Everyone had heard the millions of jokes about 'nuclear winter' on the radio, particularly from Radio New Vegas. If it was any consolation to them, the denizens that joked about this, so very far away and safe from it in Nevada, would never have to endure a nuclear winter. The unfortunate group of synths that holed up in a mountain valley somewhere in Michigan, however, did. Sure, there were no deathclaws when it got this cold, but half of the time, Her turrets pumped them full of lead before they could shoulder too far into the territory anyway. Raiders knew to keep away from the valley basin, Black Mesa Scrapyard couldn't make the climb over the mountaintops, and their hard-drives never over-heated, but they still couldn't bring themselves to actually enjoy the flurry white season.
It was the visibility that made Wheatley the grumpiest. So what if the optic itself was cracked? The least they could do would be to fix the glass inside or to turn off the video transmitter so it wouldn't give him an odd spider web crackle breaking up his vision. If he could root around in his own hand, he would. Well, maybe not, but for god's sake, it was annoying to see white cracks on one side of your head in the thick of a blizzard.
The snow beneath his feet crunched and collapsed as he trudged along the outskirts of the territory. Usually, he wouldn't head out on his own, but someone was already at his destination waiting for him, and this was the least dangerous time of year. His bat was slung over his shoulder, its electric crackle muffled by the harsh wind and snappy snow. He'd been given some new winter clothes, thankfully enough; even if he couldn't get cold, he didn't like it when snow got into the open side of his face and gunked up his gears by freezing overnight. It was thick black and white Kevlar; it did not occur to Wheatley on a conscious level that he was beginning to hate black and white together. It was all around their little cantonment, because everything had to be spotless.
God forbid a piece of stray dirt touches one of your computer terminals, lady. He'd been a lot more bitter a few years ago. He still didn't like the pressure that was put on everyone to keep the outdoors as shiny as a pre-war linoleum kitchen, but it was more routine now. At least it gave him something to focus on.
Wheatley crested a short hill and squinted with his good eye; in a cluster of blackened scrub, there was a flashing red light and faint movement. One of the turrets had its communication channel snapped that morning, much to the dismay of everyone in the communication hub at the camp. The pip-boy on his left wrist sung harmoniously, unfortunately to deaf ears. It was one of the few songs that the radio station had. The Aperture faction prided themselves on their ability to relay almost any radio signal and, in turn, eavesdrop on many other factions that were states and states away.
The radio-waves from New Vegas, other than the nuclear winter jokes, had proved to be a favorite of Rick, one of the synth scavengers; he was out picking the local vaults for ammunition and textiles with a few others. Wheatley's personal favorite was Diamond City radio and it's sister stations; he enjoyed the Silver Shroud radio show and some of the songs that Diamond City spat over from wherever Diamond City was. It was also a bit exciting to hear that a synth colony had also established itself in Maine; the Sole Survivor, whoever she was, had made a pilgrimage to Far harbor, where it was. Even Gladys liked Diamond City radio, and she hates the sound of anything that wasn't her own voice. His least favorite station was Galaxy News Radio; aside from the general association with space, which he didn't like in the slightest either, the host was atrocious, always howling into the microphone and saying the same headline for two weeks.
The radio, despite it's gentle buzz, was the last thing of Wheatley's mind at the moment. "Of course I have to wade through a fleeting blizzard; good old me with half of my face torn off. The least they could do is be honest about it! None of that 'you're the strongest, Wheatley, you could swing the head off of a yao guai, Wheatley'." he grumbled to himself, the synthetic equivalent of a headache budding in his forehead. If he'd thought about it, he probably would have realized that yakking to himself against the grain of the falling snow would likely quicken the thing that he was hoping would not happen.
He closed in on the turret and the mechanic who was already there, but neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor close proximity to another synth would stop his angered yammering. "Why send me? Why not someone with more skin left on their bodies that can cover their endoskeletons, or why not someone with two working eyes? God's sake."
If the person at the turret heard him speaking, they didn't make it known.
A few brittle twigs snapped beneath his boots as he blinked the snow out of his eyes, the melting flakes stinging and running down his cheeks. "Gonna have to get cleaned and clocked when I get back. 'Your feet are big enough not to sink when you hit the snow, Wheatley'- We are all wearing snow boots and we have lived in this damn basin for years, you can walk through some bloody snow!" He raised his voice a bit louder than he intended, and a rad-rabbit darted out from its place in the underbrush a few feet away.
When he heard the turret's aiming mechanism, he froze in place. "Who's there?"
I don't personally know if you've ever had an automaton point a gun at you while asking for identification, but it is one of the most heart-bottoming experiences one can ever encounter. It's similar to climbing a staircase and thinking that there's one more stair than there actually is, only the danger is being plugged full of bullets and dying without anyone knowing rather than stumbling and bruising your knee.
"Uh, I… It-it's model 54M, Wheatley." He managed to choke out, watching the little red iris contract in his direction. At least, that's what he thought it was doing.
"Oh, it's you." No doubt, it was Her voice. The idle and contemptuous tone was always present no matter who She spoke to, so he didn't pay it any heed. It was the voice itself that made him shake in his casing; rarely did She ever raise it, which he was thankful for, but the way it sounded anyway was enough to freeze a molten reactor.
Gladys, who had been fiddling around in the back panel of the turret, poked Her head out. She looked bored, as usual, Her mostly white Kevlar uniform and silvery hair blending with the flurried landscape about them. The one optic that was not currently obscured glowed a pale goldenrod, and then was gone as She jerked Her head; a signal for him to come over.
Eyeing the turret warily, Wheatley clutched his bat as he made his way over; with ever step past the hill, the snow had seemed to get deeper, sucking at his boots and sticking to his clothes. It seemed to blink at him in confusion, but the turret said no more once he was around its field of vision. Once he got behind the turret, he found that Gladys had scraped away the snow from around its base and put a minimalistic tool kit beside Herself. He twiddled with his fingers before deciding to just sit and wait for Her to tell him something; best not to interfere with Her while she was working.
Glancing into the back of the turret's case, even he could see the problem; a few of the wires had been iced over, and when the ice melted, they fried the controls on that side, which just so happened to be the side that housed the signal wires.
The radio had switched again, and now that he was sitting down and not complaining to the wilderness, he heard that it was one of the many songs about atom bombs. This one, like many of them, was an allegory for something a lot less radioactive but just as jarring. Wheatley's already clenched jaw tightened, and his broken eye sparked; it always did when he was nervous.
"Atom bomb baby, I love her so
Nothin' else like her anywhere ya go,
Man she's anything but calm,
A regular pint-sized atom bomb"
Even if She made no motion to indicate that She didn't like the song, Wheatley could still feel it as strongly as if She was staring him down. Much to his utter horror, he had jokingly called Her, what else, a 'regular pint-sized atom bomb' one day. Of course, that was a month or so ago and he had meant it in the least aggressive way possible, but if you were to cut a piece of cake a little too hard, Gladys would take it personally.
Having someone gesture toward you violently is already frightening, but having someone who is angry at you and known for holding grudges make any movement whatsoever at you is twice as scary. You can imagine how far back Wheatley jumped when Gladys casually clocked her arm back towards him quite suddenly.
When he sat back up and hurriedly brushed himself free of snow, he found that She had cocked her head at him, Her lips pursed and Her usual bored expression worn on Her face. The soft gold light of Her eyes filtered through the windblown strings of Her hair and pierced through him like a bit of molten steel. "The pip-boy."
Stunned, it took a moment to register, but eventually he got the gist. He stretched out his left arm and scooted a bit closer, not daring to look Her in the eye again.
Gladys went on with Her duties as though the machine She was operating was not attached to a synth powerhouse with the backbone of a gummy worm. Judging by the clicks and shuffles, She was shifting through the upgrade programs and his inventory, taking some stuff out, repairing the turret, all that jazz. Much to his surprise, She did not turn off the radio, or switch the station.
It took Her no time at all; She'd built the machines, he'd be surprised if it did. Once She was through, she rewired the turret and closed its back. Wheatley only pulled his hand back when Gladys pushed it away as She gathered up her tools and he awkwardly clambered up after Her. Sparing Her another glance, it was always a bit disconcerting how small She was compared to him. Then again, She had more than enough attitude to make up for Her lack of stature. Napoleon complex, you know. The synths had snickered to each other before, most of them now tossed to the scrappers.
As She began walking briskly away into the blizzard and back toward their camp without so much as a brief glance over Her shoulder, Wheatley picked up his bat and bolted after Her. Furrowing his brow, he was going to ask what exactly She had told him to come out here for, but found himself unable. He tried to open his jaw, only to realize that talking to yourself with half of your face gone let snow get inside of your jaw quite easily. A dull panic was beginning to nag at him as they walked through the snow, and hedging his bets was the last thing on his mind at the moment; he lunged forward with his left arm, radio blasting, and grabbed at Her shoulder. As if he'd touched a hot plate, he yanked it away and stepped back a bit, eye sparking away.
When Gladys turned around, he was greatly relieved that She did not look as though She was about to vaporize him. She raised one of Her eyebrows and stopped. "What?"
Wheatley made a noise that was usually reserved for more questionable activities and pointed at his mouth. He peeled back his lips and tried to pry his teeth apart, the ice on his jaw only creaking in response. Searching Her face for anything other than bemusement, he was at least a little bit surprised when She took out a rag from one of Her many pockets and walked toward him.
"Try breathing on it." She said slyly, and before Wheatley even had time to realize that it was a joke, started rubbing at the exposed hinge with the rag. He bent down a bit, finding it hard not to look Her in the eye with Her face so close to his. It was like watching a grizzly bear be afraid of the tiny-but-vicious owl that was picking at its teeth; in other words, absolutely ridiculous.
Had he been able to speak, Wheatley would have asked how exactly rubbing a dry rag against ice was going to break it off, but since he wasn't, he didn't. Much to his surprise, the ice was beginning to chip out; it was bouncing back down his throat and hitting his teeth as it did.
"Open up a bit." Gladys commanded; Wheatley gladly complied. It was a bit uncomfortable to have the rag be shoved through a hole in the side of his face and angled around to the inner jaw, but as it touched his tongue, he realized why it was melting the ice away; it was a salt rag. That must have been how she de-iced the turret's casing.
She drew her hand back and crossed Her arms over Her chest, one of her eyebrows raised. It always seemed to be stuck there, at least to Wheatley. "I never thought I'd say this," She mumbled to Herself, "But talk."
"Ain't that a kick in the head." It went along with the radio, and Wheatley didn't know what else to say. One it left his mouth, along with a few more ice shards, he slowly broke out into a grin and felt at the joint with his fingers.
Much to his surprise and delight, Gladys turned around quickly while She tucked away the salt rag into its designated pocket; he'd seen a smile. Just a little one, barely upturning the corners of Her mouth, but it was there. It was a rare sight, and sporadic at that, but it was always a welcome one.
"What'd you need me out here for anyway, love?" He chattered, the note in his voice remarkably more giddy than he meant it to be.
Gladys had begun trudging back toward their camp with Her free hand in Her pocket. "I wasn't sure if I'd need you to carry it back to the repair shop." She replied simply, Her voice almost musical in tone. It always was, though usually overshadowed by the strict attitude and piercing gold eyes.
"Oh!" Wheatley said, then faltered a bit as he tried to keep up. For someone who could be swallowed up by snow, She moved pretty fast. "Ah, well, I'm glad I could be of... little to no assistance."
She snorted softly, and for a moment he could have sworn that he saw her look back, but that could have been the snow. "I knew giving you that pip-boy would prove advantageous sooner or later. I just didn't expect it to be for repairing turrets."
"Better than nothing, eh?" He said, almost elbowing Her jovially but holding himself back. He didn't know why this had put a pep in his step, really, but it had. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Wheatley stealing the occasional sideways glance at her while the radio pumped on and on. Through the howling wind and shaking black trees, they spotted the camp and its many lights. If it weren't for the lights, it would have been lost to the white storm.
"You know you're the only synth I gave a pip-boy to, right?" Gladys said suddenly, this time actually turning to face him.
He nodded and grinned softly. "Yes! Uh, why? You don't need it, do you?" Suddenly, his mind went to the thousand different bad reasons that She would need such a device. "Did you get knocked around a bit and your reticle program's malfunctioning? Or maybe you just need to adjust your carry weight? Or-"
Gladys wasted no time in raising a gloved finger to Her own lips and waiting for his motor-mouth to quit. He got the picture and began to shuffle through the snow a bit quicker; if his face could get red, it would have been. She slyly followed behind, watching him hunch over like he always did when he got embarrassed. Even when he tried to make himself tiny, he would always be a hulking scratched-up synth with a barbed-wire baseball bat, but it was amusing to see him try.
She broke the silence, pleased with Herself. "I gave it to you because I trusted you with it. And seeing as how it isn't broken yet, it seemed my trust was at least placed half-way decently." And she kept walking.
Wheatley, not wanting to think about it but finding it creeping back into his mind, as well as a grin onto his face, followed her toward the cantonment.