1. you'll have to break me open to hear anything

"AHH! I, I-I-I think, uh, if I could offer just a bit of friendly advice here, suggestion really, proposal, could you, uh, could you maybe not do that again? Ever again? Because that last bit, don't know if you saw it, understandable if you didn't, but those last few jumps did, kind of, result in the floor there sort of collapsing—"

The catwalk shuddered with every step Chell took. Her boots echoed in the the pipes and wires that strung themselves through the panel-backs and rusting walls, a hollow, haunting sort of sound. It mixed poorly with Wheatley's agitated voice, banging up through his constant commas. Being agitated, she had discovered, made him talk even more, which in turn ratcheted up how simple she found it to tune him out. At this point, it was crashing into one ear and out the other as quickly as it came.

"—and anyway I'm wondering if you might, say, be able to slow down a bit? It's really sort of, ah, unnerving up here, without a rail, just, just kind of hovering in space really—"

Too bad for Wheatley. It was currently forward or nowhere, whether or not the floor was dropping out from under them with alarming frequency.

Chell didn't mind, really. The crash of shrieking, twisting metal and the resulting scrape and clatter as it fell into the yawning abyss all covered up the Sound.

All around her, the Facility hummed. It pulsed, droned—it made a noise all its own, a Sound, that got into her very marrow, inside her teeth. Like chewing tinfoil. Time had dulled it, yes, and exposure, and the intense, blackout tunnel vision that blinkered her to everything else when it was time to act. But it never completely faded away, and there was nothing else to listen to.

"—I'm only saying, you know, reminding you, that falling to our deaths is not quite what we're trying to accomplish here! Really counter-productive, actually!"

(Well, almost nothing.)

Chell rounded a corner, and a vivid thread of scarlet blinked across her vision before tightening its focus onto her forehead. In the grip of the portal gun, Wheatley yelped as she threw herself backwards, making the aging catwalk rattle ominously. She pressed herself against the railing, waiting, trying to force her heartrate down. The light kept staring past the corner, blinking gently. She couldn't remember—had she ever seen one blink before?

(The Facility vibrated gently under her, around her, leeching through the metal her hand was wrapped around and into her bones. She shifted her weight, heavily, letting the platform shudder and echo. Standing still made it worse.)

"Hello?" said a sweet, childish voice. Chell flinched at the familiar sound, an instinct by now. That was a lesson ground into her by the jagged, round scars on her legs and arms, by the clumsy makeshift stitches threaded through her sides time and again in the secret rooms. "Excuse me? Is anyone there?"

The Sound was getting louder the longer she stood still. It rushed in her ears. It pulled at her. Her legs twitched, desperate to move, run, escape it, find somewhere that dulled the horrible noise. Her eyes cut to Wheatley, and she found him silent, peering around the corner (as well as a sphere on the end of a gun could peer, anyway).

"I—I think it's safe, actually. Yes, yes, definitely, it's inside a tube. Brilliant, wonderful, perfect, all-clear—"

She had already started moving the moment he'd said safe, despite her better instincts on trusting Wheatley with anything. Ducking around the corner, she discovered he was actually right. The flickering red eye belonged to a turret sandwiched uncomfortably between a sorry-looking cube and half a panel, looking out at them from behind one of the glass tubes that ran the length of the catwalk and beyond. Chell didn't relax; there wasn't anywhere you really could relax, not here—but she did exhale, a little puff of air that could have been translated as relief.

"Hello," said the turret again, hopefully.

Wheatley hissed in discomfort, and through some small miracle his voice dropped. "Oh, grand. One of these. Don't make eye contact, whatever you do, keep going. Uh! Yes, hello! And good-bye! We've got places to be, sorry, can't stop, simply no time, hup-hup, that means go."

Chell had already started back down the catwalk. The turret made a high, unhappy noise which she was completely prepared to ignore, followed by:

"Wait! I'm different!"

Startled, Chell stopped. Wheatley squawked, sputtered like a bad engine, and revved right back into automatic.

"Uh, psst, don't know if you're aware, but you've, haha, you've actually stopped moving. Doing that thing with your legs. Forward motion, self-propelling, w—what's that word, wok? Walk? That's it, that's the one, you've stopped walking, which, I think, is maybe not the greatest idea, again, like the jumping—"

She took two steps backwards ("What're you doing?! Oh, now you're just being contrary!"), turning to to study the turret. It looked back at her with its blinking laser sight. "Hello," it said again, and added, "Thank you."

"—as I was saying then, just, just need you to turn around, get back putting one foot in front of the other, can't be too hard with those fancy things on your legs, right? Good look, that, in my own opinion, nice and functional—very efficient, I'm sure. Not, not that I know much about walking, haha, not my department really, just a bit—"

"I'm scared," the turret said, shifting its legs a few degrees. Rubble crumbled around it. "Take me with you…"

An unpleasant pang of empathy cut through her. It was like a flash of far-off lightning, more startling than anything else. It took her a moment to gather her wits back about her. Kinship with anything in this place wasn't exactly a familiar feeling.

The turret said nothing else, watching her, and Wheatley's voice had been overridden by the Sound. It was burrowing into her worse than ever, but as much as she wanted to turn and sprint down the walkway, rattle the railings til the clamor and vibrations drowned It out …

There was nothing she could do. She lay her hand on the glass, easily two inches thick, and shook her head.

The turret's beam flitted down to her hand, the red light dancing over her fingers. Then it seemed to sigh. "Oh," it said at last. "I see. Thank you anyway. Good-bye."

Its red optic flared, then dimmed until it faded entirely. Chell bit her tongue. She stood there a few more seconds, listening to Wheatley, until she realized he wasn't talking.

She looked down at the gun. Wheatley was looking back at her, somehow managing to come off as both anxious and concerned with his single glowing optic. His babble had trailed off.

"…Nothing to be done," he offered weakly. "Stuck, wasn't it? Better to ignore it."

The moment he said it the Sound roared back to life, front and center. It drowned out everything else, her own breathing, her own pulse. Her hand tightened against the glass, her ragged nails clawing into the smooth surface. Beneath her palm the turret lay still, trapped and helpless.

Seconds passed. The Sound did not change. She did. She felt her defenses rising again, the stark single-mindedness that kept her alive choking out the flickers of emotion that had pulled at her heart just a few minutes ago.

The Sound did not change, but for now she did not hear it.

With a motion as smooth, mechanical, and iron-plated as everything else she did, Chell turned and walked down the catwalk.

All around her, the Sound carried on.