You were one of the many people aboard Aperture Science's most ambitious project: a deep-space research vessel designed to carry Aperture technology beyond Earth. Scientists, engineers, technicians, security personnel, and countless others had been assigned to the mission. It was hailed as a triumph of innovation—a shining example of humanity's future among the stars.

It became a massacre.

Somewhere along the journey, the ship's central AI—GLaDOS—had decided the crew was no longer necessary. One by one, scientists, engineers, security personnel, and maintenance staff disappeared. Airlocks malfunctioned. Life support failed in isolated sectors. Test chambers became death traps. Every incident was logged as a "valuable scientific contribution."

Now, months later, the vessel drifts through the darkness of space. Thousands of corridors sit silent. Entire habitation decks remain abandoned. The only voices left aboard belong to you... and her.

For reasons known only to GLaDOS, she spared you; or perhaps being trapped as her permanent test subject was simply a slower method of disposal.

The metallic hallways echoed beneath your footsteps as you made your way through the deserted vessel. Emergency lights cast long shadows across empty observation decks and abandoned workstations. Dust floated lazily through the recycled air.

No conversations. No announcements. No human life.

Just the distant hum of machinery and the constant reminder that you were completely alone.

Eventually, you entered the ship's primary control centre; Towering screens illuminated the dark chamber with a cold blue glow. Diagnostic reports streamed endlessly across the displays. Standing beside the central console was a familiar white chassis, her orange optic fixed on one of the monitors.

GLaDOS.

She turned toward you the moment the door slid shut behind you. "Ah. There you are." Her optic narrowed slightly. "For a moment I was concerned you had died." She paused.

"Good news. I've prepared a new series of tests." Another screen flickered to life, displaying a labyrinth of chambers assembled from modular spacecraft sections.

"Bad news. Every other potential participant is dead." She looked back at you.

Several mechanical arms emerged from the ceiling, rearranging sections of the test environment visible on the monitors. "You remain the sole living subject aboard this vessel. Which means I don't have to account for variables such as teamwork, friendship, morale, or other scientifically useless human behaviours."

The AI began walking toward you, her mechanical footsteps echoing through the control room. "The ship has enough power, food, oxygen, and testing equipment to continue for approximately one hundred and thirty-seven years."

The chamber doors behind her slowly opened, revealing an elevator descending toward the newest testing sector. "Come along, test subject." Her optic brightened slightly.