AN: Okay, so I wasn't really going to write this: I'm just not very good at multi-chapter fics and I wasn't sure if I could really get it down the way I wanted it, but as I sat at my computer clacking away on my keyboard this is what came out. LOOK! A CHAPTER! With a working title.
So this goes back to a conversation on NQN's livestream where I brought up a story idea. Let's set Portal 2 in the 1800's! I didn't have anything fleshed out, but I had a general story percolating in my brain. It wasn't until super-nikoe suggested Wheatley as a chimney sweep that everything fell into place. Plus, if you haven't seen it yet, there is a picture by emuisemu of Wheatley as the chimney sweep and it almost made me die. I love it and it really pushed me to actually starting on this project.
Please forgive me for major exposition here. I was aiming to invoke a certain style which I may or may not have achieved.
Mutable Deeds
Chapter 1:
Johnson Manor was a proud and distinguished household. Or at least it had been when Mr. Johnson himself had resided there, but after his untimely death there was a great deal of confusion as to who the property belonged to and as the years passed with no discernible claim the once proud home fell into a state of disrepair.
Even now, though the house was certainly being lived in, it was still a spectacle of workman and scaffolding. And, had Chell ever had the pleasure of standing atop one of the small, rolling hills some ways from the once splendid manor, she would have been able to see in greater scope the extent of the repairs and the piecemeal look the building had adopted after so many attempts to set it right. Except that Chell wasn't allowed outside: that was the first rule of working at Johnson Manor, but it certainly wasn't the last. For Chell, who had resided there all her life, the rules were ingrained and she did her best to avoid the harsh punishments and reprimands of her employer. Her first month in its halls had been enough to teach her the way of things despite her stubborn nature. Though she had only been a child then the rules were fixed; her age having no bearing on their applicability.
She took a moment in her daily routine to press her palm against the warmth of one of the dining room windows. She had already been up for several hours and it was only now that the sun was rising; heating the pane and delivering with its warmth the promise of a beautiful summer day. The English countryside had seen too few of them of late and although Chell could never truly enjoy them, she spent what time she could pressed firmly against the attics slanted vents breathing in the fresh air of the fields beyond or standing as she was now; looking for anywhere the aching beauty of the outside could creep and spill into the eerie stillness of the building.
She awoke in the darkest hours of the morning along with the other servants of the household and with them made quick work of the morning chores. Lighting the fires, preparing her lady's table and delivering that same lady's first cup of the day was all achieved in a system as efficient as clockwork.
Chell was always agreeable with the other servants of the household; however, none stayed long enough for any close friendships or permanent bonds. In fact, other servants came and went so quickly it hardly seemed proper, but if there were any rumours or scandal concerning the place Chell was in no position to know of them. She hadn't any friends and, as stated before, she wasn't allowed outside. If these two unfortunate circumstances were not enough to isolate her there was a third which always sealed the deal on matters of relationships: her inability to speak. It was a discomfort in most society, even amongst the working classes, and so she was often ignored in favour of more tolerable company and the pleasant pursuit of conversation.
As the sun climbed a steady path into the sky she stood patiently beside the breakfast table awaiting the lady of the house.
The lady herself went by the name of Caroline Gladish; a slender woman whose sharp, yellow eyes could mock you from fifty paces. Though she was not terribly old (forty at the latest) her hair had prematurely grayed some years before leaving it a striking silver with no hint of its previous dark lustre. Her story was a sad one, though it was hard to have any sympathy for the sharp tongued woman. Miss Gladish was an American heiress who had married young and, after moving to England with her husband, had widowed a short time after. She had no sons or daughters and appeared to be in no mind to marry again. Chell could hardly believe the woman had married in the first seeing as her cruelty lent her features a soured look. The only portrait of her departed husband hung in the living room above the fireplace and in it the late Douglas Rattmann stood next to his severe though beautiful wife. From it one could easily tell that he had been in love.
Miss Gladish's fashion was as strict as her words and while conventional dresses demanded a certain amount of frivolity hers were always lacking in some key aesthetic that Chell could never exactly explain. Her dresses reflected her practicality along with the severity for which she was known. Overall, Miss Gladish was an unsettling woman, though Chell was used to her taunts and could for the most part ignore the barbs directed her way. Unfortunately, other servants were not so well equipped to handle the moods and penchants of her employer.
As per usual the woman herself appeared in the doorway, observing the scene before her in a way that implied that their work was sorely lacking; however, Chell had learned that it was what Miss Gladish didn't say that proved you were working well and the fact that she took her usual seat without comment was as good a start as if she had come in smiling and thanked them all graciously for their hard work.
Chell did as all servants do and stood aside, head down and hands folded. Some might have thought that Chell was content with the way of things as she never left to find some other employment, but had she the ability Chell would have left a very long time ago. She exhibited no symptoms of the imprisoned, but that's exactly what she was. Back before Chell had any true memories, her parents (Japanese immigrants who had lost everything in their gamble in their move to England) had begged upon the mercy of Mr. Rattman and sold her to him in the hopes of saving their daughter from the streets of London. Why he had accepted she had never understood, but he had and went on to include her as a part of the estate. She was as much owned by Miss Gladish as the shingles and the floorboards were. No one had questioned the legality of this, the issue having never been raised, but as Chell was not an English subject there was little she could do and few that would help her.
It was the decision of Miss Gladish that Chell should receive no wages for her work (You would not pay the piano for its song or the railings for their support) and though she was provided the basics for her living such as proper shoes and clothing she had no means to own the small things which would have made life infinitely more bearable. A copy of the paper when it was available, the small candies which the other maids had purchased from the travelling vendors that sometime wandered through, and the small pictures they stuffed beneath their mattresses and gazed upon for hours would have all went a long way in making life seem kind. Chell too had a picture stuffed beneath her mattress- one which had been left behind by a previous servant. It was a crinkled thing with fading ink; an illustration from one of the daily papers. The image was recognizable and tantalising: a piece of sweet and unbearably soft looking cake.
She spent more time gazing at it then she would care to admit.
The day continued on as usual from breakfast. There were sarcastic words, taunts and jibes. The new kitchen girl cried herself out in the water closet and Chell worked and cleaned, using the servant stairways tucked behind the walls; she went about life just as she always did and, she was sure, would forever do. She crept from room to room making as little noise as possible and moved about the place with a determination which other servants had described as unnatural.
All was going quite normal even when the sunny day gave way to a thunderstorm and the whole house shook with the force of its blows. Everything was exactly as it had been; the same for the last twenty years just as it would be for the next. Yes, it was all going so plain and ordinary right up until one singular and unpredictable event occurred that wasn't very normal at all.
In the late hours of the day, when the sun had already bid farewell, a shuddering crash sent the residents of Johnson Manor into an uproar.
From then on, nothing was ever the same again.
