Prompt 000: "Imagine Wheatley going to the beach and getting sand in his everything."
"I'm sorry, I really am, truly, but how can you enjoy this? I mean, seriously, it's everywhere! Absolutely everywhere! How am I supposed to get it off?"
Chell sighs and jerks her head toward the rolling waves. The ocean breathes and the water comes sweeping in, engulfing her toes in cloud-white foam.
Wheatley is not impressed. Skinny and pale and shoulders already starting blush with sunburn, he folds his lanky arms below his ribs and glares at the sea with a set jaw, defiant.
"No," he says. "No. No way. I am not going in there. Not happening. Zero chance. Zero. I'll be fine right here where there's no water, thanks."
She finds it hard to take his pouting seriously when he's covered in sand. He tripped over a bucket and landed face first on the beach. Even his glasses are coated in a thin, white film. His swim trunks look like they suffered a particularly severe sandstorm.
"How long are we going to be here again?" he asks. He's taken off his glasses and he's trying to wipe off the tiny grains with the inside leg of his shorts. "Because there are lots of other things we could be doing than sitting here. Like sightseeing! Plenty of sights to see. Plenty of them. We've already seen this one now, haven't we? Why not go see the others?"
Chell gets up, takes his glasses from his hands, and places them safely on her beach towel.
"Hey, hey, what's that for? I need those! Oi, what're you—"
Wheatley's being thrown, flailing, into the ocean.
She wades out behind him and she thinks she can hear him garbling, "Crazy lady what are you doing I could die out here," but he keeps dipping under the waves and water fills his mouth.
Chell takes his arm and pulls him to his feet. The waves crest at his bellybutton.
"Oh," says Wheatley. "Right. Well, guess I'm clean now. Solves that, then."
She cradles her face with her palm and silently laughs.