harrington replied, his voice calm and steady. "Even without her eyes, she sees more than you or I ever could."
"That's not the point!" Andrew snapped, gesturing sharply. Then, with another sigh, he muttered, "Why am I even telling you this?"
"Because you needed to talk to someone. People tell me I'm easy to talk to. Maybe that's why I aced my interrogation courses," Harrington joked, a dismissing smile on his movie-star-handsome face.
Despite himself, Andrew relaxed a little. "And it's not as if I'm completely uninvolved," Harrington added.
Andrew looked again at the twenty-something man dressed in an armored jumpsuit—the standard Aperture Security uniform. The skin-tight fit did little to conceal his solid, well-built frame. It was hard to connect this Harrington to the Steve Jane had written about in her letters.
"You know, this almost makes me jealous," Andrew said. Who am I kidding? There was no almost about it. Jealousy burned like poison in his gut, but saying it outright felt petty. "You got to spend so much time with her. You got to watch her grow... while I wasn't there."
"I do try to be a good big brother. I mean, she is the girlfriend of my girlfriend's little brother, after all," Harrington said with another disarming smile. "And it's not like you abandoned them for nothing. You were fighting the good fight."
"And now I continue that fight. Just closer to home," Andrew said. He suddenly felt so weary.
"You know, you don't have to," Harrington said, his voice soothing. "You've done your part. No one would blame you if you took a rest."
Andrew shook his head. "I would. You know what our enemies are."
He didn't say the name Vril-ya out loud. Harrington had already warned him about that. It was unlikely that anyone would overhear them as they traveled on the conveyor belt—the Enrichment Center required space between groups for safety and privacy reasons—but one could never be too careful.
"This is our stop," Harrington interrupted Andrew's thoughts, nodding toward an upcoming exit point. "Stay close, and be careful stepping off. There's a trick to it."
Andrew followed his gaze. The exit was marked by a line of discreet indicators embedded in the pavement—small metal studs set into the surface in a chevron pattern. Easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. No signs, no flashing lights. The kind of thing you either knew… or learned the hard way.
Harrington shifted his weight forward without breaking stride. "Don't fight it. Move with the belt, then peel off at an angle. Stay loose."
He made it look effortless. As they neared the exit point, Harrington's posture changed just slightly—weight centered, knees loose, shoulders relaxed. Without hesitation, he stepped to the side, letting the belt's momentum carry him as he slid smoothly onto the exit platform. He took two more steps to bleed off speed, already moving toward the slower pedestrian lanes. It was muscle memory. He'd done this a thousand times.
Andrew followed, trying to mimic the motion. He adjusted his pace and pivoted toward the side. The belt was faster than it looked; the second he stepped off, he felt his balance shift hard. His foot almost caught, but he let himself go with the momentum, stumbling forward a few steps before catching himself. Not graceful—but not flat on his face, either.
Harrington glanced over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You didn't crash. That's a win."
"Why did you believe me?" Andrew asked. His voice was low, but steady. "I told you I spent eight years fighting them—in Ancient Rome. That's not exactly easy to swallow."
He hadn't told them much more. No hard proof. No souvenirs. Just the kind of story that got people locked up, or worse.
"Or were you just humoring me?"
Harrington let out a short, dry chuckle. "Would I bring you here if I was just humoring you?" he said. It was glib, but there was something steady underneath it. Then his tone shifted, settling into something more thoughtful. "A good interrogator knows when to press, and when to let a man talk. Or stay quiet. Depends on the read."
He paused then, his gaze flicking sideways before settling back on Andrew. "There were discrepancies in your testimony. Sure. But most of it lined up with what we already knew about the enemy."
Andrew frowned. "And the rest?"
Harrington shrugged. "I had my orders."
Orders? But orders from who?
Andrew had his guesses. The mysterious—possibly alien—figure who had sent him to the far past had been involved in the fight against the Vril-ya for centuries. Ancient Rome. Medieval Germany. Vietnam during the war. And probably more. Those were just the places Andrew knew about.
So it wasn't just possible. It was probable that he was involved here too.
Andrew took a deep breath. The air was surprisingly fresh for an underground, enclosed space.
Or he could be completely wrong. Seeing connection where there was none.
"We are here," Harrington said as they stopped in front of a door that looked like any other in the Enrichment Centre.
There were no buildings here—not really. No separate structures. Just long corridors, vast halls, and doors. Some windows too, though not many.
It should have felt claustrophobic. Isolating. Alien.
But it didn't.
The pleasant lighting, the walls adorned with greenery… it made the place feel surprisingly relaxing.
"That's it?" Andrew asked, as the door opened, revealing an empty room.
"What did you expect?" Harrington said with an amused chuckle as he stepped inside. "A flashing neon sign? That would hardly be secret."
Andrew followed, frowning. "But where's the security? The door just opened. Anyone could walk in."
"Entering is easy. Leaving is where it gets tricky," Harrington replied. "The entire Enrichment Centre is monitored. Our biometrics were scanned as we approached. And not just that—our histories too. Cross-checked for any discrepancies."
The door slid shut behind them with a heavy sound, leaving them in a bare metal room.
"Don't worry. If everything checks out, the other door will open."
Andrew glanced at the far wall, wondering. "And if not? Poison gas? Bullets?" His tone was light, but there was an edge to it. He wasn't a spy—but what if the system glitched?
Harrington gave a short snort. "Don't be silly. Just a sedative. It's not impossible to question a corpse, but it's a hassle. Psychometry is a rare gift, you know."
A faint hum filled the hallway as a panel slid open on the opposite wall, revealing a door wreathed in a glowing blue field.
Without missing a beat, Harrington strode toward it, his steps smooth, practiced.
Andrew, on the other hand, had questions. "What is that?"
"Aperture Science Material Emancipation Grill," Harrington replied as he passed through the field. His voice was light, almost bored. "Security measure. It vaporizes unauthorized equipment—prevents unsanctioned recordings or tech from getting through."
He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder. "Hope you didn't bring your mobile."
Andrew slowly, casually extended his hand and pushed it through the electric blue field.
There was a tingling sensation—but nothing more.
Harrington kept walking, speaking as if reciting from a manual.
"It also resets portal guns," he said. "In case someone steals one and tries to bring in reinforcements. Or explosives."
He gave a small shrug. "Don't ask me how it works. I'm not a scientist."
Andrew stepped through a little faster.
Halfway across the room, Harrington suddenly asked, "Does your mouth taste like blood?"
Andrew blinked. "No... why?"
"Well, in some rare cases, the grill may emancipate dental fillings, crowns, tooth enamel… and teeth," Harrington said blithely, as if discussing the weather. "It used to be semi-rare, but the new version is much better. Progress, you know."
Andrew stopped mid-stride. "I could have lost my teeth?!"
With a faint smile, Harrington glanced back, showing his perfect teeth. "Minor inconvenience. Aperture Medical has a procedure for regrowing them. Something with lasers." He paused. "Brand new teeth. Imagine—no need to worry whether you flossed enough."
"Because not flossing enough is the root of the problem," Andrew said, layering on as much sarcasm as he could manage.
The smirk widened. "And yet, dentists are never out of business."
"Wouldn't this put dentists out of work?" Andrew tossed back.
Harrington gave an easy shrug. "Someone has to pull bad teeth. The Grill's a bit too inconsistent, and the robot puncher tested poorly with focus groups."
"Teeth-punching robots? You're kidding," Andrew said. "You have to be kidding."
No answer—just a faint, knowing smile as Harrington motioned for him to follow.
They walked down a narrow corridor to a heavy, reinforced door. Flanking it on either side stood two Aperture Sentinel Turrets—tall, white, and smooth, their sleek chassis gleaming under the harsh ceiling lights. Their central red lenses pulsed faintly as they tracked the approach, emitting a soft, rhythmic hum that made Andrew's skin crawl.
"Afternoon," Harrington greeted them, his tone almost cheerful—like he'd done this three times already today.
The turrets swiveled in perfect sync to face them.
"Oh! A new recruit?" one chirped, its voice high and sweet, like a child's toy.
"Hope he lasts longer," the other replied, equally pleasant. "We're running out of room on the Wall."
"The wall?" Andrew asked as they passed through the door, entering the next room.
"The Wall," Harrington said solemnly, gesturing toward the far side of the room.
Names and dates were etched into a broad steel surface—neat, respectful lettering. Not too large. Rows of them stretched on, quiet and orderly.
"Everyone who died hunting the Vril-ya," Harrington explained. "As you might guess… not the safest job."
There was a pause, then Harrington added, calmly, with a trace of sober sorrow in his voice, "But I don't know what they were talking about. There's still plenty of space left."
Andrew didn't quite know what to say to that, so he stayed silent. The death toll was no surprise to him. He had fought the Vril-ya in Nero's Rome, and he had done it with far more primitive weapons—except for the gifts of the Magister.
He missed his gladius. Bloodthirsty as hell, but it left wounds the Vril-ya had trouble healing. Not until they'd gobbled some fresh Vril, at least.
Harrington led him deeper into the facility, down clean, quiet corridors.
"This leads to the Historical Events Department," Harrington said, nodding toward one hallway. "They're working on mapping how the Vril-ya influenced human history. If we can figure out how they acted in the past, hopefully we can predict how they'll act in the present."
He glanced back at Andrew. "You will be likely scheduled to spend some time with them. They're going to be very interested in how the Vril-ya operated in the Roman Empire."
"Not my favorite way to spend time, but anything for the cause," Andrew said. He hesitated, then added, "But is it actually useful?"
"Once they finish collating the data, it goes to Xenology," Harrington replied. "The geeks over there build models out of it. With luck, those models help Investigation track down Vril-ya."
"That sounds… complicated," Andrew replied. It was simpler in Ancient Rome.
"That is just one pipeline," Harrington replied.
"Pipeline?" Andrew asked. What did plumbing have to do with anything?
"I forgot, you never finished college," Harrington said, though there was no mockery in his tone. "A pipeline's just a fancy word for how we move information from one place to another. One team collects data, cleans it up, passes it on to the next. They process it, find patterns, pass it on again. Step by step, until somebody can actually use it."
"Is all that really necessary? We're here to fight aliens, not drown in paperwork," Andrew said.
"More than two millennia ago, Sun Tzu wrote: Know yourself and know your enemy, and you shall win every battle," Harrington replied. "This is just the modern, data-driven approach to the same principle."
His lips curved in a conspiratorial smile, as if sharing an inside joke. "So while all those after-action reports and performance reviews are annoying… they do serve a purpose."
He paused for a moment, letting the silence stretch—just long enough to make it deliberate. Then he added, a little more cheerfully, "At least, that's what I tell myself when I have to write them. Sometimes it even helps."
He gave a small shrug, already turning away. "We've wasted enough time. Come on—your orientation's next, and we're running late."
Andrew followed. What other choice did he have? Give up? Sure. He could douse himself in sauce and serve himself up to the Vril-ya for dinner. Maybe bring his family along. He kept walking.
They moved in silence, boots striking the polished composite floor in rhythm. The corridor ahead stretched clean and bright, lined with greenery so perfectly cultivated it reminded him of those old utopian sci-fi novels. The ones with impossible futures where everything worked and nobody died screaming. Except he'd seen the Wall. He knew better.
And after that I imagine it would be too late to back out?" Andrew asked.
But in truth, he wasn't planning to back out. He had given eight years of his life to this. Separated from his family. Stranded in a strange land. He wouldn't let that be for nothing.
"Of course not," Harrington replied easily. "Participation is completely voluntary. We need volunteers, not draftees. You can opt-out at any moment."
"And keep knowledge of this?" Andrew asked, skeptical.
"Of course not," Harrington replied, same tone. "We have telepaths on staff who'll remove all those inconvenient memories that might ruin your retirement. After all, who can relax knowing the Vril-ya are out there, plotting the downfall of mankind?"
They took a left turn, then a right, descending a shallow ramp that sloped down at a deceptive angle. The lighting shifted—brighter, more focused. Andrew felt a faint change in the air pressure, a subtle prickling at the edges of his awareness. Ahead, a pair of wide doors irised open without a sound.
The room beyond was... wrong. It took him a moment to realize why. It was comfortable. Not in the way of a lounge or a break room—there were no couches, no vending machines—but it was well-lit, the full-spectrum glow leaving no harsh shadows. The walls were a warm neutral, broken by vertical gardens. Real plants, not plastic. A faint scent of herbs hung in the air. Sharp. Clean. Somewhere nearby, water flowed in a quiet, steady hum.
And the chairs... high-backed, mesh, ergonomic. Designed to support, not punish.
"Take a seat," Harrington said. "They're tuned for posture and concentration. You'll appreciate it after the first hour."
"How long is this orientation?" Andrew asked.
"How long do you think it takes to explain why you'll probably die horribly unless you pay attention?" Harrington replied. He was already heading back toward the door. "I've got other work. I'll pick you up when it's done. If you need anything, just say it aloud. You're being monitored."
He gestured toward a sleek side counter. "Herbal drinks. Fruit snacks. Don't be shy. Keep your sugar up and stay hydrated—optimal performance and all that."
There was no podium. No instructor waiting at the front. One wall was a seamless screen, already alive with shifting lines of data. In the corner, the Aperture logo pulsed softly. Clean. Efficient. Merciless.
A faint chime sounded. Then a familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"Congratulations, hero," GLaDOS said. "You've joined the fight for humanity's survival. Your participation has been deemed zero point zero eight six percent likely to reduce overall species extinction."
Andrew stiffened. It wasn't his first time hearing her voice—but hearing it here, directed at him, was something else entirely.
"Don't let the numbers discourage you," she went on, her tone bright, almost soothing. "For an individual human, that's quite significant. Most don't provide any statistically measurable contribution to their species' survival. You should feel special."
The screen shifted, showing a series of images. Jane and her friends—laughing, learning, playing. Terry and her superhero team, hauling people out of wrecks, catching crooks. All the things he'd missed. All the things he was fighting for.
It wasn't subtle. But it wasn't wrong.
"Now that we've reminded you who you're fighting for," GLaDOS continued. "It's time to learn what you're fighting against."
"Section One: The Vril-ya and You. Learn who's about to invite you for dinner."
A pause. Then GLaDOS continued, her tone still bright, still dispassionate.
"However, given your field experience in Nero's Rome, this section has been abridged for your convenience. No need to bore you with information you already know. Or know better."
A brief flicker on the screen—something red and fast, but gone before it resolved.
"So, there's no need to rehash the gruesome habits of the Vril-ya. The cannibalism. The infiltration of positions of power. The manipulation that turns humans into tools to kill other humans."
Another pause. A beat too long to be entirely comfortable.
"You've seen all that firsthand."
The display shifted, cool and clean. Maps. Tactical overlays.
"Instead, we will focus on what you don't know. Vril-ya tactics in modern times."
The maps receded, replaced by a sleek, minimalist display: CLASSIFICATION PROTOCOLS: VRIL-YA OPERATIVE CATEGORIES.
GLaDOS continued, her voice still precise, still inflectionless. "To ensure operational effectiveness, Aperture Science divides the Vril-ya into three general categories based on observed behavior, threat potential, and historical engagement. As always, these classifications are provisional. The Vril-ya do not categorize themselves. And they are shapeshifters. What you think you see is almost never what you're dealing with."
A soft chime. The first category appeared on the screen, in stark, utilitarian font:
GRUNTS.
"Field Designation: Grunts. These are the least dangerous—relatively speaking. Grunts are typically left in inactive identities. Political exiles. Disgraced nobility. Former celebrities. Their purpose is to preserve a viable cover in case reactivation becomes useful."
Photos flashed onto the screen: former presidents, faded celebrities, the idle rich. One, in particular, lingered longer.
"Case Study: The Infiltrator formerly occupying the identity of Idi Amin."
A grainy photo from 1991 replaced the old, charismatic propaganda shots. A hollow-eyed figure, bloated and immobile in a dimly lit villa.
"Deployed as a Grunt to maintain an inactive identity post-exile. No significant activity detected between 1980 and termination in 1991 during Operation: Canceled Dinner, executed by Alpha Squad."
The screen flickered briefly, displaying an operation summary:
OPERATION: CANCELED DINNER
Target: Infiltrator Designation [GRUNT] – Amin, Idi
Threat Assessment: Minimal
Termination Date: 18 March 1991
Recovered Assets: 12 Vril Consumables (Standard Grade)
Post-Engagement Cleanup: Complete
Debriefing Compliance: Pending
Operator Note: Tactical recommendation from Chell [Asset #C-014], citing observed Grunt behavior patterns.
Recommendation: Grunts are "extremely predictable under pressure; continued application of kinetic force is sufficient."
Status: Recommendation integrated into Training Module GR-1A.
"Grunts often leave evidence—disappearances, half-eaten remains, and recreational manipulation of human conflict. Standard field operatives are authorized to engage without specialist support."
"Some interactions with the Vril-ya have led Xenology to develop a theory: Grunts may be young Vril-ya, still adapting to infiltrating human societies. The theory remains unconfirmed."
"Human history suggests underestimating the young is an error. We do not encourage such errors."
The screen wiped clean. A new diagram faded in, sharper than before. The silhouettes no longer slack or bloated but upright and alert.
OPERATIVES
The text appeared in the same stark, utilitarian font.
GLaDOS continued, smooth as always. "Field Designation: Operatives. These assets are more dangerous than Grunts. They are placed in active roles—executives, political leaders, cultural influencers. Their purpose is not just to maintain a dormant identity, but to shape human behavior on a mass scale."
The silhouettes shifted. A familiar figure stood out now. Hands clasped at the waist. Head tilted, chin raised at an imperious angle. A handbag hanging from one arm, more like a weapon than an accessory.
"Case Study: Margaret Thatcher."
The figure resolved into a series of photographs—black and white at first, then color. One captured her standing outside Number 10 Downing Street. Another at a podium, mid-speech, eyes bright with certainty. Others showed her in conference rooms, shaking hands with foreign leaders. Behind the posed smiles, there was something hard. Cold. Detached.
"Active: 1979 through 1992. Initially classified as Named due to significant political influence and proximity to other high-risk entities. Posthumously reclassified as Operative-Level Infiltrator."
Maps and charts replaced the photographs. The Falklands lit up in red. A graph showed economic indicators nosediving during the Miners' Strike. Another marked a timeline of deregulation initiatives spreading across Europe. A separate window highlighted photo stills of Thatcher standing beside Mikhail Gorbachev.
"Suspected operations include orchestration of the Falklands Conflict. Suppression of the Miners' Strike. Deregulation campaigns that destabilized economic systems. Political and material support of Mikhail Gorbachev—himself a presumed Named-class infiltrator. And a documented attempt to intervene in the Soviet Civil War, in direct opposition to Ozerov."
The screen flickered again.
Status: Terminated by [CLASSIFIED], 1992.
Note: [CLASSIFIED].
There was a pause. Then GLaDOS went on. "Operatives are trained in the use of Vril-staffs and typically carry between five and ten doses of consumable Vril. They are adept at masking their true intentions, reframing their manipulations as noble causes, sound policy, or good business."
Margaret Thatcher's image lingered a moment longer. Her expression unreadable.
"These are not targets for standard operatives," GLaDOS continued. "Psychic support is required for all engagements. Misclassification has resulted in multiple field losses."
The screen wiped clean again.
NAMED.
A pause.
"These are the ones you never engage," GLaDOS said, voice precise, clinical. "If you suspect a Vril-ya is Named, confirmation is simple. They will tell you. Proudly. Especially if they are winning. And if they are Named, they are winning." The screen shifted: CONDITION ZERO PROTOCOLS IN EFFECT, letters stark against black, unemotional. "Your directive is survival. Evade. Delay. Await deployment of [CLASSIFIED] assets." Another flicker.
"Additional notice," she added smoothly. "Should you be exposed to [CLASSIFIED] assets, your memories will be selectively adjusted. This is for your benefit." The words lingered a moment, cold and still, before clearing.
WHAT YOU DO NOT KNOW CANNOT BE EXTRACTED.
PAINFUL EXTRACTION REMAINS STATISTICALLY PROBABLE IN 97% OF CAPTURE SCENARIOS.
The screen now listed four confirmed entries, each name stark against the dark background:
— The Serpent of Eden, most recently operating as Wolfgang Kortzfleisch. Confirmed terminated, 1987.
— Caligula, last active as Mikhail Gorbachev; executed by Ozerov, 1993.
— Toma Torquemada, confirmed identity Slobodan Milošević; neutralized during Operation [CLASSIFIED], 1992.
— Fáfnir, referenced by the Serpent of Eden. Status unconfirmed. No verified activity since [DATA EXPUNGED].
"These entities are not routinely encountered," GLaDOS said, her tone unchanging. "Documented appearances are rare and consistently correlated with catastrophic destabilization events. No operative squads are cleared to engage a Named."
Andrew's gaze lingered on the second line. Caligula.
Nero had always spoken of him as a cautionary tale. Hope replaced by lunacy, he'd said. They had both suspected he'd been replaced. Now Andrew had confirmation. It was strange. Nero had died centuries ago, and yet Andrew was probably the only one left to mourn him.
Well—his, and Britannicus's.
The Master had taken Britannicus into the future, saving him from his historical death. That turned out to be a heart defect. Andrew wondered if he should try to find the boy—although by now, he was no longer a boy. But he hardly had the time or the resources. And if he found him… what would he even say?
The screen cleared. White text appeared, stark against black:
WARNING: CATEGORY MISIDENTIFICATION IS THE PRIMARY CAUSE OF OPERATIVE LOSS.
A pause.
"The Vril-ya shift identities as easily as humans change clothes. You cannot trust appearances. You cannot rely on instinct. Misclassification is common. Fatality rates are highest when operatives assume a Grunt… and encounter an Agent. Or worse."
Again text was replaced.
WEAPONS AND ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOLS
GLaDOS continued, her tone flat and unchanging. "Field encounters with Vril-ya require strict adherence to weapons policy. Casualties resulting from procedural deviations are statistically inevitable."
The screen shifted, displaying a rotating schematic of a Vril-Staff, annotated in Aperture's precise, utilitarian font. It resembled a long metal rod, smooth and seamless, tapering to an asymmetric, bladed formation at one end. Something like the letter V, if it had been designed by a sadist—spiked, jagged, wrong.
Andrew stared at it. This was new.
There had been no such weapons in Ancient Rome. Back then, the Vril-ya hadn't needed them. When your enemy carried swords and spears, a serpent's strength and speed were more than enough.
"These are the primary offensive and defensive tools of Vril-ya operatives," GLaDOS went on, as if none of this should be a surprise. "Reverse engineering remains non-viable due to Vril dependency."
The schematic rotated, zooming in on the serrated tip. Internal diagrams flickered briefly before vanishing.
"Field observations confirm three consistent applications," she continued.
— Defensive Field: Repels kinetic and metaphysical attacks.
— Thermal Discharge: Sustained plasma-based projectiles.
— Disruptive Harmonics: Induces neural dissonance. Highly effective against psychic assets.
Andrew's jaw clenched. Plasma weapons. Psychic disruptors. They hadn't needed any of that when they hunted men with gladii and slings.
"They are activated through native Vril-ya biomancy," GLaDOS said. "Not usable by human operatives without extensive modification."
Another pause. The diagram blinked out, replaced by cold text.
NO SIGNIFICANT STRUCTURAL VARIANCE HAS BEEN DETECTED BETWEEN RECOVERED UNITS. EFFECTIVENESS IS USER-DEPENDENT.
The image of a small chocolate bar appeared on screen—its clean geometric lines offset by Aperture's sterile labeling.
"Vril consumables," GLaDOS continued, her tone unchanged. "Typically disguised as chocolate confections. While this may appear arbitrary, it serves a precise function. Vril exposed to microbial life is rapidly degraded—consumed by even baseline organisms. Suspending Vril within a matrix of theobromine and polyphenol-rich cacao solids delays microbial uptake, maintaining bioavailability until digestion by a complex host organism."
Andrew exhaled slowly. He remembered the effect well. Wounds sealing mid-strike. Bones reknitting like they'd never broken. The way an enemy kept fighting long after they should have dropped. Back in Rome, it was blood and steel. Now it was science, and it still wasn't fair.
"Field consumption by human operatives is authorized under extreme circumstances only," GLaDOS went on. "Each dose recovered represents a finite resource—potentially the difference between life and death for another asset. Possibly a child. You are expected to exercise discretion."
The image blinked out.
The screen shifted again. Two new schematics appeared side by side: simplified, wireframe ammunition diagrams rotating slowly, labeled in Aperture's precise, utilitarian font.
"Anti-personnel munitions authorized for Vril-ya engagements," GLaDOS said, voice flat. "Two standard types."
The first schematic expanded.
WP-IR 89. White phosphorus. Infrared-guided. Its layers peeled back like an engineering manual: casing, chemical payload, ignition node.
"White phosphorus rounds. Sustained thermal exposure exceeds Vril-ya regenerative capacity. Standard issue for all field operatives."
A beat.
"Use on human targets constitutes a war crime under international law. Aperture operational policy designates all hostiles in engagement zones as Vril-ya unless confirmed otherwise."
The policy notice lingered. Stark white text on a field of black.
Andrew's jaw clenched. Neat. Efficient. Convenient.
But he couldn't say they were wrong. He'd seen it before—Vril-ya pretending to be innocent bystanders. Waiting. Letting humans get close. Close enough to scream.
"Legal clearance confirmed," GLaDOS added, clinical as a bone saw.
The second schematic expanded.
SR-X47. Disruptor rounds.
The inner core glowed faintly in the schematic, overlaid by mathematical resonance patterns.
"Resonant destabilization rounds. Effective against Vril-ya defensive fields. Recommended for suppressive fire and shield degradation."
The schematic dissolved into an animation.
Stick figures, line art simple. One labeled FIELD OPERATIVE. One labeled VRIL-YA, its head a cartoon snake.
The stick operative fired a stylized rifle. The first shots pinged harmlessly off an invisible dome around the snake figure. The disruptor rounds followed—buzzing lines that caused the dome to flicker, collapse.
The final stick bullet struck the snake figure. It exploded into two neat halves.
A smiling stick figure gave a thumbs-up.
Andrew stared. Fucking cartoons of all things. He took a deep breath. The flower smell made him relax.
"These rounds are not a guarantee," GLaDOS said. "Only a statistically significant advantage."
The screen went black. Then a final line appeared, white text cold and still.
ALL FIELD OPERATIVES ARE REMINDED: CASUALTIES RESULTING FROM PROTOCOL DEVIATION ARE CONSIDERED SELF-TERMINATION.
Andrew exhaled slowly. Different millennium. Same war.
The screen stayed dark for a moment longer, as if letting the weight of the warning settle. Then the faint hum of systems rebooting sounded, and a new set of data filled the air.
More diagrams. More procedures. More propaganda. Why Aperture's approach was right. Why Ozerov was wrong. Why even if he was succeeding, it was not worth the cost.
The screen didn't just tell him—it showed him.
Footage. Grainy, unsteady. Cities burning in cold daylight. Crowds forced to kneel. Mass executions in public squares. Clean, efficient purges. Streets cleared with military precision. Neighborhoods razed to ash because one Vril-ya was suspected to be nearby.
Andrew flinched despite himself. He had seen slaughter before—Rome had run on it—but there was something about this. The scale. The detachment. There was no triumph here. No desperate anger. Just cold inevitability. A machine that never stopped once it started.
Aperture's logo hovered in one corner of the screen, like a silent witness. Below it, a caption:
Ozerov's Doctrine: No Infiltrators. No Survivors.
A beat.
Then another caption, cleaner, softer:
Aperture Science: We Are Not Ozerov.
Andrew exhaled slowly. The message was clear. They were better than that. Cleaner. Smarter. More humane.
He wasn't sure he believed it.
Then came the real indoctrination. Less war, more paperwork.
Facility layout. Training rotations. Mess hall hours. Medical policies. Privileges and performance quotas. Code of conduct. It all blurred together, a slow crush of sterile efficiency and bureaucracy.
But the next section was different. Cover integration.
According to the files, Andrew was now an operative for the Virtual Orphans—a revolutionary group, depending on who you asked. To the media, they were insurgents. Radicals. Anti-elitist terrorists. Their mission statement was blunt: the world was broken, and only through the complete eradication of the rich and powerful could it be fixed.
No one needed to know their targets were aliens wearing human skin.
It was a cover that worked because it was plausible. Easy to sell. The Vril-ya had spent centuries replacing the rich, the connected, the influential. Aperture simply gave the world a story it already wanted to believe: a cadre of idealistic fanatics waging a brutal class war. The collateral damage? Tragic. Unfortunate. But inevitable. Just another revolution, on a planet that had seen too many.
A war fought in shadow, beneath the polite fiction of human-on-human violence.
The briefing detailed it all. How to manage the narrative. Which slogans to chant if cameras were rolling. How to craft a martyr if one of their own fell in public. When to leak a manifesto, and when to let the silence speak for them.
He kept watching.
An hour passed. Maybe two.
By the time the lights softened and the screen faded to Aperture's pale blue standby, the snacks and herbal mixture were gone. He hadn't even noticed eating them. He was tired, but his mind was steady. Clear.
Andrew stood slowly, stretching out of habit. He expected stiffness. There was none. Must be the chair.
"Orientation complete," GLaDOS said at last. "You are now statistically less likely to die screaming. Marginally."