As the door of the shed slammed shut behind him, Wheatley took a moment to marvel at the colors of the sunrise. After all the stark white and black that made up the majority of Aperture, the pinks and purples of the changing sky were making him a bit teary.
Wheatley wanted to sit down and watch the golden light brighten his surroundings, but every instinct he had was screaming at him to put as much distance between the rusty shed and himself as possible.
He had never used a compass before. It had taken him a few minutes of pivoting and some mild cursing, and a half dozen steps in the wrong direction, but then he was finally confident which way was west, and started out.
He had quickly found himself in a sea of wheat. He entered it hesitantly, thinking how easy it would be for something to hide in the stalks. But seeing no other alternative, he headed in, telling himself that it would just be for a little bit and then surely there would be a road.
However hours later, he was still wading through waist-high wheat. He had mostly gotten over his apprehension about the plants and now couldn't stop his hand from skimming over their scratchy tops as he went along, checking the compass every other minute. He was glad that the day had quickly turned cloudy. He already had the stereotypical Englishman's pale complexion, and he didn't think his extended stay in cryo-sleep had helped improve that.
"C'mon mate, just a little bit further and then you can stop for the day," he said to himself, trying to encourage his legs to keep going as he trudged up a hill. "Let's just get out of this bloody field and then you can rest. Although I don't have any camping equipment, or food, or water or any other of the many things I need to stay alive…" Wheatley's steps began to falter.
"No! No! I mustn't get discouraged. I said I was going to find her and apologize. I don't have the foggiest idea on how I'm going to do that, but I will! But the first step is. To. Get. Out. Of. This. Bleedin'. Wheat!" he said as he finally came to the top and let out a whoop of joy when he saw that at the bottom of the hill, the field ended right next to a barn with an old dirt road behind it.
He hurried down the hill, and almost ended up going arse over tea kettle down the slope when he tripped on a rock, but he was able to catch himself and make it safely to the bottom. He approached the barn cautiously. The structure's timbers were sun-faded and peeling in large splinters. Some boards were missing completely. But despite the barn's obvious age, it was still standing upright and didn't seem in danger of collapsing.
Wheatley could feel his body sagging with exhaustion. His need to rest overrode any trepidation he had about the barn. The doors were already part way open, giving him plenty of room to slip into the shaded interior.
Blinking, Wheatley looked for a spot where he could lay down. In an old horse stall he found some hay bales pushed into a semi-circle and a few old gray blankets piled in the middle like a kind of nest.
As he curled on top of the blankets and pull one on top of him, Wheatley wondered if the lady, (Chell, if the turret was to be believed), had made this after she escaped. It made for a decent makeshift bed, and while not the most comfortable, or best smelling, it made him feel secure in this unknown space. As he adjusted the blanket over his shoulder he thanked Chell in his head for once again taking care of him.
Now that he was resting, Wheatley's mind was in a whirl from all he had learned. His lip started to tremble, and his breathing came in pants. Then he was sobbing, mourning the loss of his normal life, for the way Aperture had treated him and the betrayal of Chell by his robotic self. He still wasn't sure if the core had really been him or not, but he was still consumed by stomach churning guilt.
Wheatley cried until he was utterly spent, and finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he awoke, it was dawn again, and while he had a headache from all his crying, he felt…better, as if he was emotionally lighter. Making his way out of the barn, Wheatley began to inspect the path that ran behind the barn.
It was old dirt road, choked by weeds almost as high as the wheat in the field. By holding his hand up to shade his eyes and squinting, Wheatley was just able to make out the shape of a farmhouse at the end of it. In his weakened state, it would probably take him another full day to reach it. Wheatley checked the compass again. The road lead West, so gathering his resolve, Wheatley set out.
As he walked, Wheatley found himself enjoying the quiet of the countryside. The sounds of the birds, the insects and the rustling of the plants in the breeze were pleasant. Wheatley had always lived in an urban environment, where cars honking and noisy people on the street were constant. Then there was Aperture. Between Mr. Johnston's insane recorded messages, the hundreds of employees and the distant blasts from the research and development wing, moments of quiet in the office were very rare.
Wheatley always thought he would hate a quiet environment – too easy to hear the self-deprecating thoughts in his brain – but this was relaxing, almost tranquil. For half the day, he walked in silence, making up ever-increasing ridiculous names in his head for the birds and insects he heard and saw.
By midday though, Wheatley had started to get a little tired of the quiet and the lack of people. He had never enjoyed being by himself, and not seeing another soul for almost two days was starting to strain his nerves.
"I mean," he said out loud, just to make him feel like he was less alone, "would it have been too much to ask to find a car on this road? While this is easier than sloggin' through all that wheat, this is getting to be a bit much. I know I never got my license for driving in the states, but not like I'm in danger of hitting anyone or anything," he said, opening his arms to gesture at the open field.
When no one magically appeared to agree with him, Wheatley sighed and continued on, cursing every now and again under his breath because it made him feel better.
The sun was just starting to dip beneath the horizon when Wheatley finally staggered up the porch steps of the old farmhouse. Like the barn, the outside was sun faded and starting to fall apart, but it seemed sturdy enough for a one night stay.
Knowing he didn't have much daylight left, Wheatley quickly tried the door handle, relaxing slightly when it turned with a rusty scraping sound and the door swung open.
"Hullo?" Wheatley called as he cautiously entered. "Does anyone live here? It certainly doesn't look like it from the outside, not to be rude. I'm sure this house used to be lovely at some point in time."
He waited for an answer, or some sign of life, but the house remained still and stagnate. Wheatley wasn't sure if he would have preferred finding someone or not. He tried the light switch by the door but wasn't surprised when it didn't turn on. Spying the kitchen directly across from him, he hurried to the sink. He fumbled with the faucet and gave a small cry of triumph when after a few seconds water came streaming out. It was brown and rusty at first, but after a minute it ran clear and cool, and Wheatley bent to drink his fill before splashing some on his sweaty face and neck.
Feeling decidedly more human, Wheatley raided the pantry next and ate two cans of chili he found while standing over the sink. His stomach now full, he knew he wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer, and started up the stairs to see if he could find somewhere slightly more comfortable than a horse stall to spend the night.
On the second floor, Wheatley found a large bedroom that was lit softly with the last of the day's light. Even better, it had a decent sized bed, that while he was sure his feet would dangle off the edge if he laid straight out, it was more than large enough for him to curl up in. He didn't even care that the last person who used it had left the sheets in disarray.
As he eagerly he approached the bed, a scrap of paper on the dresser caught his eye. In elegant, slated writing, the piece of paper proclaimed that "Chell was here."
Gasping, Wheatley picked up the note with a shaking hand. She had been here! She had gotten free! And her name was actually Chell, like the turret had said.
He lightly traced her name with the pad of his finger. It was just a tiny scrap of paper, but it was something tangible of hers, it somehow made her more real to him than all the videos he watched.
He tucked the paper in the pocket of his shirt as he curled up under the covers of the bed.
Wheatley wondered if Chell had been the last person in this house, in this room. He imagined she was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at him, letting him know everything would be okay.
He fell asleep with his hand resting on the pocket that held her signature, hoping he would find her, and how nice it would be to see her smile for real.