(This chapter contains homophobic remarks, and sexual assault triggers. If either of these are an issue for you, you might want to skip the argument between Rick and Craig.)
"So, it was just that easy?"
"What?"
"Finding her? Making sure she was what you thought?"
"Nothing is that easy. This was Aperture Science, remember."
[February 2003]
Doug is jumpy; it's the first thing Evy notices when she runs into him in the halls one early February morning. He's also extraordinarily disheveled. His lab coat's wrinkled, his shirt is untucked, and she's fairly certain he hasn't combed his hair. He looks like a lunatic.
"Did you go home last night?" She asks, eyes worried.
Doug knows what she's really asking; he doesn't blame her. "Have the meds here, Ev. Have had'em here from day one."
She relaxes a little, allows herself to fuss with his hair and straighten his tie. "I can't believe you spent the night here."
He shrugs it off, soft lines and gentle movements. "Happens. You were here pretty late some nights last month."
She shakes her head. "It's different. I was here and so was every other engineer on the GLaDOS team."
"Hey," he starts, tease obvious in his voice. "I don't always work alone."
"You're as bad a liar as Wheat," she smiles.
"Or maybe you just know me too well."
She arches her eyebrows, trying to look mysterious, but when her gaze meets Doug's, she collapses into giggles.
Doug shakes his head, amused. "Come on, we might as well get going."
"Hm…?"
"They're testing the machine again, and I don't like the idea of collapsing onto concrete when I don't have to."
"Always such a ray of sunshine."
"Always."
Doug does not get to spend the activation test in his office. He very nearly spends it in the annex with the phone, uselessly attempting to dial the extension to the killswitch operator after being unceremoniously drafted for the job by Henry.
"Oh, come on, Doug. It's just one time."
"It only takes one fatal dose to kill you."
"Why are you so sure it won't work?"
"Because picoseconds are not a breakthrough."
"Sacrifices have to be made, Doug. Besides, wouldn't you hate to miss the first real true successful activation?"
"No."
"You're just saying that. Come down. We need a phone operator, and you're the quickest person I can grab."
"And if I don't?"
"I wouldn't."
Doug shakes off the memory, grateful he was able to pawn the job off on a late arrival. Now, he stands alone on the catwalks, watching the glass of the office cubicles.
A hundred yards over and sixty feet up, Wheat sits, trying to explain the deficit in his college experience to Evy.
"I just … never played it. I worked when I needed cash."
"Well, so did I," she responds. "But I wasn't above playing poker for a quick forty bucks."
"There's nothing wrong with it! I just -"
"You don't know how to play, do you?"
"No; I mean, I've been meaning to learn, but just. It hasn't happened yet."
The warning bells start early as the system powers up.
"Here we go …" Evy mutters.
"Deep breaths," Wheat reminds her. "Never know how long you'll have to hold it for."
She mutters something about a sick sense of humor, but scoots the chair she's commandeered from Doug's desk closer to him.
His hands find hers as the gas fills the room.
Outside, Doug stands in awe, watching a thousand glass windows fog green. He thinks he can see hands against the panes, but he can't be sure.
Then, the ventilation system kicks on and the gas recedes: spared from death once again.
Evy's grip hasn't loosened on Wheat's hands, which he takes to mean he's not clutching at a corpse. He can make out the sounds of her coughing over his own, reassuring in its own way. He reaches across to brush the hair back from her cheek, and finds his hand comes back wet. He brushes a thumb across the same patch, trying to convey with actions what words can't.
They've both been through GLaDOS activation tests before, at least five of them. While they invariably find each other in the aftermath, it's always surrounded by others. He's almost never the one to break the unspoken barrier of touch; it's not in his nature Then again, she's not the sort to clutch at anyone's hands.
"I think," she manages between coughs. "We deserve." More coughs. "Hazard pay."
Wheat squeezes her hands as his own coughing fit renews itself.
From his position on the floor of the hallway, Rick watches, smiling to himself.
Doug makes his way back to the office through the maintenance area, ascending and descending stairs and turning corners, almost in a stupor. He thought nothing could be worse than being trapped as the room flooded with the lethal green vapor; he realizes now that he was wrong, that his scope was laughably small and embarrassingly self-centered.
He knows people in the offices. He knows the families of people in the offices. His friends are in the offices. And every time the gas billows through the delivery system and into the concrete and glass cubes, they're sitting ducks. And he's just watched it happen. There are, he decides, in fact, far worse places to be than in the milieu of the neurotoxin.
The meeting that afternoon is surprisingly, disturbingly calm. No one with any authority seems at all perturbed by the utter failure of the core to buy them even an additional picosecond of time. No one seems at all bothered by the swirling rumors of the chef.
Evy's wrapped in Wheat's cardigan, whole body still shaking from the the occasional cough. She never handles colds well, let alone noxious gas; something about the chemicals her mother was exposed to while pregnant. Doug shoots her a worried look out of the corner of his eye. There's a fine line between a respiratory system impaired from birth and serious toxin-induced damage, but he's not quite sure where that line is. She simply flips him a thumbs up another coughing fit erupts, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
The project head rambles on, blathering about technicalities and funding, face scrunched into a mask of displeasure. It changes suddenly as he announces that he has something exciting to share. "Starting today, we are accepting volunteers to test our core transfer technology."
"Sir," Evy starts.
Panicked, Doug digs his elbow into Wheat's side. Wheat's look would be venomous, were it nor for the genuine fear in his friend's eyes. Instead, he leans over to Evy and whispers something in her ear that catches the words in her throat.
"Yes, Ms. … er, Miss?"
She swallows, shaken. "N-nevermind."
"Well, then. Moving on. We'll be taking volunteers beginning this afternoon. Sign ups will be posted outside my office."
Evy shudders, leaning back against the wall.
"Will we be comped?" Someone asks. "I mean, it could take us off the job for a day or two, at least in theory."
The director shakes his head. "I'm afraid not, hence, the process is completely voluntary."
"Is it safe?" Another voice queries.
"Science always has risks."
"Yeah, but is it safe?"
"We'll find out, won't we? In any case, engineers, we're going to need another core. I think we were all really pleased with your last effort, but we all agree you could do better. I'd like two new cores, more expressive than the one currently installed, by month's end."
Wheat eyes over the room, watching as the engineering team dons masks of panic and frustration. He hears someone mutter about all this and the lack of pay being enough to make working for the other guys look like a good plan. Doug is scribbling something down in a notebook; probably some coding reminder, Wheat thinks. Though, he does look a bit harried for that to be the thing.
Satisfied with his assessment, he turns to Evy. He can't tell if it's the light, the news or the neurotoxin, but she's somehow looks smaller, more fragile. He shoves it aside as a byproduct of winter and exhaustion, of the light playing dirty pool. Eventually though, he spits forth a diagnosis: overexposure to Aperture Science.
Forty-five minutes later, and they're gathered once again in Doug and Wheat's office, this time joined by Rick and Craig. Doug doesn't remember how Craig weaseled in, but makes a mental note to avoid a repeat occurrence at all costs. It's not that he can't work over chatter; rather, it's not that he can't work over external chatter, because god knows that's easier to ignore than his own fractured internal buzzing. No, it's not the noise, or the number of people they've crowded into their workspace, or even the sheer insanity that seems to be the accepted norm among the higher ups.
It's the shouting that really gets to him. And, of course, the shouting is an inevitable byproduct of Rick and Craig being within twenty feet of each other, so cramming them together in a fifteen-by-eight office is not really an optimal situation.
He doesn't remember how this fight started, but then again, he can never remember how any Rick-Craig showdown starts. All he does know is that all this shouting is making it increasingly hard to concentrate.
"Yeah, egghead, you keep telling' yourself that!" Rick bellows, face red. "Just keep saying' that!"
"I'm not about to shy from the truth because you can't process it!"
"Jesus, you two," Evy mutters from the couch.
"What is it about your truth I can't process?"
"You were a mistake; no one with your intellectual turpitude could have possibly been conceived as anything other than a mistake!"
"Intellectual turpitude?" Wheat mouths in Doug's direction. He's met with a shrug. Craig's needlessly wordy insults barely register after this many years.
"Yeah, and what makes you so sure your momma's so thrilled with you?"
"I don't go around assaulting women!"
Wheat's tea nearly comes out his nose. The clicking of Doug's keys comes to an abrupt halt. Evy's calculator slips out of her hand, onto the floor with a seemingly deafening thud.
"What did you just say?" Rick growls.
There are not many things truly secret at Aperture, only things that remain largely unspoken of. They've been unofficially relegated to the burn box of memory for any number of reasons: convenience, contempt, conscience, to name a few. Among those ghosts, those words that simmer but never come to a boil, the ones that so rarely find their way out, is the story of Rick's sister, the party, and the boy. It's a story that was mostly told through the papers, through tiny clippings about the court dates and the testimony, the lawyers and the verdict. The grapevine teemed with how Rick had stormed off, crossed the state until he'd ended up in Ann Arbor and how, when he'd gotten there, he'd had to spend hours promising his sister he'd kill the creep if he came near her again, but that he wouldn't have to do that if she'd take the stand.
It curiously hushed up what he'd done to the boy's brother, and the mysterious circumstances under which he was able to escape battery charges, but broadcast unfettered the message that Rick was not a man to be toyed with.
"I said I don't go around assaulting women."
Evy catches Wheat's eye over the top of Doug's head. Did he really just say that?
Wheat's eyes dart down to his own paperwork, then back up to meet hers. He did.
Doesn't he know? She cocks her head, eyes wide.
Wheat shoots her a look over the rim of his glasses.Doesn't everyone?
Rick steps forward, cold and calculating. The transformation's disturbing. Believing a braggart when he compares himself to a coiled spring is usually folly; not this time. Doug remains resolutely fixated on his computer screen, unwilling to bear witness to whatever's about to happen. He listens to Evy scramble to her feet, already expecting the need for an intervention, and the way Wheat follows suit. "You're gonna wanna take that back right now."
"Why? I don't. I don't go slumming around these halls, bragging to anyone who'll listen about my bedroom prowess, about the women who've slid between my sheets. I don't chase high heels and short skirts."
Rick steps forward again, so he's toe-to-toe and towering over Craig. "No, no, you don't," he purrs. "That's not what gets you hard is it, you sick fuck?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Craig retorts, voice at a monotone.
"Bullshit. I know where the hell you spend your time, and who the hell you spend it with. Tell me, how's it feel to be a cocksucker?"
"I don't. Know what. You're talking about."
"What's it like to be the one gettin' bent over a table like some sissy?"
Craig just stares up at the other man, unflinching. "At least I don't assault women."
Rick leans down to hiss something in the other man's ear, something not meant for public consumption. It's punctuated by a fist to the stomach from Craig, and before anyone can do anything, it's devolved into fisticuffs, with three panicked voices in the background, but no one willing to get in the middle.
It comes to a head with Rick on top of Craig, panting and furious, both bloody. Rick's lip is split open; Craig's eye is swollen shut. Neither seems as if they're about to back down. If anything, Rick seems determined to fracture Craig's jaw.
"Knock it off, you two!" Evy calls from across the room. "It's not going to help anything."
Wheat crosses behind Evy, over to the two men. He yanks Rick off with a surprisingly strong grip, giving Craig enough time to scoot out of the way and, sensing he's lost, pick himself up, and stagger out of the office.
Rick presses his tongue against his lip, and spends the rest of the day glowering. When Craig comes back an hour later, ice pack pressed firmly to his eye, however, the violence nearly erupts again.
"You," Craig spits. "You are going to pay for this,"
"What're you gonna do? Feel me up?"
Craig huffs, and for an instant, Doug worries that once again, someone's going to have to intervene. Instead, Craig turns on his heel, and walks out, ice pack never leaving his face.
The next day, Doug comes in to find Rick's chair knocked over, and his desk in disarray. Pencils and pens lay thrown out from their cup, rolling across the floor. Rick's jacket and lab coat are tossed a few feet off from the door. The dirty coffee cup left on his desk the night before bleeds its contents onto the floor below.
Rick doesn't come back that day.
"Where's Rick?" Evy asks the next day, after the desk's carnage has been mysteriously straightened.
Wheat shrugs. "Haven't seen him."
Three days after the fight, and Craig's back in the office, casually sitting at Rick's desk when Wheat comes back from lunch. There's a smug look plastered across his face, a stark contrast to the angry bruise circling his eye. He's uncharacteristically silent, simply watching as Wheat settles back into his desk.
Feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck, Wheat turns to face the other man. "You … you alright there, Craig?"
"Never better," replies the other man, and Wheat swears there's an almost inhuman quality to his voice.
"You, uh, worried about Rick comin' in, finding you there, doing … well, you know?"
"He won't be an issue."
"You sorted it out?"
"In a matter of speaking, justice was served."
"Justice."
"Yeah, justice."
"How'd you-"
"I helped further the cause of science."
Wheat's stomach contracts sharply as the realization sets in. He can feel the hair rising on his arms, and only hopes it doesn't show. He's always known there's been something off about Craig, and it's never been his life outside the office. "You signed him up to be cored?"
Craig licks his lips and grins, bearing his teeth like an animal. "Well, you've heard what Henry says."
"That's barbaric," Wheat retorts. "You know what happened to the chef. For godsakes, you were in the room!"
"Have you ever been beaten?" Craig asks, demeanor an icy calm. "I mean, really, truly beaten. Not a suckerpunch, not a left hook to the jaw, not a knee to the groin. I mean beaten? And beaten without a chance to even defend yourself?"
"Yes," Wheat grinds out, reluctant to let any detail slip, and suddenly on his guard.
"Then you should appreciate what I've done. Think of it as … as a symbol. Brains over brawn."
"Forcibly mucking about with the human brain isn't a symbol. It's bloody psychotic."
"See it your way, then. Either way, it happened. I made it happen. I win. And that's a fact."
Two days later, Craig goes missing.
It's a full week after the fight before Rick returns, the incision on his neck noticeable.
For the second time in as many months, Evy finds she has the unique ability to fluster her intern simply by walking in on him. This time, though, his space porn's nowhere to be found, replaced by pink hearts and glitter.
"Oh god," she groans. "It's that holiday-that-will-not-be-named, isn't it?"
Neil jumps, awkwardly trying to cover the papers with his hands. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's that holiday. Wait, why is it that holiday and not Valentine's Day?"
"Because if you don't talk about evil things, they don't happen."
"What's so evil about love?"
"Sweetie, what you call love was invented by ad men who needed to sell condoms. And greeting cards. And glitter."
"What about chocolate?"
"Believe me, Neil, the chocolate industry didn't need the boost."
"Still, what's so bad about Valentine's Day?"
"It's obnoxious, for one," she starts. "Do you realize how grating it it to watch people parade around, proclaiming 'look, I've found the perfect genetic match for my offspring' when really, they've just found someone who's good in bed? Do you realize how annoying it is to get pitying looks when you go near any sort of candy store, or restaurant, or lingerie store and have to inform people that, no, you're not looking for that special someone? Do you know how many bad Hallmark movies I've had to sit through on account of my grandmother and her fascination with this holiday?"
"…So, this is a bad time to ask if I can have off early this afternoon?"
Evy softens. "You've got a date?"
Neil nods, enthusiastic. "Yeah, and she's great. Really sweet. Big into space."
The eye roll is gentle, the amused tease of an older sister, rather than the caustic mockery of a jealous coworker, set off by the smile pulling at her lips. "Fine. Just … don't tell anyone, okay? And try to get out without making a fuss."
Neil grins at her. "Thanks! So, uh, what are your plans then? You're not going to work late, are you?"
Evy shakes her head. "I've got to run out with Dr. Wheatley, and before you start, it is inot/i a date. There will be no dinner, no dancing, no kissing, no things-that-come-after-kissing. None."
"Then … what is it?"
"You remember the baby shower invitation that came?"
"The one addressed to an 'Evelyn and James'?"
"Yeah. We decided since that we were invited as a single-unit, we only have to bring a single gift."
"And you're going shopping for it today?"
"So?"
"Don't you think … don't you think someone's going to mistake the two of you for a 'dinner, dancing, kissing, things-that-come-after-kissing' couple? And you as, you know, uh..."
"You're going to want to seriously reconsider the end of that sentence."
"Yes ma'am."
"Good boy."
A few minutes later, Neil starts again, joking tone gone from his voice. "Uh, boss, I did have a, uh, a question, though. Not about the optics, or anything. I mean, we're close enough to having the second one done and-"
"What is it?"
"Well, there are stories going around about …" His voice drops, barely above a whisper. "About people disappearing. There was a Party Associate who disappeared for a week, and someone on the Cog-Sci team who's still missing." Neil's eyes dart around, almost frantic. "They say he's dead."
"Look," Evy says, voice steely. "Whatever's going on, whatever you hear, ignore it. I'm not telling you it's not true, I'm not telling you things aren't going on. I'm telling you to keep your head down, and as far away from it as possible. Understand?"
Neil nods.
"Good."
Staring at his watch, Wheat wonders how Evy manages to be late for everything. He wonders if she puts effort forth, or it just comes naturally to her; he suspects it's the latter.
"Is this a developed talent, or in-born?" He shouts as she comes into earshot.
"Is what a talent?"
"This chronic tardiness of yours."
"Well," she calls back, smirk pulling at her lips. "Most of the time, it's all me. But you know, there are those few things that take two to tango."
Wheat shakes his head. "You, little Miss Bloody-Valentines-Day, you're really going to make those sorts of jokes today?"
"You're the one who decided today was the day to go shopping for a shower gift. I'm just preparing you for the barrage of misconceptions we're going to face."
"We're going to be fine. Absolutely fine. Don't know what you're on about."
"You say that now," she intones. "Operative word being 'now'."
"Trust me, Ev."
It is, of course, not fine. Wheat realizes this as soon as they step foot into the store and are immediately accosted by a saleswoman clad entirely in fuchsia.
"Can I help you two?" She asks, and Wheat swears her voice sounds as if it's been coated in rancid sweetener.
"Uh, yes," Evy starts, rummaging in her bag. "We're looking for … um … a 'Daniella' mobile from … uh … Cocalow?"
"Oh, you're furnishing a nest!" The woman coos. "I should have known. You both looked so nervous when you came in. It is pretty overwhelming. When are you due?"
Watching Evy's face flush, and her lips struggle to form words, Wheat realizes the job of correcting the woman falls to him. "Oh, it's a shower gift. She's, er, we're not … we're just friends."
"Mhmmmm," the woman nods. "Can't fool me, kids. I've been around the block one too many times. There's no shame. There'd be shame if you were getting anything less than the best for your baby, but - come along!"
Evy doesn't realize Wheat's arm around her back until her steers her down an aisle. She wonders how long it's been there, and how she failed to noticed. It's not unpleasant, and in the light of the woman's comments, surprisingly free of social discomfort.
"I look pregnant?" She hisses, trying to get Wheat's attention.
He shakes his head.
"I mean, I haven't put on any mysterious weight lately. Is something poking through my coat? Is my sweater too bulky? Have my years of desk jockeying robbed my spine of its once proud posture?"
"Probably, luv, but that's more about where you jockey than the actual act."
She clucks her tongue, and shakes her head, and tries not be too amazed by the sheer normalcy of the act. This has nothing to do with science or GLaDOS or long, narrow corridors. They're not a cognitive scientist and an electrical engineer; they're two people, two friends, buying a baby shower gift and joking about work.
Even as the woman pulls the box off the shelf and Wheat takes it and they walk towards the register to pay, Evy still can't wrap her head around the idea of doing something so normal. She tries, instead, to think of a normal life, and finds herself drawing mental pictures of houses with picket fences, and children, giant pancakes with ripe blueberries: all the things she'd sworn she'd never want, things she'd written off as cliche.
Not to say that they're any less cliche now. Oh, no, they still stink of old Hallmark cards and Norman Rockwell paintings. It's only that in the face of so many other things, those descriptors have somehow lost their atrocious air and picked up a strange sort of charm.
Briefly, Evy wonders if the exposure to the neurotoxin's done more damage than she realizes. Respiratory damage is one thing, but brain damage is another.
She shakes herself, trying to push the thoughts from her mind. That's not the path you picked, she tells herself. You knew the consequences. You can't change it, so there's no point in pining for what you'll never get. Besides, what would you do if you did leave? There's not a single place that would take an Aperture-filled resume, and let's get real here, you wouldn't cut it on welfare.
"You alright?" Wheat asks as they walk towards the door.
She nods. "Just a bit chilly."
Wheat drums his fingers against the table, watching as snow begins to fall outside of the diner's window. He's alone for the moment, Evy having run off to powder her nose. He's left facing the slush pile of wool and knits she left behind, and a menu printed on paper blithely adorned with hot pink hearts.
He had assured the old man at the hostess stand that they weren't a couple, but it had been futile: shoved off into a private corner, Wheat's certain he's in for the worst service of his life, and at the rate Evy's going, he's going to be in for it alone.
He shifts his gaze from the window to the menu, because it seems less pathetic than staring at his friend's overclothes. He notices the scarf neatly folded next to the coat is the one he'd bought her for Christmas last year, the one he'd found in Ann Arbor by chance a week before Thanksgiving when he'd been at the university for a conference.
The car ride had been lonely without her chatter, without her insistence upon music and conversation, without her bags gamely dumped in the trunk. At the time, he'd chalked it up to the simple fact that he had been expecting her. It wasn't until a few days before they were supposed to set off that she came down with the impressive flu that sent her home for a week.
He doesn't remember a thing from the conference, but he remembers every half-cogent conversation he had with her while he was away.
His gaze drops down into his coffee, steam still rising up.
Evy.
If Wheat's honest with himself - and he does try to be every now and then - it's probably a bit beyond a crush at this point. It was a crush when she was still the new kid, bright and eager eyed with two shining diplomas hanging from a cubicle wall and no idea of what she had gotten into. It was a crush when she'd first been assigned to his observation shift, and they'd spent the time trying to override the more deadly features of the chambers to help the subjects survive. That was years ago.
No, he's fairly certain it's progressed far past a crush at this point.
She's back before he can try to put a name to whatever it is, brushing her hands against the fabric of her jeans and sliding into the seat across from him. "Apparently we're a cute couple."
"I'm sorry?" Wheat sputters, caught off guard.
Evy nods, sipping her milkshake. "Mhmm. 'Cutest couple in the joint,' or so I was told."
Wheat realizes then that she's teasing him, letting him in on the ridiculous things she's heard. She's not read his mind, can't tell the thoughts he's had.
He almost kissed her once. At Christmas, a few years ago. Some cheeky bastard thought it would be a laugh to scatter Mistletoe around the building, always near the security cameras. Thanks to a momentarily lapse of judgement and memory, they'd gotten caught underneath a sprig of the damnable plant; thanks to a particularly cruel twist of fate, it had been at the holiday party.
Rick had been in the room; it had not been pleasant.
He doesn't remember why Evy was wearing a hat, only that she was wearing one, and that when she'd yanked him close by the collar of his shirt to kiss him on the cheek, she'd used it to cover both of their faces. It had spared them both something. It had spared him kissing her. It had spared noises and faces and conversations. It had been fine. That hadn't been the part he'd blown it.
No, that had come later, past the point where they should have gone home to their separate lives. He'd blown it when she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder and he'd brushed the hair off her cheek and she'd looked up at him, in a state that might charitably be called semi-conscious, and asked why they hadn't kissed. And he'd told her that they had, that he had her lipstick smudged on his cheek to prove it. And she'd told him it wasn't a proper kiss, that it was the kind of kiss you gave your cousin or your gran, that a proper kiss was the kind of thing that involved lips and hands. And it was dark and quiet and they were all alone and he could have kissed her.
But he'd swallowed hard and been grateful for the cover and brushed her off. He'd told her she was tired and was talking nonsense.
He's not a moron. He knows how that scene should have gone. He knows he buggered it. And he knows he's not likely to get another chance.
They've never talked about it. He doesn't intend to start now.
They spend dinner making fun of the salespeople as he tries not to notice how close her hand is to his.
Doug hears the story a few days later, first from Wheat and then again from Evy. It still hasn't lost its humor, and he chuckles even as he makes his way through the dark to his office. While he hesitates to characterize his progress through the facility as anything other than 'on-going,' he admits he's found a number of viable exit routes and more places to hide than he'd considered possible. He refuses to let down his guard, but he does take some comfort in knowing at least fifteen routes to the surface.
His vague quiet happiness evaporates the instant he realizes someone is already in his office, at his desk.
It's not Wheat, and it's not Rick. He's sure of that. Wheat left hours ago with Evy for the baby shower; Rick's left early every day. There's no one else who should have any reason to get in.
Then he spots the oversized orange coat, and his panic begins to subside: Chell.
She jumps when he comes in, obviously already on-edge.
"How'd you get in?" Doug asks, and can only hope his tone's more friendly than accusatory. His temporary panic's completely frazzled his ability to gauge between the two.
"Dad," she says. "Sorry."
Doug shakes his head, though whether it's an effort to reassure Chell or regain his composure remains unclear to them both. "You're here awfully late."
"He said he needed me. Something about science and the Glad lady."
"Did he tell you what?"
She shakes her head. "He took me to this room with this funny equipment and a weird chair with wires, and had me sit down there, and said something about me being too small. He seemed pretty upset about it."
Doug tries to ignore the chill building at the base of his spine, to resist the urge to shudder. "What kind of equipment?"
Chell shrugs. "There were computers. A lot of those. Big lights. And there were big things that dad said held gas. And a lot of things that looked sharp. He told me not to touch anything. And the chair was weird."
"Weird?"
"It was kind of like a dentist's chair, but … there were things to hold your hands. Dad wouldn't tell me why. They were there for your feet too. "
"Chell," Doug starts, swallowing hard. "Can you show me where it was?"
She nods.
"Tonight?"
More nodding.
"Now?"
"Okay. We just can't run into Dad. He told me not to leave your office."
It's Doug's turn to nod. "Let's go."
He follows her out the main door, down the hall, around a corner an into a narrow passageway. It dead ends at a gated stairwell, locked by a keypad.
"It's oh-one-fifty," she says, pointing at the pad.
Doug punches it in not bothering to wonder how Chell acquired the access code. The door swings forward with a buzz as the lock mechanism releases.
They mount a flight of grated stairs and wind through another corridor lit only by the eerie red glow of emergency lights. None of it exists on any schematic Doug's seen, not even the ones drawn up within the past six weeks.
Suddenly, there's another set of footsteps. Spying an alcove in the hall they've ended out in, Doug drags Chell towards it, hoping the dark will cover them.
Chell's silent, seeming to instinctively understand the danger they're in. Whoever's there with them, even if it's only a janitor, poses a threat.
"I just don't understand," the owner of the footsteps says."she should have fit. We designed it to be adjustable."
Doug realizes it's Henry, and that he's talking about Chell. The panic starts again, burning in his stomach. He doesn't fully know the repercussions for being caught here, but he suspects they're severe and not in the conventional sense of the word. He tries to keep calm, to keep his breathing even, if not for his sake, then Chell's.
"Well, yes, I understand she's small, but that doesn't excuse it. We should have designed it to accommodate a wider range of sizes … Yes, I know we designed it to accommodate those at height extremes for adults, but didn't someone see how that limited us?"
Chell draws back behind him, trying to disappear completely from view. Doug wishes he knew how to comfort her; he settles for trying to protect her from her father instead.
"I think you underestimate the population," Henry continues. "The men and women of Aperture understand that science demands sacrifice, sometimes even great personal sacrifice."
There's a lull; they listen as Henry paces, agitation echoing in his footsteps.
"Well, yes, recruitment has been slow. It's not a fast process; it doesn't mean people don't want to further science, and it doesn't mean they aren't willing to shed a little blood to do so."
Convinced they're about to be discovered, Doug drags Chell deeper into the alcove. Instead, Henry huffs and continue on, leaving the frightened scientist and tiny girl unharmed.
They dare to move again after a few minutes of silence. It's not far away now, just up another flight of stairs and down one last corridor before they dead end in front of a room unique any Doug's ever seen in the facility.
"Here," Chell says, pointing towards the door.
Gingerly, Doug presses against the handle, and finding it unlocked, steps in.
It reeks of antiseptic and cleaning solutions, the former an uncommon smell for the infimary-less facility. There's a mass of wires almost a foot across taped down around most of the room's perimeter with one end leading into the headrest of a chair at the room's center.
It's like Chell described it, a dentist's char with restraints - psychiatric restraints, Doug notes. There's a hole in the headrest covered by a black foam cap emblazoned with the Aperture logo. There are gas tanks too, and more computers than he's use to seeing in a space of this size. Turning around, he nearly sends an IV stand clattering to the ground.
"Spooky," Chell says. Doug nods in agreement, distracted by a blinking screen on one of the computers.
Crossing the room to examine it further, he can't help but notice the odd paraphernalia scattered across the room's surfaces: mouth guards, tongue depressors, gauze, sutures, and syringes.
The message on screen turns out to be a save request for a file type Doug can't recognize, something called GLF. He makes a note to ask Wheat what he's heard, but doesn't disrupt the machine.
"Big lights," Chell points out. "They don't look like the ones in your office at all."
Doug's gaze travels upward, eager to see what's merited such a comment. He realizes almost immediately what's piqued her interest: the room's lighting consists not of long standard fluorescent tubes, but of operating room lights. To say it's incongruous is an understatement.
"Chell," Doug begins, suddenly disturbed as the hair rises on the back of his neck. "I think we should get out of here."
She nods, eyes darting around.
"Come on," he says, ushering her out. "Let's go."
Doug wants to make it clear that he does not run. He wants to make it clear to himself, clear to the voices that occasionally ricochet across his mind, and clear to Chell. He doesn't know what's he's found, but he's fairly certain it's something he wasn't mean to. He needs a clear head, not only for his sake, but Chell's.
Once back in the office, Chell scrambles onto the couch, grey eyes following Doug as he frets, paces, and turns on the lights. She knows something is wrong; she can see it. She can sense it. She's known for a while now, since Dad first started talking bout the Glad-lady, since the stories about the chef started. But now... now she understands it's bigger than she'd thought. This isn't something from the pages of the books she's read, or a scene from the movies she's watched. This is bad, bad the way hospitals and police officers are bad, bad the way the lady from the state banging at the door is bad. This is bad in the way that even the grown ups are afraid of, because this is bad in a way they can't stop.
"What do we do?" She asks.
"I don't know, Chell. But we'll figure it out."
"Psych restraints?" Evy asks the next morning. "Why psych restraints? Are you sure?"
Doug nods. "They were the real deal. That much I could tell."
Evy sighs, furrowing her brow. "But why? What could they possibly need psych restraints for?"
"I don't want to consider it, Ev."
Rick stalks in, swagger still a distant memory. "What ain't we considering'?"
"Why there's a room around here with psychiatric restraints and surgical lights," Evy says. "Henry brought Chell there last night apparently."
He stops dead, turning to face Evy. "You kiddin' me?"
She shakes her head.
"This world's got a lotta sickos," he groans.
She quirks an eyebrow at him. "You know something?"
He shakes his head. "Forget it, angel. Better if you pretend not to hear it."
Doug stands, looking at his watch. "I'll be back in a while."
Evy nods, half-listening. "Have fun."
He leaves; she stays.
It's a position she's only recently become acquainted with; she'd spent so long afraid of and then irked by Rick that being alone with him still carries a foreignness absent from most of her other interactions. She doesn't know how to start this conversation, or if she even can.
A few years ago, it would have been impossible. Fresh out of grad school, she still lacked the sense to tell a real predator from a run of the mill boor. She'd found ways not to be alone with him, made sure Doug or Wheat or someone was there. It was how she had gotten so close to them; they'd sheltered her when she'd hid.
Eventually, she'd found her footing, come to understand that he was all words and no hands. She'd learned to parry his advances and cut him off before the steam could build. In short, she grew up.
Then, his sister was attacked. Evy can't say she was comforted by the story - a rape occurred - but she'd be lying if she denied that Rick's reaction didn't somehow reassure her that the big, brutish tech wasn't actually a threat. It removed the final remnants of what had so unsettled her initially. While she still wouldn't go so far as to label them a friends these days, she's at least learned how to handle him.
"Rick."
"Angel."
"What do you know about that room?"
"Enough to fill your pretty little head with nightmares."
She sighs again. This is going to take more time than she'd hoped.
"Rick, really, what do you know?"
"I wasn't kiddin'; enough to fill your head with nightmares."
"But why would Henry have brought Chell there?"
"I don't wanna think about that. She's a little girl. He ain't got any business taken' that from her."
The words hang in the air for an instant before Evy even begins to dissect them. She squirms, panic beginning to eat at her stomach.
"Rick, what goes on in that room?"
"Ole Craig could give you a better answer."
"Rick."
It's his turn to sigh. He's rarely at a loss for words, even less often around women. He knows Evy's not some fragile porcelain doll, not some little thing to be protected, and that answering her question shouldn't be all that difficult. But telling the truth means acknowledging what happened and he's not sure he's ready to come to terms with that.
There's a level of invasion he can field; he works at Aperture science, doesn't he? He can deal with being a little prodded and poked. He's learned to filter out living like a rat in a cage under constant observation. At the end of the day, he sheds his lab coat like a second skin and leaves the gloom and unpleasantness of Aperture far behind. He can block out what happened, keep it in the prison of nightmares and dreamscapes. If he tells Evy, if he gives it body in this world, he's not sure he'll be able to force it back where it belongs.
But now there's a kid involved and that means Evy, with all her smothered motherly instincts, isn't about to drop it. And, if Rick is honest, shouldn't drop it.
"Sit your ass down, angel. I don't what Egghead and Dougie getting' all a flutter if you faint."
Evy wrinkles her face in displeasure, but doesn't come back at him. Instead, she perches gingerly on the edge of Doug's desk. "Alright, I'm settled."
Rick lets out a long, slow breath and wishes for a cigarette. He hates this. he hates that he has to tell anyone. He hates that, if he doesn't, the kid's in danger. He hates that he can't smoke in this damn pit in the earth.
"I can't tell you the specifics. That ain't my field. Ole Craig gave me some sorta sick overview as they were strappin' me into that chair, but I was a little preoccupied."
"You didn't fight him?"
"I couldn't move a damn finger, so fightin' was outta the question."
"Oh."
"He said something about contributing to science, and makin' sacrifices. Then there was this big rush of pain and everything went black. I don't remember a rotten thing until they tossed me out onto the catwalks all bloody. Gash the size of Nebraska on my beck. Still ain't healed all the way."
He watches as she rubs at her arm, goosebumps springing up.
"Why the restraints then? I mean, if you couldn't move."
"Didn't last. Soon as they started on whatever they were doin', it wore off fast."
She grimaces, rubbing now at the back of her neck. He can tell she's at a loss for words, not that he can blame her. What the hell is she supposed to say to all of that?
"Just be careful with whatever you're doing, angelface. You don't know what you're meddlin' in."
At lunch, Evy sits alone at her desk, typing and re-typing a report. Rick's description hasn't left her mind for more than a minute; vague as it was, it's enough to tell her that Chell's in even more trouble than any of them could have realized.
They're also virtually powerless to save her.
She's accustomed to being powerless. Really, she is. She's used to accepting fate; what else is she supposed to do? There's very little she's ever had any sway or control over, and that's the way it always will be. She had no say in college, no say in grad school, no say in a job. And it's fine.
But those were all things that only affected her, and all things she knew and accepted square on because it was better than wasting her life away. Chell's situation is different. She didn't choose this trap, and that's exactly what it is.
"Evy?" Someone asks.
She turns, jolted back to reality.
It's Doug, one of the few who understands how easy it can be to mistake the greater evils for the lesser ones.
"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She stands up and shakes her head, motions for him to follow her. He needs to hear this, but she can't tell him with the cameras and the microphones so close by. He follows without question, seeming to understand the discretion required.
They walk without words and ride the nearest elevator up to ground level, step out into the February chill, and make a dash for Evy's car. It's probably the most poorly executed plan she's carried out in some time, but it at least guarantees their privacy.
Doug doesn't need to ask if this errand has a purpose. If Evy's dragged them all the way here, she knows something.
"The room," Evy starts. "Rick couldn't tell me a lot, but apparently Craig gave him a lot of babble about sacrifice as they were strapping him in. He couldn't fight back because he was drugged. He didn't know what they were doing, but it was painful and it was invasive."
Doug frowns. This is bad; not any worse than he suspected, because that's nearly impossible, but still very bad. "So what do we do?"
She shrugs. "I don't know, but we have to do something. We can't just leave her alone with that lunatic father."
"We can't exactly do anything about that, Ev. There's no abuse, no neglect. We can't actually report something like this to anyone. No one would believe it. And kidnapping is still a crime."
"Could we pay him off?"
"That's called human trafficking, and it's even more illegal."
"Only if it gets reported."
"Evy."
"What? He wouldn't!"
"Her mother might."
"She's practically an absent parent!"
"There's a pretty large gap between being a distant parent and not noticing your child is gone."
"We can't just … just sit here and let him do as he pleases."
"Ev."
"I mean, yes, legally we have to, but morally, we can't."
"Ev."
"It's wrong. Plain and simple and clear cut. And if something happens to her, it's on our heads. Because we knew. We know. And-"
"Evelyn."
She stops, finally realizing the degree to which she's degraded into pointless rambling.
"We will figure out what to do. I don't know what, but something," Doug says. "We just need time to figure it out."
On the last Thursday of the month, the GLaDOS team once again files into one of Aperture's cramped conference rooms. One of the monitors is hooked into CCTV footage streaming from the hulking AI's chamber. Two easels stand at the front of the room, both by cloths.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the project director begins. "This has been an incredible month for Aperture and for science. We have pushed the boundaries and found tremendous success on the frontier. Today," he pauses. "Today, I present to you the two latest advances in Aperture AI technology."
With a flourish, he pulls back one cloth, then the other, revealing two poster-sized diagrams of the cores.
"The Fact and Adventure cores!"
The room applauds, though more from a fear of reprisal than a sense of accomplishment, It's a fact that seems to escape the project head.
"Now, to address some administrative business. Volunteer rates are still sub-par. We'll need to reconsider our process. Additionally, Craig has taken an extended leave of absence. His help will be dearly missed as we soldier on, but soldier we will."
From the corner, Evy raises her hand, a gesture quickly corrected by Wheat.
"I want to know why he took that leave," Evy hisses.
"I'll tell you later."
"How do you know?"
"I'll tell you later."
"Wheat, I mean it."
"Ev, I'll tell you later."
"What are you-"
"Ev."
"Yes, Ms. …uh, Miss?" The director asks.
Wheat squeezes her wrist, silently asking for her trust.
"Oh, sorry!" She blushes. "Just a badly timed stretch. A bit tense, you know. From all the excitement," she quickly tacks on.
"No, no, it's quite alright," the direct assures her. "Everyone handles this differently."
To her side, Wheat exhales, relieved. He's lost a good deal; he's not about to lose Evy too, even if she isn't quite his to lose.
"Continuing on," the director begins. "We will celebrate this month's success with another activation test. To success!" He shouts as the sirens begin.
Doug watches the color drain from Evy's face, watches the way her shoulders shudder up and down with every too fast breath. He's been with her through activations before and he's never seen her like this. Then again, they've never been through an activation with such a vivid understanding that deadly neurotoxin is hardly the most horrific thing Aperture keeps at its disposal.
Evy squeezes her eyes shut as the sirens seem to grow louder, dreading what's to come. She hates this; she hates the gas; she hates her own damn vanity. This didn't have to be her life, she thinks as the sirens come to an abrupt stop. She didn't have to follow her parents' follies. In the instant before the gas begins to seep in in yet another failed attempt to control the machine, she grabs Wheat's hand, knotting her fingers through his.
The gas pours down from the vent at an astonishing rate. Around the room, people sink to their knees, coughing. Some scrub at their eyes and noses, ducts and membranes futilely trying to flush the poison out. Wheat feels the now-customary rash break out under the sleeves of his shirt, as those around him begin to writhe and convulse.
At the rate the kill switch procedure's going, he thinks. They might actually kill us this time.
Still, despite the heady green fog and the now body-wracking cough, he can't miss the feel of Evy shifting towards him, a gesture he finds he doesn't have the motor control to reciprocate.
His vision is dark and blurry by the time the fans kick to life , and almost gone by the time the smoke begins to clear. His mouth tastes like bile and his skin stings; he swears this stuff gets more wretched every time.
Evy's buried herself against his side, fighting to breathe between coughs. There is nothing subtle about this, she realizes, but can't bring herself to care. This is the closest yet they've come to all being killed; as far as she's concerned, they've all got a much larger problem. Besides, if Wheat's arm curled loosely around her waist is any indicator, he doesn't terribly mind.
If she's going to die here, and really, wouldn't that be just the cherry on the her family's Aperture history, she's going to die with him. At least if she gets a say in it.
Across the room, Doug leans his head back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Once again, he's left to question the wisdom of a job here. He has a Ph.D in computer science; it should at least qualify him for a job teaching high schoolers basic java. It would mean summer vacations, union support, OSHA protection, and a decided lack of neurotoxin: all things he'd never get at Aperture.
He makes a mental note to look into teaching requirements as soon as they have gotten Chell out of danger.
Around him, the coughs are beginning to die down. People are sitting up, standing up, brushing themselves off. No one quite says anything; they all just shift awkwardly, waiting for a talking to or to be dismissed.
What is there to say? Doug thinks. Sorry that was a spectacular failure again? We'll try not to repeat that?
He just shakes his head.
From the front of the room, the director dismisses them all with the old drawing board cliche. The crowd thins quickly; though movement may still be difficult, almost everyone's willing to make the effort if it means getting out of the room.
When almost everyone's gone, he gingerly stands up. It's then that he sees them: Wheat and Evy. They're sitting in a corner, Evy leaning into Wheat, eyes closed, looking a deathly shade of pale. Wheat's arm is around her, and from the angle of their heads, he can guess that they're talking.
He bites back a smile; it really isn't funny, and he knows that, but if they can find happiness in this mess, then anything is possible.
Their eyes meet his, and he heads across the room, ready to compare notes.
Evy's car stalls in the parking lot that night, leaving her to bum a ride from Wheat. She feels terrible for inconveniencing him, but would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy his company.
Leaning back against the headrest, she shoots him a sidelong glance. "What was all that about in the meeting today?"
"I believe that was neurotoxin, Ev. Definitely neurotoxin."
"No, not that. I mean, yes, obviously, that was there, but I meant about Craig."
Wheat swallows hard. "You haven't heard? I guess they did a better job with damage control this time. I guess they had to, with it being one of their own and what not."
"Wait … what happened?"
"Craig's dead, Evy."
"You mean braindead, right?"
Wheat shakes his head, eyes never straying from the road. "Dead dead. Procedure went horribly wrong, mutilated the brainstem. He was gone before they got'im off the chair."
Evy's hand covers her mouth, and for a moment, she thinks she's going to be sick.
"It's been kept quiet, very hush-hush. They dumped the body into one of the incinerators. Made a bloody mess."
She just shakes her head. "God…"
"The worst bit is that they don't even know why it happened. It's a still a sodding mystery."
"So, sounds like if the gas doesn't get us, the company will."
Wheat nods. "If I were you, I'd start looking for a job. Any job. Anywhere."
"You say that like it's a viable solution."
Wheat shrugs. "You might be surprised, Ev. You just might be surprised."
[AN: Hello again! Sorry to everyone for the extended absence. College happened, then moving, then a lot of other crazy things. I am so sorry for the wait, and just wanted to take a second to say thank you to everyone who's cared enough to stick with this story and to say hello to all the new readers. I can't begin to express how much I appreciate your encouragement and kind words or how happy I am to finally be back to this story. Thank you all!
Also, just to make this clear, I do not agree with Rick's views.]