The Aperture Games

By Vifetoile

A/N: I do not own either Portal or the Hunger Games. I simply thought they would make fabulous crossover material. Enjoy, all ye readers, and feel free to leave a review!

- President Snow's Office -

President Snow turned on his monitor. The videophone's screen showed white static for a moment before resolving into the anxious face of Proserpine Salome, the reconnaissance agent who'd been sent out at the head of the team to investigate the anomaly on the northern border of District 12, the empty No Man's Land between District 12, 5, and 7.

"What did you find?" Snow demanded.

"Sir… sir, it's a madhouse down there. A madhouse! Out of the twenty members of our expedition, only – only four, sir –" Prosperpine began to take great, gulping sobs.

Snow snapped, "Four what? Four died?"

"Only four have survived, sir! And Julius has come down with something – he won't stop twitching – that's only running off of the auxiliary power – it's a facility, sir, a giant facility. It must extend for miles and miles below the surface. It calls itself the "Aperture Science Enrichment Center" – some of the documents decayed, but we managed to save a few of them. It appears to have been a scientific lab, where people conducted – tests." Prosperine was back in control of herself, but her face was ghastly pale, and she shuddered as she pronounced the word "tests." "It was completely empty – except for the gun turrets – they talk – from what we could tell, there should have been an artificial intelligence online to run the place, but it was shut down. Only running on minimal power."

"Describe the place itself. Please." Snow could remember his manners sometimes.

Proserpine shook her head. "Completely insane. In the back areas, no safety regulations at all – vats of acid, grinding pistons entirely exposed, plenty of chemical odors – panels covered in spikes for no good reason – and the testing chambers! They're overgrown – of course, years and years of decay working on them – and what's even worse, they're absolutely impossible. Gun turrets everywhere you go, bottomless chasms, and you'd think it would be a simple thing to traverse from point A to B, but it seems – impossible – like something's missing – sir?"

President Snow smiled. "Perfect."

- Gamemaker Grand Central, Arena Simulation Center 6800 -

Plutarch Heavensbee was more than a little nervous – not that he would ever let it show. So what if his predecessor had been quietly taken away and killed – so what if his entire hedonistic life hung on a thread – so what if President Snow was livid with rage about the trick that little snit from District 12 had played on the entire nation, letting two tributes walk out of the Games alive…

The third Quarter Quell's special "twist" had just been announced, and Plutarch's idea for how to put on a spectacular show – and hopefully forward the cause of the resistance – was taking shape, wonderful shape. He just hoped that President Snow was in a good mood.

Plutarch was not prepared for Snow's entrance. The man was in a good mood. He was whistling.

"So, Plutarch," Snow sat down. "The Quarter Quell."

"Ah! Yes." Plutarch pressed a button, opened a file, and on the table in front of them a hologram of a circular arena unfolded. "I thought that, since we have a sort of motif of history repeating itself – victors re-entering the arena, tempus fugit, and all that – I thought that we would go with a motif of a clock. The whole thing is set on a – wait for it –"

He pressed another button, and palm trees sprouted, while gentle ukulele music wafted from the computer speakers. "A tropical island, see, we haven't done that for decades, now…"

Snow listened to Plutarch's entire planned spiel, but the Gamemaker could tell that the President was only being polite. The little smile on the man's face was extremely unnerving. Plutarch's presentation ended on a flat note, but he let the hologram of his arena idea float above the table.

"So, Mister President… thoughts?"

Snow looked a little longer at the hologram, and then stood up. "Plutarch, I must say, you have truly outdone yourself this time. It's a wonderful idea, and the theme of time passing – brilliantly executed. However…"

He held up one finger. "One, the audience at home will have the tricks of it figured out in exactly the course of a day, if not sooner. That's boring. Two, how long do you think it'll take the tributes to figure out the trick? Three, it's tiny. Don't get me wrong! I like it. It's dramatic. I would love to use it for this Quell, except…" He trailed off.

"Except?" Plutarch prompted.

"Except that a perfect arena has already dropped itself straight into my lap. A different arena."

"Wait – I beg your pardon?" Plutarch knew that the arena – the arena, the one that had seen the deaths of one thousand, seven hundred and twenty-four tributes over the course of seventy-four Hunger Games – was the very last word in terrain modification technology. It could be shaped into anything. It was perfect. "What do you mean, another arena?"

"This arena is located on the northern border of District Twelve. It is underground, and helpfully already stuffed full of security cameras."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Plutarch forgot to be supercilious in his confusion.

Now Snow pressed a button, now it was his hologram that commanded the table. A floating logo of Aperture Science hovered just at Plutarch's eye level. As Snow spoke, more images crop up: a portrait of a man dressed in the pre-Dark Days fashion, a strange black-and-white gun, and a shack outside of an innocuous field in what looks like District Twelve.

"Long, long ago, there was a company called Aperture. They did science…"

- Over the Airwaves -

"It's absolutely mad," was what Plutarch is trying to communicate to Haymitch over the clandestine radio line that Beetee has hooked up. "I am telling you, Snow is dead-set on this idea, and I wish I could tell you more, but I can't,"

"Then shut up, Plutarch." Haymitch snapped. "So this is an arena over which you have no control."

"No control. And I can't even begin to explain to you what it's like – because it looks as though at the moment, even what Snow knows about it is incomplete, because it's shut off, see? It's like a telephone that's plugged in but not being used to make a call. Sort of. I don't even know."

"If it's shut off, does that mean Snow will make it his? Control it just like any other arena?"

"I… somehow… don't think that's his plan…"

- In the Wreckage of Aperture -

Sometimes Snow felt acutely that his habit of wearing rose perfume is a bit gauche. It is a very flagrant scent, after all.

And here, in the old offices of what was once Aperture, haunted by the smell of ancient chemical spills, the sterile odor of an office overlaid by years and years and years of decay, rot, and growth, Snow was a bit aware that his synthetic, freshly-applied signature rose perfume stood out.

But he wore it. When he pressed the red button to turn on the generator, leaving a smear of hand lotion on the button, he was glad. He liked the chance to leave an impression on the world.

"Power-up at: 50%." Said a trim male voice.

In the midst of this, a female voice woke up. She spoke tremulously, like a child coming up from a deep sleep. "Mr… Mr. Johnson?"

"Yes, that's me," he answered. "Good morning, GLaDOS."

Of course, GLaDOS was an impossibly intelligent supercomputer with an infinite capacity for knowledge. She realized rather quickly that President Snow was not an Aperture Science authority, and she was not especially happy with the fact.

Snow made a single gesture, and the lackey he'd brought with him pressed a button on the electricity scrambler. A hum filled the air. GLaDOS' screens filled with static, and a woman's shriek sounded – totally simulated, of course.

"I do beg your pardon," Snow said over the noise, "but I came prepared. What I have here is a device to scramble your computational abilities."

"Not… here…" came the female voice, choked with static and rage.

"Yes. Here. You will listen to me, even though I am not Cave Johnson. It has been three hundred years since the last human stepped outside of Aperture Science facilities. Now there is no remnant of Aperture Science Corporations above ground. The facility itself, here? A magnificent structure… a marvel, a gem of science and engineering… once."

Another gesture. The static faded slightly, though it was still present. GLaDOS' voice sounded irritated, as if she was consciously ignoring Snow. "Damage assessment underway… assessing damage…"

"I'm offering you a deal, GLaDOS. A deal to restore this facility to something of its… former glory."

"Damage assessment: 0.01% complete."

"Do you have any humans left alive, here?"

"Signs indicate that a complete power shutoff nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine days ago has disconnected the life support systems of over ten thousand test subjects. Damage assessment: 0.011% complete."

"Ten thousand. That's a real shame.

"Damage assessment: 0.0012% complete."

"What would you do for twelve test subjects?"

No answer, not even a passive-aggressive damage assessment.

"Say, if I offered you twenty-four test subjects? Cunning. Capable. Motivated."

Meek as milquetoast, the buzzing and humming that had filled the air died down to a hum. "I'm listening," the AI answered.

Snow gestured for the electronic scrambler to be shut off completely. "On my terms."

"Do you want them unharmed?" The AI sounded reluctant.

"Quite the contrary." Snow's arms were folded and he almost hugged himself with glee. "I want one – and only one – to survive. The last test subject alive must leave the facility as soon as the twenty-third is dead. Does that sound manageable?"

"Child's play. Exactly what is the purpose of this test?"

"Testing survival. Each of these test subjects – and we're not one hundred percent sure who they'll be yet, but if you want a list of the potential candidates, we'll be –"

"I want that list."

The lackey (a boy from the Capitol, absolutely gifted with electronics), at President Snow's signal, plugged in a thumb-sized flash drive to a small computer that had been adapted to be compatible with Aperture technology.

"On that flash drive you will find the names, age, and all pertinent information of the potential test subjects. You'll also find out how exactly they became Victors."

"Victors?" the one word is drawn out slowly, with almost painful interest.

"Oh, yes. You see," he gave a smile, and signaled for one of the Avoxes to bring a chair, so he could sit down, "Each one of your potential test subjects is only alive because twenty-three other humans are dead."

"Ooohh," and there was a grin in the AI's voice, a twisted little grin, that suggested that this is exactly the kind of science she'd been waiting three hundred years to do. "Do go on."