He had been let go. He had gotten away just like the lady had. He was free.

The ground, he remembered, had been cold, strange, unknown, but he had been so happy to see it. Dirt, soft, musty, brown. It was amazing to him. He looked to the sky, the vast endless blue that was draped over the land, and began to cry. The surface...was beautiful.

Wheatley looked back on the memory fondly, it had been mere months but seemed like an eternity ago. He had been traumatized so badly by GLaDOS that every sound made him jump. He had been afraid to sleep. A rabbit running in the wheat had been enough to send Wheatley on a frenzied gallop, terrified for his life. The echoes of past pain caused him to fear. He was very afraid. Always.

Wheatley had found a town after two days of wandering, well they found him, he had been thirsty, emaciated, and exhausted. The town people had taken him in, fed him, set him up with a house and a job. A job he was good at. It made him monumentally happy to know he was good at something. He was a librarian, the town had been desperate for someone to fill the job, but none of the people were into books. A town of workers, Wheatley was a black sheep. The black sheep they needed.

After reading books upside down a few hundred times, he finally figured out how to read them. Turns out books had a lot to offer.

Wheatley had looked for the lady for a month. He drew many pictures of her, all based on his memories of her. Sometimes, when he had time, he'd sit and think about her. He missed her. But as time went on he realized that he'd never see her again. He lost all hope.

Depression's nasty claws grasped Wheatley firmly, dragging him into an abyss of self-loathing, fear, and regret. Regret that consumed him like wildfire, opening his wounds and making them sting.

The townsfolk thought he always had been like that, quiet, brooding, depressed. Wheatley wasn't who he used to be. He'd never be who he used to be. He was ruled by the emotions he had been gifted. Less like a gift, more like a curse. He had no friends, his life was simple and simply boring at that.

Everything reminded him of his prior pain. A word. A sound. A smell. Each was like a bullet in his heart, each an exploding fragment, a memory of her, or of his abuse, or of his greatest regrets. His mind would be reeled in, latching onto that hurtful thought like a fish to lure, and then... He'd panic.

Panic attacks were common. Everyone knew that he had them. But because he didn't ask for help, he was given none. Along with panic attacks, he suffered from extreme social anxiety, night terrors, paranoia, and likely PTSD. Because of this, he didn't come out much.

Wheatley was only seen going from home to work to home to work.

Wheatley remembered the golden grass that had lapped against the sides of him for days. The clouds that hung in the sky like cotton that had decided not to obey the laws of gravity.

He remembered those very same clouds opening up and letting loose a maelstrom of wind and water as the yellow grass bowed before it in a respect Wheatley hadn't understood. He had done it too, to learn their perspective and found that it felt so peaceful. He had given up then and smiled, he had laid down on the ground and waited for death to overtake him. He felt a soft hand on his cheek and yelling voices.

Wheatley cleared his mind of the memory. He navigated the massive library like a maze of books, quick, Surprisingly efficient, and quietly. He was very tall, with deep sky blue eyes. His hair looked like he had put his ginger hair in the wash with bleach. It was a slightly pastel pink-blonde color. Rose gold.

He tied his hair in a long braid with two bows. One at the base of the braid, and the other at the end holding it together. He didn't understand why men never wore them, he felt classy with them.

He wore a pair of circular glasses that he felt made him look smart, as well aided his poor vision. He was very near sighted. He also donned a pink sweater that one of the elderly ladies had knitted him when they came into the library. He loved that sweater. It made him feel loved. Love. Wheatley didn't get it. He heard everyone else use it so he did, but did he actually know it? He pushed people away out of fear and heartbreak, and in turn felt colder, colder.

Wheatley rounded a corner, ruffling a few magazines on a table at the end of the shelf. He stopped abruptly, his arm shooting out and hooking a book. He placed it under arm, before padding off back to his desk. The library was on the corner of two shopping streets, two blocks down from the florist's, and a mile from his home. It was nice, built of dark oaky wood, with wisteria growing outside. It looked friendly.

At the desk, a farm girl waited, Rosalie. She was roughly 16 but asking a woman her age (Wheatley had learned from books) was rude. He didn't understand WHY, but it certainly must have been important. He didn't want anybody to be mad at him.

He handed her the book silently, scanned her card and gave a weak wave. There was no mistaking the look of hopelessness in his eyes.

He had thought of the lady earlier. He always was especially down when he thought of her. He looked afright. Hair ruffled, dark circles under his eyes, pale, droopy eyelids, his bows were all crooked. He was a mess.

Rosalie, with her green eyes and red hair, looked like an angel, not a hair out of place. His polar opposite. She furrowed her brow. "...eh, wheats-" she began, leaning casually on the counter. "Wheatley." He corrected.

"Er - yeah- Wheatley, my -uh- family is having a get-together. A little party. Wanted to know if you wanted to come?" She smiled nervously.

"No thanks." He said in a flat voice. He sat down behind his desk and pulled out a book. He opened it and began to read. He didn't want to seem RUDE, but, it was far too frightening for him to even think about going out. He repeated his schedule every day strictly.

"-B-but Wheatley, it could be good for ya! Meet new people, make new friends, maybe you'd even find yourself a girlfrie-"

Wheatley sharply looked up. There were tears in the corners of his eyes. "I said no."

Emotions were hard for him to control. If he was upset, then you'd know.

Rosalie sighed. Wheatley was sensitive. Far too sensitive. She guessed something had happened to him before he came to CottonFall. Something had to have broken him like this. Nobody was just like this without cause. But what or who caused it? She shook her head, focusing.

There had to be a way to get him to come. Rosalie wasn't the type to give up. Especially on people she felt needed somebody to confide in. Poor Wheatley definitely needed somebody. Anybody. Giving up wasn't an option anyway, she was far too determined to give up.

That was one of the reasons why Wheatley stayed away from her. Simply because she reminded him of the lady. Too many bad memories fogged up his mind and he couldn't stand to be near her for too long. Not much had changed since he had betrayed the lady. He was still a moron. The lady was still gone. He was still a monster. SHE was still right about everything.

There wasn't a way out for him... Well, except for eating. Wheatley comfort ate sometimes, finding the flavors distracted him from his misery. A full stomach seemed to make up for an empty heart.

Now Wheatley wasn't by any means fat, but he certainly did have a bit of a belly on him. Even in his big sweater, it wasn't hard to tell that he'd been eating a bit too much for his own good. Nobody mentioned his weight to him but he knew they were thinking it. "Look how fat he is", "How repulsive," "MORON." Those thoughts echoed in his thoughts like a pack of angry dogs snarling their cruel words into weapons and piercing his gentle heart.

Nobody thought that though. Nobody really cared or noticed but Wheatley was convinced. This was what he had become. A monster. An ugly, unlovable, fat, moronic monster. It hurt.

Wheatley returned to his book, trying to shut off the outside world when Rosalie got an idea. She tapped his book. He growled. "What is it? I've just gotten into this book and I tell you I want to finish it before I leave!" He said in an upset tone. It wasn't quite angry, but it certainly wasn't a happy tone.

Rosalie planted her hands on her hips. "You're comin' to the party. It's at 7, an hour after you get off. It's at the farmhouse. Brush your hair, get something nice on and make sure you get there on time." She commanded.

"What? I just said I'm not going!"

"I just said you are." A fire erupted in her eyes, just like that determination in the lady's eyes. It scared Wheatley. It really did.

"B-but I have t-to organize m-my books- people never put them back in the same place and-" Wheatley stuttered. He was afraid, Rosalie's face seeming to shift into the lady's. Her jumpsuit, her bloodied cuts, and bruises, the portal gun fastened to her arm like a part of her. He shook his head and the hallucination was gone. "- And- and besides, I've got to get to bed early! I 'ave work!"

Rosalie smirked. She knew his weakness. "There'll be food."

Wheatley's eyes widened. His mind raced with thoughts of food. 'Maybe I could spend a little while there? What kind of foods does Rosalie's family even cook? How does it taste? Maybe I possibly could get a recipe? I mean, I've already cooked everything in the library cookbooks. It would certainly be a change of pace- Wait hold on! ' He snapped himself out of it rather quickly. He set down his book and folded his arms. He gave her an annoyed look. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing, Rosie." He pointed a finger at her accusingly. " I MAY like food, but I DON'T like people! Is that complicated? No! Not at all!"

"Oh come on! You never go anywhere!" She pouted.

"That's not true! I go home! I come here!" he motioned with his arms, trying to accent his emotion, a habit he had kept through his transfer from Personality construct to human. He'd always had to move then, and now was just the same.

"Exactly!" She nearly yelled. "You basically live here. You don't have friends. You don't get enough sun, you are so pale you look like a vampire! Plus, You're always so sad and nobody knows why! " Rosalie cared for Wheatley's well-being.

Everyone did, to be honest.

Wheatley was a sweetheart, he'd always been friendly, even to those who had been rude to him, namely the teenagers. Wheatley looked to be in his middle twenties, roughly around 25. A lot of people felt bad for him mostly because nobody knew his birthday, and consequently, didn't know when to give him a birthday present.

Wheatley became quiet. He looked downward. "If I go you'll leave me alone?"

"Wheatley- You need to-"

"I SAID If I go will you leave me alone?" He looked up at her. His eyes were pleading. Rosalie knew he was silently begging her not to make him hurt. What she wondered is how a social gathering would hurt him.

Rosalie clenched her teeth together, as well as her fist. She was getting annoyed. She drew in a deep breath and released it. Her shoulders fell.

"Fine."

She turned around and walked to the door. "-And Wheatley?"

"Yes?"

"Try to smile." With that, she left.

Wheatley slumped onto the counter and sighed. He didn't want to go be around people. He wanted to go home and read a book, make some dinner, then sleep. He wanted to forget all his worries, not be put in a situation where his worries manifested themselves in front of him.

Wheatley had many fears. He was afraid of the dark. He was afraid of the sounds he heard at night. He was afraid of storms. He was afraid of his nightmares. He was afraid of himself, afraid of people who would realize he is a moron and would hate him. He was afraid he'd die alone. He was afraid that people would find out what he had done and hate him. Or kill him. He'd rather them kill him than hate him. He was so afraid that he didn't let anything make him happy.

He felt tears well up in his eyes.

"Oh no, not again." He said, wiping his tears away. "Don't cry. Don't cry." He put his palms to his eyes. But he felt so helpless. He, at last, gave in, put his sign that said 'on break' on his desk and ran to the bathroom.

He crouched in the last stall and began to cry. Bawling like a baby crying for its mother, He truly couldn't help it. "I don't wanna go!" He said between sobs. He felt so weak. Like a child. "Why- can't she just leave me be? I'm not ready for people- and I don't think people are ready for me!" He hiccuped. He shook himself out of his tearful pity party. "Pull yourself together mate, you've got a job to do. " He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away his tears. He wiped his glasses as well.

" W-what if somebody needs book, eh? Then what! You'd be responsible for somebody missing out on a good book!" He breathed in and out deeply to calm himself down and walked out of the restroom. He tried to keep a stoic expression, like a big strong man.

Wheatley was tall and gangly, and despite the weight he had gained from his appetite and his depression, he had no muscle on his body. He was weak, overweight, and he was absolutely sure he wasn't attractive. The opposite of a strong man.

It would be just like Glados to put him in what normal humans would call the most unattractive body on the planet. Wheatley couldn't tell what attractive and unattractive was. To him every lady was pretty and all men looked ok. He didn't judge anyone on their appearance. He finally had learned not to be a complete jerk. Through pain and GLaDos's sense of humor degrading him. He, the dumbest moron who ever lived, had learned not to put himself first. Not to be a heartless bastard, to care about other's feelings.

Through pain, he realized, he became a better person. But that still didn't stop his heart from breaking at the remembrance of the pain he caused. He would sob for hours sometimes. Crying until he had no more energy, or till he fell asleep.

Wheatley had many breakdowns. Something would trigger him and off he'd go, to hide away and cry. Like a slapped dog, off he'd crawl to lick his wounds. Thankfully, nobody knew he was crying. He was quite sure if they knew they'd all laugh at him and tease him. Just like Aperture.

He remembered, in the days of old, that he used to be especially clumsy when people talked to him. He basically had the robot equivalent of ADHD and couldn't stay on task. Once people figured out they could distract him and make him lose sight of what was important that's just what they did.

They treated him like he was stupid. Like he was a useless piece of hardware. His processor worked perfectly fine, he assured them. His computing abilities were uncompared he had said. They replied with a cruel laugh and said, "Yeah, uncompared all right, nobody is as dumb as you!"

They laughed at him. He was lesser. Wheatley hated them for that. But a deep part of him felt like it was his fault. He had given them a reason to hurt him, right? Everything was his fault. All his fault.

Wheatley sat behind his desk again to pass the hours. He picked up his book and got lost in reading. Reading made him feel alive and more than anything happy. He never understood Machiavelli but he did enjoy "Little House on the Prairie", "Where the Red fern grows", and though he cried after reading some of them he found himself reading another, and another. His reading habits were similar to his eating habits. One just wasn't enough.

Sometimes Wheatley couldn't get through a book if it was too violent. As a robot, blood never spooked him. He saw it commonly in that hell known as Aperture. But as a human? He knew pretty damn well that the red stuff belongs on the inside of people.

Just the thought of blood was enough to fill him with dread, while the sight made him faint. Unfortunately, the townspeople had tried setting him up as a nurse before he was a librarian. He had reminded them he had no experience medically but the town leader, Mayamintes, who's gender was hard to determine, insisted he at least try. A scratch on a boy's leg was what triggered him. He had fainted on the spot.

Mayamintes then proceeded to try to fill him in many other positions, he had tried to be a mechanic, a pot maker, and even a hunter, all to no avail. Wheatley winced remembering the whole fiasco with him trying to shoot a deer. He hadn't had the heart to even hit it.

Wheatley leaned back in his chair, the seat creaking in protest. He relaxed as much as possible, people felt happier to approach someone who was relaxed versus somebody who they knew could be set off with a subtle tone change. He'd learned that in a book. But sometimes your tone could really upset him.

If he even thought you were angry with him he may cry. Sensitive was an understatement. Wheatley had always been a little 'sensitive' but after three years in space, 8 months in Aperture with GLaDOS slowly grating against his psyche and positive self-image, he was a little less than a train wreck. Chell had only spent a measly 4 hours testing with GLaDOS the first time, the second 2 hours, but Wheatley's eight months was the longest anyone had ever survived. And that was only because anytime Wheatley died GLaDOS would transfer his consciousness to a clone.

Wheatley was startled out of his book by the clock. 6:00. Wheatley frowned. He had an hour.