WHEATLEY

Wheatley was not having a good morning. He was already running late when Security decided he looked suspicious and pulled him out of the line. It didn't help that he'd forgotten his ID on the kitchen counter and that his supervisor wasn't answering the phone to confirm his identity.

"What do you think I'm trying to do, smuggle pens into the facility?" Wheatley demanded of the stone-faced guard running a metal wand up and down his body. "Usually it works the other way around, mate! Taking the pens home with you! Er… N-not that I've done that, of course."

The machine went "bleep" and the guard's face got stonier.

"Oh! That- that's probably just my, ah, my tie clip. Yes, I-I'm sure that's all it-"

"Step against the wall, please, sir," the guard told him.

"Yes, right, but see, it's just this clip-" Wheatley tried to pull it off to show him, but the hastily-made knot in his tie came undone, dragging the whole thing with it. "Em…"

"Against the wall now, sir." The guard's hand dropped to his hip, either going for the radio or the gun.

Wheatley didn't want to know which, so he stood against the wall, the tie draped over his hand in mute apology.

"Turn around and spread 'em," the guard said.

Wheatley hesitated. "S-Spread what?"

The guard spun him and pushed him towards the wall. Wheatley's arms sprung up of their own accord, bracing him, and the guard nudged his legs apart with a foot.

"Oi, now, wait, uh, wait- wait just a second here! This- this isn't going to hurt, is-"

The guard started patting him down. Wheatley twitched, giggling.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. Ahahaha. Won't happen again."

The second attempt was worse because he was expecting it. His arms curled in and he giggled again.

"Sir, this is your last warning."

"Right, right. It's just- haha! I- I'm not ticklish, of course, but, ah…"

The guard managed to pat all the way down to his waist until fingers probed a particular spot above his hips. Wheatley doubled over with a guffaw, his elbow shooting backwards… and connecting with something that went crunch.

After the yelling and the blood and apologies, Wheatley sat huddled in the little plastic chair in the room where he'd been told to wait until someone could deal with him. That had been at least an hour ago, but someone was bound to come along soon. Any minute now. Yup. Not much longer…

CRAIG

Craig liked the library at Aperture. It was big enough that he could find his own quiet corner to retreat to when he needed a break. No noxious boasts or babbling about space, no one-upmanship from other scientists trying to prove their projects were better, and no whispers questioning his perpetually single status. It was just books, dust, and the comforting background hum of a well-run facility.

Why did people care what others did- or didn't- get up to in their bedrooms, anyway? So what if he wasn't dating anyone. It didn't make him any less of a scientist. His data wasn't less relevant just because he didn't include an anecdote about how many of his coworkers he'd "conquered". He picked at the Tastykake he'd smuggled in and tried to concentrate on the book in front of him. He was supposed to be taking notes for a new project he was planning.

He heard something land on the desk by his hand but ignored it. Sometimes his colleagues though it was funny to throw things at each other as a way to prove how clever and mature they were. He wasn't falling for it.

The thing on the table went "plik plik" and poked his knuckle. He glanced up to see a bright red Northern Cardinal peck his knuckle again and go "plik" again. It- he, given the coloration- tilted its head and regarded Craig through a beady black eye.

"Plik."

"How'd you get in here?" He kept his voice soft. It was a rhetorical question, of course, and he could hazard a few guesses. It wouldn't be the first time birds and other small animals had made it into the facility. One time there'd even been a deer, although he was still convinced that had been the result of a drunken prank rather than the deer getting a sudden urge to do science.

"Did you know that many viral, bacterial, fungal, protozoal, and parasitic diseases can occur in wild birds?"

The cardinal's crest rose up and down and it hopped onto his finger. "Wurjih wurjih wurjih wurjih."

"Don't blame me," Craig said. "I'm just telling you what I read."

Moving carefully he broke off a corner of his Tastykake and dropped it onto the table. The bird examined it with one eye, then checked again with the other. It hopped its way across his hand, over the book he was reading (pausing to defecate on a "the"), and pecked at the crumbs.

"You shouldn't eat too much," he warned it, pinching off another small piece. "These contain food dyes, sugars, and preservatives that aren't good for humans or birds."

The cardinal ate it all, unconcerned about dietary restrictions. The thought made him smile.

"You're right. Why concern yourself with what others think? Do what makes you happy."

After checking to make sure there were no crumbs left, the cardinal cocked its head again to stare at Craig. It flicked its crest.

"Plik!"

It launched itself into the air and Craig turned to watch it fly out of the library and disappear into the corridors. When he looked at the table again he saw the bird had left behind a small red feather. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and picked it up. After a run through the sterilizer it might serve as a good reminder that the world wasn't defined through the eyes of other people. Tucking the feather in his lab coat, he got back to work. Revelations aside, there was still science to be done.

KEVIN

(This may have been veeeery slightly inspired by Rael's (Space Core's) portrayal of Boba Fett in the Star Wars burlesque stuff by Geekenders. Incidentally Stephen (Adventure Core) played Han Solo.)

Kevin liked to dance. The tricky part was finding a good time to do it. If Rick was around, it invariably led to a dance-off, but as fun as those could be (especially when Craig was forced into action, too) sometimes it was nice to simply obey your body's impulses without worrying if they were better than everyone else's. (His were always the best, of course, but since Rick was the judge, he always won).

Currently he was alone in the lab. It was well after hours and technically he could have left, himself, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. He had the 8-track tape player cranked, playing the soundtrack from Star Wars. He'd seen a show recently where the performers had acted out scenes from the movie using popular songs. It would have shocked anyone who knew him, but he'd really liked some of their moves and now was the perfect time to try out a few, himself.

He swaggered. He gyrated his hips. The lab coat was the first thing to come off, soon followed by the tie. He tried using Craig's whiteboard as a stand-in for another person, although it lacked a certain something. Finesse, maybe. He tried out a couple more moves, unbuttoning his shirt in the process. He spun to face the door, flinging the shirt off his shoulders, and posed.

"Space!"

A muffled sound yanked his attention to a figure standing in the doorway. It was Rick. He was holding the space whip (now marked with bright green tape) limply in one hand. Kevin pulled the shirt back on and rolled his shoulders, trying to act nonchalant. "Space dance?"

After another minute of staring, Rick shook his head and entered the room. "I don't even want to know," he said, skirting past him to the locker where he usually stored the whip. "I really really don't want to know."

Kevin started rebuttoning his shirt while Rick put the whip away and headed back towards the door.

"Uh, look, Kev." Rick turned, but avoided meeting his eye. "I'll, uh… I'll let you win this round, OK? Just… promise never to do this again. Got it?"

"Space. Millennium Falcon!"

"Yeah, uh… good. Glad that's cleared up." Rick turned and fled the lab.

Laughing, Kevin picked up where he'd left off. No way he was giving this up now!