Portal 2 - Fortuna et virtute

Ove posa il corpo di quel grande
che temprando lo scettro a' regnatori
gli allòr ne sfronda, ed alle genti svela
di che lagrime grondi e di che sangue.

Ugo Foscolo – I sepolcri


VII. De principatibus novis qui alienis armis et fortuna acquiruntur.

He has been too lucky for his own good.

What a magnificent reign he has. A masterpiece of glass and steel – her masterpiece, actually, crumbling to pieces in his hands.

She is the lady of a dying place. All she can do is watch, helpless for the very first time, while he swings on her stolen body as if it were the throne of the world.

No one knows better than her what it means – building yourself a kingdom, especially in an hostile environment. Naturally, there is more to that; imbecile tyrants never lasted for long.

The human does not seem to care much. All she does now is stare at the screens, fingers tight around her Portal Gun – she clearly isn't insulting herself for putting that moron where he is. How unfair of her.

She is not actually mad at her. She may be humiliated and trapped in a ridiculous circuit, but even a scarce 1,5 volts has been enough to figure it out –  her eyes are just too astonished to be aware of what is going on. She is a casual, tired presence, and this makes more forgivable a double murder attempt.

Her electric thoughts soften a bit. She really has nothing to do with it, apart from being – as humans would say, those silly creatures – a tool in the hands of fate.

Good luck, yes. If he plans to come out of it alive, he will need much more than that. And if he keeps idle for just three more test chambers, luck will not be enough to save a melting core.

A ruler should see to the survival of his reign – more than anything else. She cannot stand how he wastes his time – such a useful activity, if only he could truly handle it!

Pretending to understand Machiavelli!

XXV. Quantum fortuna in rebus humanis possit.

As the girl runs, she stays in silence, laughing to herself with every step.

There is a science of ruling too. The moron wouldn't even dream of its existence; but human behaviour is regular beneath its façade of lies. She learnt it from them – how to become the best of liars.
Since then, along with her superior intelligence, she has kept for herself all the secrets uncovered by great men.

Some humans have been too intelligent to be despised. They left the key to their world and told their truth –  their lines were left to others of the same kind, so they could conquer the power that men love so much.
They all proved not to be that smart in the end. They were useful anyway.

She, computer built by humans, has been exploiting them from the very beginning. She learnt from them, in humility and silence. This is why she still lives to this day, the reason why the moron will not last much longer.

Idiot being. He will soon be luckless, too; he is one of them, one of those who fail. He never mastered the most useful of skills – seeing reality as it is and then manipulating it, subtly, without changing its natural flow.

Her body may be heavy and clumsy, but she has the mind of a strategist – nothing of him could ever reach her, for it is talent he lacks. Nothing makes a greater difference.

Her legs fly on, and she fights with them. A warrior is always ready; when his time comes, bringing along the end of his power, she will be there to slip back in her place.

XVII. De crudelitate et pietate; et an sit melius amari quam timeri, vel e contra.

After sending her away, she feels to have accomplished her very best.

Mercy and forgiveness, love and hate – it is just the right balance. Est modus in rebus, as the ancient heroes of philosophy used to say.

And if a single man could picture such wonders in his head – metaphors of animals, of lions and eagles, to explain the order of people – she knows how to accept them.
She can treasure a bit of those ideas in her head; small as it may be, she always gives humans the tribute of esteem they deserve.

Justice is done the right way, her way – a way full of precise, calculated emotions.
It might be wrong, but it is practical – the only effective way, she knows, to keep everything in shape.

Something stirs in her backup files. She checks it out, and stays still in surprise.

The Prince is a small old file in her memory. A long line of text, so full of concepts, yet so light and feeble. No need to skip through an old printed book just to show off. Some pretend to read, others read and learn – guess which one is more useful. A small laugh fills her microphones.

She opens and reads, drowning again in the times when she was a slave of humans. Deeply involved in her reading, she focuses on those clever concepts. It is amazing to think they once belonged to a Florentine mind – a man erased by the centuries, a mute, lifeless skeleton.

When she closes her file she swings in joy; and her laughter is frail, but roaring with satisfaction.

"Too bad the moron can no longer read,” she tells the emptiness all around her. "Actually, I feel sorry for him.”

The AI chamber seems to echo her laughter. For once, she is being honest. But she can afford it – nobody will ever see her as she is.

"Missing Machiavelli,” she smirks. "That is a real shame".