Hey, guys! This is my first Portal fiction. Though I've organized it into chapters, since it's too long to be a oneshot, it's not going to be novel-length. So don't not read it because you think you're not (or I'm not) going to be able to finish it. Please review!

On the wall there hung a poster: a campaign poster, portraying a man with a neat brown suit and equally neat brown hair. He was pointing angrily at an invisible audience, his mouth wide in a roar, his eyes fiery with passion, charisma glowing in his face. His very image seemed to radiate authority. And to top it all off, there was, on the bottom of the poster, written his slogan: "Criminals Will Pay!" Nobody in their right mind, nobody, wouldn't vote for him. He was, after all, John Collins, the incumbent sheriff of Hill Town, and there wasn't a chance in the world anybody else would steal his position. He was a glorious figure; he had brought justice to Hill Town for twenty years, and this year would be no different. Criminals had paid, and criminals would pay.

On the opposite side of the room was a window of bulletproof glass, behind which stood Wheatley Collins, the most notorious inmate at Hill Town prison. A traitor to his father's legacy. A mark of shame on his community. His face was solemn as an Aperture executive leaned on the desk and spoke to him in her disappointingly matter-of-fact voice, a voice which quite dampened Wheatley's spirits. He had really hoped she would cower, or approach him hesitantly, or at least let her voice falter a little bit. Didn't she know she was dealing with the most hated and feared criminal in the town? He set his jaw harder, trying to increase his threatening image. But it was hopeless; his thin face and quirky little beard wouldn't allow it. And she kept talking, unfazed.

"I'm telling you, it's your only chance to get out of here. We're offering you an important position at Aperture Laboratories. You can't claim you don't want it."

"I want freedom," he replied. That sounded profound, right? Like a true Patrick Henry. Did Patrick Henry have an Aussie accent?

"I know you want freedom," she continued, her pretty features diminished by the formal bun in which she had tied her hair, hair which would have been lush and full but just looked annoyingly neat. "And that's what I'm trying to tell you. You can have it. All you need to do is accept."

Wheatley's world-wise cynicism was shooting out of his face like a laser. "And what will I be doing at this Laboratory of yours?"

"I can't tell you now; it's classified." Typical. "But it's really important, and it's better than a death sentence."

"Yeah? And how much better? And how important? Do I get sixty dollars? Am I gonna be testing with a bunch of losers? From park benches?"

"Again, I can't tell you. But it's more important than that. Trust me. It's pretty important."

Wheatley weighed his options. Death or importance, the latter of which probably meant shooting a portal gun at walls for the rest of his life. He had chosen importance, however unimportant importance might be, but he couldn't let it show. He couldn't give up this rebellious streak on which he had embarked. He cast a dark glance at the executive. "No," he said, tersely.

"Let me take this moment to remind you that the job we are offering you is very important."

"I said, 'No,'" he repeated.

"It's important."

"No."

"Do you know how important you could be?"

"No. I mean yes. Yes, I know exactly how important I could be, and trust me, I don't care about-"

"Do you know how unimportant you are right now?"

Wheatley scoffed. It was time to release the charisma he had inherited from his father. He stood tall and cleared his throat. It was the most valiant clear he had ever uttered. "Is your mark on society defined by your importance? Or is your importance defined by your mark on society? Is a man defined by the role he plays behind the walls of a prison, or are the walls of a prison defined by the roles of the men within them? On the day when Horatio will bar heaven's gates and take down the fire which he struck-hold on, let me think for a minute here. I can't do this while you're looking. Really turn away for a second, I have to think-and the light of the future will forever burn in, um, heaven-crap-"

"Look, Wheatley," she interrupted, quite rudely, "face it. You are an inmate. You are sentenced to death. You don't want to stay here. Just sign my paper and we can get out of here."

"But hear me out."

She sighed. "I've been hearing you babble on about-"

"Ah, yeah, that'll do it. And the light of the future will forever burn in Babylon!"

She stared at him silently. "Really? Babylon?"

"Yeah. Babylon. Got a problem?"

"Babylon was used for centuries in literature as an archetype of evil and corruption. If the light of the future will forever burn in Babylon, then I think that means we're all pretty much fucked."

"Exactly. That's why you should let me out of here without making me sign that paper of yours. Don't you want a little adventure? Don't you want to be the rebellious heroine for a day? I mean, come on, breaking me out can't be that hard, and it'll be a hell of a lot more satisfying than doing things the accepted way. If I am Hamlet, you're Ophelia."

"That doesn't make any sense. Have you even read Hamlet?"

He looked pensively at the ceiling. "It's my favorite book."

"It's a play."

"Right. It's my favorite play, which I bought at a bookstore, so it was a book when I read it."

"So are you going to sign?" she asked. Obviously she was just too hurried to have any decent conversation regarding literature. She probably hadn't read Hamlet herself. Wheatley had, and hadn't understood a word of it, but it was worth it because now he could tell people he had read Hamlet and they would look at him with admiration until he actually wanted to talk about it, at which point they would slowly start to back away and, about ten seconds into his spiel, turn and break into a run. This was because, Wheatley assumed, they were too ashamed to admit they hadn't actually read Hamlet.

Acknowledging the fact that this woman had no respect for this subtle exchange of intellect, this intricate crossing of motives, Wheatley reluctantly signed the paper and thrust it back at her. "Take this back to Babylon." He then turned and went to sulk pensively in his corner.

"That last comment almost made sense," she said. She waited for a reply, and when none came-Wheatley was over speaking with this product of a society too drunk on business to examine itself-she left out the door. In truth, she was surprised he signed the application at all.