Chapter 3- The Fool
Climbing the Tower
It had been hours.
Garret was exhausted, worn-out, frayed, bent backwards, and any other conventional terms to describe a man who had been driving up and down the countryside in the wee hours of the morning. Or was it last night? It was that weird time of the day where late at night blended into early morning. Either way, it had been hard to see where he was driving. It had become so bad that he was afraid that he would've crashed into a tree or ended up headfirst in that muddy watering hole on the other side of the forest.
This grogginess didn't help either. It was messing with his internal judgment and motor skills. Brain control was currently experiencing cutbacks because of the amount of electricity required to keep the human aware enough to see where he was going. It seemed the neurons just didn't have enough charge to work properly. Understandable, given the circumstances.
The human was leaning over the dashboard, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel. The titanium shade of gray his eyes had been at the start of his journey had grinded into a cloud of grey sawdust, with just as much usefulness. He strangled the stick-shift into another gear as he came off the vegetation, the wear of the plastic in his worn skin giving him enough pain to stay aware. The truck lurched upward as it came into contact with asphalt.
He still hadn't had found Chell, which was what was really bumming him out. Worry was not a sensation Garret was used to. It drained him of most of his energy that he could be using for more useful things, and keeping that unnatural focus for so long had also taken its toll. He was also immensely frustrated that his search had been fruitless, despite his efforts. Which would make it even worse when he would eventually have to explain himself to Romy. Not only had he left her behind and lied to her face, but he had run himself ragged and risked an accident for nothing.
He could almost hear her now: Garret Rickey! I swear to Lord Almighty that you are the most impossible man I have ever met! What the heck were you thinking-running off by yourself exhausted as you are and as dark as it was out! And you didn't even bring me! I swear you are just as mule-headed as she is- a real cheeky pair you two are-thinking a disappearing act a fiiiiine prank. I swear you two are going to kill me from a stress-induced heart attack!
It was a scathing lecture he was not looking forward to, but knew it was coming, and coming loud.
But first he had to fight the oncoming tidal wave of unconsciousness that would certainly leave him flipped upside down in a wreckage of smoldering steel, or worse.
I'm not gonna make it all the way back at this rate, he thought as he weighed his options. It would just be better to park near Fox and kick back. Or, I wonder if Otten will let me sleep in his barn? Long as I don't snore so loud I scare the hens I should be fine.
Pulling in beside Marten Otten's wire fence, he exited the pickup with the grace of a bear that had just gotten out of six months of hibernation and may have wanted to have a couple more weeks to snooze away. The sun was poison to his vision, blotting out most of his view in glaring yellowish-white streaks as it came up. The lenses in his eyes were slow to pick up the sudden shift in lighting, burning purple after-images that lingered as he made his way to the barn doors.
The sheep grazing in the fields nearby were having an entertaining time watching the human try to perform basic motor functions. It seemed that no one had told him that it was much easier to just walk on all fours like they did, in order to have better stability. Chewing steadily, their casually interested eyes followed their breakfast entertainment. Lambs excitedly peeked out from under wool of their parents, enraptured with the spectacle.
Garret finally reached the violet-speckled image of what he imagined were the doors. Their rusty joints squealed as he barreled them open with the last of his strength. Someone must have hit him with a tranquilizer then, because his muscles spontaneously then decided to release all of their tension, causing him to collapse on top of a hay bale conveniently placed in his wavering path.
So much for permission-is what he would have thought if he wasn't flopped-over dead weight by the time his eyes were seeing nothing but darkness.
[-]
"Rickey…"
"Hey, Rickey…"
"Are you coming tonight? You said you would!"
A playful shove.
"Oh, come on. I know you're not really asleep. You always fake it if I want you to go somewhere."
Another shove, more insistent and aggressive.
"I see you smiling under that bush on your face! Come on, Aaron's going to kill us if we're late. He said he needed help setting up the tables."
"Garret!"
"Garret!"
He woke up slowly despite the increasing volume of the voice above him. He pushed himself upward and tilted his face to the source, Mr. Otten himself, looking slightly annoyed but not cross. His thin, chestnut hair was plastered onto his head with sweat under a worn cap, a regular appearance for a man who worked in agriculture for a living. Mart was used to Garret sometimes passing out in strange places due to the young man pulling all-nighters on the tower that overshadowed his property.
"It's about time you came around. I've been calling your name for about ten minutes straight," he said as he outstretched his hand to help get Garret up into a sitting position, "I didn't even notice you conked out there until Heather said something around about lunch."
"Yeah, sorry about that Mr. Mart," Garret drowsily managed between yawns as he scratched the back of his head, "I was going to ask you first, but I just kind of decided to pass out as soon as I got here. Not very courteous of me, haven't really managed to get much sleep these past couple of days."
"I figured. Heather tried to get you up too, but you just kept on going like you had that African sleeping sickness," Mr. Otten responded to Garret's absent-minded apology while gathering some rope from the walls while balancing empty jugs under his arms. There had been no harm done. It wasn't the oddest place he had found Garret sleeping.
Noticing that his beard had decided to adopt camouflage by taking in individual straws, he plucked them out and brushed himself off of any excess debris. He turned to see the barn doors still open, the sun hanging low over the fields in a hazy crimson. The sleeper noticed that it was late sundown.
"Holy Newton, what time is it?"
"About six!" Mart shouted down from where he had climbed the ladder to the second level, accumulating more supplies as he went.
"Well that explains why my brain keeps bashing itself against my skull. Slept for about fourteen hours and I feel like I just got run over by a semi."
"Maybe you should get a more stable sleep schedule?" Mart said between a cord draped around his neck and a rake balanced underneath his arm. "It seems like every time I see you, you're either awake too long or asleep too long."
"No, I'll be fine. Some food and a few minutes of moving are all I need to get kicking." He gave a smile he hoped looked convincing as to the validity of his claim, but the truth was the pain had actually gotten worse.
Garret's current headache wasn't just a headache, it was a bulk can of pain on a buy-one-get-one-free sale. He was surprised Mr. Otten hadn't looked at him funny and politely remarked that his forehead was currently pulsating based on his estimate of the amount of throbbing he was feeling right behind his eyes.
Despite this, it seemed Mart was content with his response, as he had begun piling the supplies onto the back of an antique trailer.
"Fox acting up again?"
"Nah, not more than usual," said Garret with a slight sigh. He was getting ready to tell Mr. Otten farewell and return to town to regroup and launch a second search, but considered it a better idea to ask him for more information. "Actually-I was looking for Chell. See, she's kind of gone missing and no one's seen her for about a day and a half. She didn't tell anyone where she went either, so I decided to go look for her."
He frowned as he recalled the fruitless search that had led him roaming for hours behind the wheel. Sleep was dragging on the edges of his muscles, irritating his mood even further than his headache. He subconsciously gripped his hand into a fist, balling up his frustration and planning to use it as his ignition switch to set into action.
"Oh, Chell? They found her already."
"I'm going to go into town and try aga- wait, what?" He turned sharply in Mart's direction, "what'd you just say?"
"They found her this morning. Some guy was carrying her in on his back into the middle of town. She didn't look too good either, I heard. Completely unconscious and looked near about dead. Lost a lot of blood. Doc says it was from a bullet wound in her hip," Mart leaned against the trailer as he recounted the day's events.
"Shot?! What the hell happened?" Garret asked, a bit too fast for brain control to register as a bit too harsh. He hadn't even realized he had never released his fists from their grip.
Mart put his hands up in a pacifying gesture as he responded, "Hey, look, I don't know. No need to get all worked up. I'm just relaying what I heard from the others and Ellie."
Immediately Garret felt a touch of shame come over him. It was not like him to just burst out in anger at someone for no reason, especially not Mart Otten. The man had pretty much allowed him to plant a permanent fixture on his private property with no monetary compensation, allowing multiple random people move heaps of outdated technology and rusty junk all over his yard, and working multiple days a week late into the night.
He took a deep breath and apologized," Sorry Mr. Mart, I've just been driving all night looking for her-I didn't, and I'm just now hearing this news. I feel like I just got out of a coma, and I'm just frustrated that I'm the last one to find this out."
"No worries. I'd probably be frustrated too, if I was in your position. Life keeps conspiring to make sure you're the last one in the loop."
Well if he says it's fine, then I guess I can just move on, Garret thought with a mental shrug, Man, this week has just been the worst. Seems like life wants more than just to conspire against me, more like it wants me dead from exhaustion so it can collect my life insurance. Well, joke's on it, I'm not worth more than a sack full of dead rats. It would be better to collect their life insurance.
Garret took this opportunity to see if Mr. Otten had heard any more information.
"What did Doc Vik say about her condition?"
"Well, I didn't speak to her myself," Mart recalled while leaning against one of the rafters," but Aaron said she was shot clean through the abdomen. No bullet found, just a wound that Doc had to stitch up. Apparently she was bleeding out really bad, had to get a large transfusion. I'll tell you what though, she must be made of Kevlar, cause he said as soon as she woke up she just walked out with that stranger and went home like nothing happened."
That wasn't a shock. Garret had seen Chell take flesh wounds that were at least two inches deep and shrug them off as if they were nothing. She was always wearing bandages as a preventative measure during her runs, muscles bound tight to bone. She almost never got sick, except for the usual bout of seasonal cold in winter. If someone had ever asked him to point out a living example of a human in pique physical health and condition, he would always point to Chell.
Nevertheless, she was still human, and the human body tended not to react well to a piece of metal going over sixty miles per hour being lodged into it. The usual reaction of the body would be to panic itself into shock, pump itself full of chemicals, and spill out blood all over itself. In worst cases, it would bleed into itself. Speedy thing goes in; sometimes speedy thing did not come out.
Since there was no bullet found, Garret assessed that it had gone clear through. Chell was lucky it wasn't worse. The only risk she would run of a clear wound would be of bleeding out. Then again, according to Mr. Otten she had almost bled out and had had to be carried back to town.
"Wait a minute-stranger?" Garret asked in a puzzled tone," You sure it wasn't somebody from around here?"
"Nope, never seen him before," Mart answered, "I can't say anyone else knows him, the way everybody was staring at him as he came in, carrying her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He was looking around as if everybody was gonna stone him or something. Really nervous in general. Kept asking if there was a 'repair associate' around, whatever that meant. I think he meant a doctor. But who knows? I couldn't understand half of the words coming out of his mouth because he was chattering so fast."
"Well, whoever he is, I think I owe him my thanks, considering he did bring her home," Garret mused mostly to himself, but still within earshot.
Mart responded in kind, "Well, he sure wasn't hard to miss. He was at least a full head taller than most of everybody I saw around-glasses, kind of lanky, blonde, blue eyes, white collared shirt and I think he was wearing a tie."
"A tie? What was he doing-starring a documentary or something?" Garret snorted.
"No, it looked like a uniform. He might have come from the city. That's the only place I can think of that might have people still wearing them."
Ties had fallen out of fashion in at least the last fifty years, starting around the time when the Resistance started gaining ground after the Invasion. There was nothing very practical about a long piece of cloth dangling very close to your windpipe when you were trying to survive in a world overrun by extradimensional horrors and the wanton destruction they left in their wake. One second you could be running for your life, a piece of the roof falls near you, you barely dodge, but that slip of cloth is caught under the rubble. At that point you were as good as living bait for the whoever-whatever that currently disagreed with you on the subject of you living. Or else, one good fall, that tie gets wrapped around something, and you were saying hello to the last guy who tried his luck.
Due to this reason, most ties seen nowadays were either worn by actors doing a pre-Combine period piece or worn by elderly men who were too stubborn to let the fashion die out. In Garret's humble opinion, ties were stupid. Especially for someone of his profession, where loose articles of clothing getting stuck in machinery just wasn't a risk anyone could take. If a guy needed to look fancy, why couldn't he just wear the collared shirt by itself, or suspenders, or even a suit coat with slacks? There were plenty of more practical choices for professional wear.
So why in the world would anyone wear one unironically? Even most business people don't wear them nowadays, Garret thought with confusion.
The more he thought about it, the more it just seemed…odd. His best friend suddenly disappears and then is seen again bleeding to death on the back of a stranger who had a decades-old fashion sense. It just didn't sit right. And for some reason, the young man had a suspicion things were only about to get stranger.
He shook his head. Why am I so fixated on ties? They're impractical, they're outdated, end of story. Garret berated his distracted train of thought as he came to notice that Mr. Otten had continued to speak, not noticing his inattentiveness as he was facing towards the barn doors.
"…seems we get enough commotion around here with that fox messing with the chickens and your endeavors. Now Ellie's too afraid to stay anywhere far away from me or Heather because of that man. She was the first one to spot him. For some reason, she's dead set convinced he's some kind of monster. I think it may be because she's just never seen a person that tall before-I mean I think he's even taller than- "
-Whump-
"Daddy!" squeaked a voice between Mr. Otten's legs. It belonged to a tiny creature wearing bright red rain boots whose hands gripped onto his jeans, face upturned and eyes wide with fear. "Is it true? Is the monster still here? Linnell says he is."
"Well, speak of the little munchkin- how are you doing, Ellie?" Garret chuckled a bit as he parted his beard in a warm smile.
"Oh, umm… hi, Mr. Garret Rickey…" the little girl looked towards him, the rainbow-assorted clips in her blonde hair jangling against each other as she did. "I'm okay…"
She turned her attention back to her father, "Well, is he, Daddy?"
Mart sighed, "Honey, Mommy and I told you, there is no monster. He's just a stranger who happens to be visiting from out of town. There's nothing to be scared of."
"Mmmm", Ellie bit her lip slightly in trepidation, trying to take her father's words and use them to shield her from her fears. She looked down at what was in her hand, a small, rough-knit stuffed vortigaunt whom she had named Linnell and never left behind no matter where she went. She silently asked her companion for advice and listened intently.
The little girl stayed silent for a moment, then spoke again, "Linnell says the monster's not here right now, so I guess I'm not so scared. But he was here. I don't think I like that. But it's okay. I'll be okay as long as Linnell, Mommy, and Daddy are with me," she smiled slightly as she said this. "Oh! And Mr. Garret Rickey, too. Right, Mr. Rickey?"
If his facial hair wasn't so thick, you could have probably seen Garret's face turn red with embarrassment as the little girl looked up at him with expectant, glittery eyes. For some reason, she always had a great admiration of him, like he deserved some shiny golden key for saving the city of Dangersopolis from the weekly machinations of Dr. Mayhem every Saturday morning. He supposed it may have had to do with his physique-giving off that air that he could kick butt and take names whenever the time called for it. What Garret didn't know was that she regularly watched him climb Foxglove, which in her mind interpreted to superhuman strength.
It was cute-if a bit hammy, how she seemed to look up to him that way. It was also probably the reason he was the only one she called by both first and last name. Her unusual way of showing respect.
It was a child's fantasy, one that Garret didn't have the heart to break. Especially with the look she was giving him now, eyes full of stars ready to burst into supernovas of glittery happiness.
"I think your Daddy is right on this one, little missy," he responded, "I haven't seen any monsters roaming around."
"But-um…. If there are, you'll scare them away! Right?"
"Little missy, I promise that I would do everything physically possible to make sure that no harm came to ya," Garret said sincerely.
"Like punch the monsters in the face?"
He laughed," I don't know if it'll come to that. I could probably just restrain most monsters, or people, climbing on Fox gives me quite a workout. But, yeah, I'll punch them in the face if I have to. Although I'm sure your daddy could probably scare off any monsters just with that face of his before they got even twelve miles within this place. So don't you worry, alright, Ellie?"
"Okay, I'll try," she resolved while lifting her head in an exaggerated proud expression. She grasped Linnell and started to march off before getting a confused expression, did a double-take, and came back. Her stance shrunk two inches.
"Um…Mr. Garret Rickey," she hesitated, "what does reh-straeen mean?"
Before he could answer, her dad started laughing at her sudden change in tone and responded for him, "It means he'll get on top of someone and won't let them move. Kind of like this!" He picked her up and started tickling her stomach, causing her to burst into giggling fits.
"Daddy, stop! Stop it!" Ellie protested as her father continued. He let up and allowed her to breathe.
"You don't worry, honey," he said to reassure her, "You let your mommy and me worry about things, okay? It's okay to be afraid, as long as you remember that you don't let it control you. You've got to keep your head up and face the things that make you scared. That's what makes you brave. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave?"
"Okay, Daddy. I'll try," she said quietly, "Linnell says she'll try, too."
Garret looked on at this exchange between them. It seemed so insignificant in the grander scheme of the working world, this conversation. But, Garret knew that this moment would probably be one that Ellie wouldn't forget as she grew up. Moments like this, where life lessons were passed from parent to child, built up over time. She would remember the mellow timbre of her dad's voice, the calming smile, and the love that clearly shone from his eyes. He watched him give her a proud smile.
"That's my girl."
Mr. Otten kissed her on the forehead. After he set his daughter down, Mart closed up the truck trailer and turned his attention to Garret.
"Well, whatever happens, it sure does keep things interesting around here, doesn't it?"
"Interesting", that's one word for it, he thought to himself.
Unfortunately for Garret, things were about to get more interesting.
"GARRET RICKEY!" the voice roared as it shook the timbers of the barn's frame. The young man's spine riled in shock as his nerves went on end.
Crap, was all his brain could think of to designate as a response.
That wave of unrestrained, dramatic anger could only come from one source. Garret had stayed too long, and was about to come face first with the tidal wave that was the wrath of Romy Hatfield.
I'm not getting out of this one am I?
He sheepishly turned to face her and stammered, "Oh, hi Romy. How's it going? I was just talking to Mr. Mart here about all the interesting things happening lately. Like Chell. Turns out she's back. And okay! Besides maybe a bit of a gunshot wound and internal bleeding. But other than that, she's fine!"
His voice disappeared as soon as he saw her face. It was red-shaded and twitching ever-so-slightly in a poor attempt to restrain the rage of a woman with a fuse the length of his remaining days alive. Maybe, he could sway her rage by distracting her with more details.
"And-"
"I know," she interrupted by narrowing her eyes. Either it was a sudden draft coming from the loft upstairs or just the coldness in her face that made Garret shake. It was moments like these that reminded him of how similar Romy and Chell were about dealing with other people. Whereas Chell was like this all the time, Romy usually was much friendlier and outgoing. But when she was like this, there was no negotiation, no escape. The contrast was not lost on him.
Her countenance calmed a bit as she turned to Mr. Martin. "Hello Mart, nice to see you today, she started while smiling, "I'm sorry about dropping in uninvited like this, but I have a few issues which need to be addressed. I hope the weather is treating you right today, I've been sweating bullets just from walking outside in this heat. Now, if you'll excuse me, Garret and I are going to have a little chat."
"Ow, hey!"
Ellie looked at them, puzzled at what was transpiring before her and asked her father for clarification, "Daddy, why is Miss Romy pulling Mr. Garret Rickey's ear?"
"I think Mr. Garret Rickey is in trouble," he answered while trying to hide his huge smirk, "Romy's about to put him in for a little time-out."
"Oh."
It was quite a sight, seeing a woman who was barely over five feet tall dragging a grown man behind her. Especially since that man could physically pick this woman up if he truly needed to. Mr. Otten was thoroughly entertained.
"Mart, come on, don't la-OUCH- Ok! Okay! Geez, I'm coming, don't rip it off!"
Garret's pained expression-all squinted eyes and gaping open mouth like he was about to eat his own beard-was the final blow in the Otten family's defenses. Both father and daughter bursted out into hearty laughter as Romy practically hauled Garret off with Aggh's and OUCH's following them as they went across town.
[-]
"What, the, ever, loving, HELL! I mean seriously, Garret! What is your problem? I mean-really-what is your clinically diagnosed disease? Do you just get a kick out of lying to people? Do you enjoy seeing how much crap you can get away with?! You just spend all damn day on that tower thinking of all your excuses you give to people when you just decide to run off by yourself not telling anyone where you're going? 'Oh, look at me I'm Garret Rickey. I'm so big and tough. I don't need anyone to help me do anything.' You said we would look for Chell together. But, NO! You just think it's decent courtesy to skip town, nearly drive yourself into a tree, and leave your friends behind! I swear this is the last time I ever blindly trust you with anything. You just couldn't wait a few hours, like you said we would, so that we could go look together! So, let me ask again, what kind of brain damage or hemorrhage do you have that makes you think that going off by yourself in the middle of the night to search for someone who just did the same thing is ever a plausible solution?! Huh? Answer me, clever man. I'm waiting."
Yep, this was going exactly as he had expected. Actually, it was going far worse.
Romy had essentially made a spectacle of them both by refusing to let go of his ear all the way to her house where they could have their little chat. He was pretty sure there had been plenty of people watching because he swore he had heard plenty of snickers underneath his sounds of pain. If Aaron had been watching, he wouldn't be able to live it down for at least the next six months.
She had ordered Max and Jason to take Duke outside and go play in their "fortress" (really just a small shed) and sat Garret down at their dining room table without missing a beat. She had at least given him the courtesy of not cursing him out in front of other people. So here he was, patiently accepting the ten-minute lecture being given to him on how terrible of a friend he was. He was used to listening to angry rants anyway, deserved or not.
He knew he deserved this one though.
"Still waiting," she interrupted his train of thought.
He looked her directly in the eye and responded, "I have no excuse. I should have taken you with me in the first place. I'm sorry." He hoped his tone of voice was sincere.
"That's it? No trace of sarcasm, no witty remark?" she questioned. She was testing him.
"No, I know when I screw up and I know when I need to put myself in my place. I broke your trust and I made you more worried than you needed to be. You're right, it wasn't a good idea to go off by myself. I really am sorry," Garret conveyed what he hoped was honesty by keeping his apology to-the-point.
She looked skeptical for a second before eyeing him. Her shoulders dropped in a sign of acceptance.
"You damn better well be," she sighed, "I just don't know what to do with you two sometimes. First, her. Then, you. Garret-I can't take it when people up and off the face of the Earth like that. I expected I would have to lay into her for this, but you?"
Her question ended her thought for her.
This time she looked him in the eye as she elaborated, "Garret, I know you and I don't exactly get each other. Especially me. I don't understand why you spend all of your free time hanging twenty feet off the ground like a hyperactive orangutan swinging up there on those cables. And I would understand why you don't get the fact that The Gorgeous and the Breathless has been my obsession for the past three seasons. My point is, just because I don't understand half the things you do, doesn't mean I don't worry about you. It just doesn't do well for somebody's health when their friends leave like that."
"You're right, I don't get why you like that show," Garret said as he put on a mock face of confusion, "The acting's so fake I can practically hear the director shouting orders over their lines."
"Well, that lack of wisecracks didn't last long. What was that without one, fifteen seconds? Ten?"
"I apologize again. Force of habit," he remarked.
"Okay. That one wasn't sincere and you know it."
"Still better than those so-called 'actors'."
"At least those actors know how to listen to people giving them good directions, unlike you," she chastised. Her eyes were rolled upwards with forehead slightly lowered while staring up at him.
Garret interpreted this as a sign of grating annoyance rather than anger. At least she had calmed down and was no longer liable to physically assault him. Not that he didn't deserve it, mind.
"Well, my directions may not be good, but they get me going places," he responded, "and when I get there, I'll be sure to keep you in mind. And the rest of town, for that matter."
"With the way you go, you'd think you'd have her finished by now," she scolded, arms folded over her chest, "seems to me you've hit another snag in that world's biggest tower of steel wool."
He snickered back, "I thought you would have a little more faith in me Romy. Steel wool? That's low!"
"Someone around here has to keep you grounded. Literally and figuratively. I mean, really? Foxglove? Who names a radio tower after a flower? If I turn around, next thing you'll be doing is marrying it!"
"Hey-I have my reasons. Didn't you have a reason to name your dog or your boys?"
"Jason and Max, yes. Duke we just named after the sign near that old insurance place we found him near when he was a puppy," she said.
"I remember that day! The boys were so small they kept getting dragged off by him because he was so excited to meet everybody. Max faceplanted about ten times before he finally gave up on walking him!" Garret recounted while laughing uproariously, Romy joining him.
"Hahahaha!" she snorted in the middle of her laugh, "he kept pouting the whole evening, let me tell you! He kept blowing out his cheeks, looked like a pufferfish!"
She laughed again and said, "I'm just glad Duke managed to win him over in the end. Him and his brother. Now I can't tear them apart even if I tried."
Garret looked outside the window. Duke was currently trying to play goalie for both sides of an impromptu soccer match between the boys. They were bobbing and weaving around him in their own chaotic jubilee, smiling brightly and struggling for breath between their laughter and their activity.
It reminded Garret of when he was a kid, sun in his face, without a care in the world.
When he first came to this town, it was quite a bit smaller, with the population only reaching a maximum of about sixty to seventy-five individuals. In Eaden, every body quite literally mattered. The children had sparse choices when it came to playmates other than each other, so most of the children of his generation were at least acquainted.
Garret would spend his time doing some of things the twins did: improvised athletic games involving a ball of some sort, roughhousing with the neighbors' pets, playing innocent tricks on the adults, watching archives of pre-war movies. Especially the science fiction ones. He couldn't get enough of those.
The classics like Journey to the Center of the Earth, Back to the Future, 2001: A Space Odyssey….and those were just the popular ones everyone had heard of. He could remember sitting in the town hall common room after school, sitting for hours on end just being absorbed. You could be discovering new life, or traveling the stars, or heck, having an existential crisis because you made your own mother hit on you instead of your dad. It just all seemed to be too tempting to ignore.
The new movies just didn't have the same appeal. They had to play to certain...sensibilities. Production companies had to play it safe when it came to what was acceptable in a plot's narrative; to try to stay away from any events resembling history's horrors. Some didn't even do any sci fi at all. It was just all too safe, in Garret's opinion.
Pushing the limits of known convention. Breaking the rules of what was possible. This was Science.
And then it had happened. Science had broken the rules so much, that it had ripped holes in dimensional space asunder. It had taken the lid of Pandora's box, opened it, let the extraterrestrial horrors loose, smashed the box to pieces, and buried hope in burning, smoldering ash. The Combine had stolen everything from humanity: freedom, marriage, livelihood, home, family.
But the most important thing they had taken was children. For a time, children did not exist for almost two decades because of barriers put in place that made all healthy adults sterile. An insurance policy, a way to keep their subjects reminded of who held their future.
That's why people nowadays were just that little bit extra careful, a little bit protective. That was especially true for Romy and Aaron, Romy because of her tough-love motherly attitude, and Aaron because he treated everyone in town as his own.
Not all places were like Eaden. As boring as it could be sometimes, this town was safe. It was home. For most people, that was enough.
Garret wasn't most people.
"Garret, are you alright? You spaced out there," Romy asked.
He dragged himself out of his reverie. "Yeah, just thinking back to when I was a kid," he said, "these kids don't know how lucky they have it. They don't have to deal with things like faulty wires, or shorted A/C converters, or having to reconfigure ten receivers because one fell slightly 0.12 radians out of place. Or worse, taxes."
"Even Nowhere, Michigan can't hide from a federal tax collector," she agreed, "Oh don't you worry about that. They'll learn how the world is eventually. Being a grown-up sucks. Who do you think has to teach them that?"
"Well, whoever it is I hope she just remembers the most important thing."
She eyed him and asked, "And what is that, Garret?"
"To teach 'em how to duck."
"OW! Jason, what the he-"
"Max. If you finish that sentence I'll personally show you what it's like to be there."
"Y-Yes-ma'am."
"Come inside and let me have a look."
It was alarming how fast Romy had gotten the front door open from the time that Max had gotten hit square in the face by the rogue soccer ball bouncing off the shed and knocking him to the ground.
Jason doesn't know his own strength, Garret smirked to himself, probably might need to look before he kicks.
His mother was currently raking through his brother's hair looking for any signs of injury. Jason was standing stock-still beside them.
"Ow-ow-ow! Stop touching there it hurts!"
"I'm sure it's not that bad. Quit moving-I'm trying to see," Romy snipped at him as he was pulling away from her. "Yep, as I thought. Just a bruise. Jason, go get some ice for your brother."
"Ok."
Garret finally saw his opportunity. It seemed Romy had forgiven him and all was water under the bridge, so he took this chance to leave.
"Well, I'll see you around Romy," he said as he shouldered past Duke in the front doorway.
"Alright, goodbye," she responded while intently looking over the rest of her son's head.
She looked up. "Oh, and Garret?"
"Yes?"
"I'm not forgetting this little conversation we've had. I mean it. I will find you."
Her green-brown eyes were pinning him against the door frame. This was not a statement. It was a warning. Her stare reminded him of someone else who could be just as stubborn and intense.
He swallowed. "Noted."
[-]
"Gary? Gary Rickey!? Dang man, where ya been? Half the town tells me you was dead!"
"Garret-and that was Chell who was shot, not me."
Eaden General attracted quite a bit of attention from visitors. It was the only place that sold basic amenities and its height made it the pivotal center of town. Granted, most of those visitors were delivery personnel sent to bring much needed supplies, mostly from Depot.
Aaron usually dealt with the traders, vendors, and couriers, but Garret had managed to slip in behind the old man's back in time for this one. A liquor shipment that came in roughly about every two-to-three weeks was here from a bar, named the Twisted Strider, he frequented on his Depot visits, and usually it was sold out before he could get to it. Not this time.
"Oh, that's that lady friend of yours, yeah? Shot, huh? Never pegged her fo' somebody with enemies. Then'gan you can never tell which people gettin' messed with in the wrong crowd. I know I sure did, lotta times."
"That's because you don't bother to pay attention, Russell," Garret replied, "like that time you let in that guy carrying that bundle with the tarp."
"How was I suppos'ta know it was a crowbar underneath there! "Russell absconded Garret's accusation with an air of defiance, "You think I know when summa these folks wanna kill each other over some backstabbin' chick they met while they was drunk? Huh, Garfield? Imma tell you that guy sure did know how to swing it, though. He was all cling-clang and swoosh-bam-bang'n all the booths and everythin'. Almost took out half the left side o' my teeth. But it got done! I took care of it!"
"What teeth? Do you even still have any? I think he would've been doing you a favor-make you match. And it's Garret."
"Right, sorry-hey! I'm only missin' one of my right back-teeth and one front-tooth, thank you very much!"
The subject of mockery gave a sideways smile and opened his jaw to show the engineer his evidence.
Garret huffed, "Only lost two teeth, huh? Ever thought of getting fillings?"
"Nah, can't afford it. I gotta get me a place o' my own first. Y'know, getta sense of stability."
"How long's that gonna take?"
"Longer than I wan'it. Bossman cutta piece of my salary to pay fo' Mister Crowbar's property damage. Guess I shoulda been more watchful, 'steada hangin' round with you."
"Don't pin this on me now. It's not my fault if you get distracted-aren't you supposed to keep undesirables like that out?" Garret said, jokingly.
"Ok, fine. You win."
"What's my prize?"
"First pick o' the load, got summa the good stuff this time."
Russell thumbed back past his shoulder to some open wooden crates sitting next to the back entrance. They were filled with various glass bottles containing liquor, beer, wine, and some hard fruit drinks that some of the older ladies couldn't get enough of.
Garret made his way to peruse the selection and see if he was feeling a bit adventurous with his choices. A yellow-tinged bottle of a particularly rare rum caught his interest, one that had come from Venezuela, how he couldn't guess.
"Venezuela, huh?" remarked Russell, who was reading the label from over his shoulder, "knew a guy from there when I was out in Colorado workin' fo'a lumber yard. Bit of a quiet man, but a hard worker. Always treated me decent, anyway. I've wanted to see if I could visit that city and see 'im cause he went back. Save up to take a vacation there."
"Sherwood, please think about that last sentence."
"What, a vacation?" he responded to Garret's request confused.
"No, before that."
"Colorado?"
"Closer, but no."
"That bottle of brandy?" Russell asked with one eyebrow raised in genuine confusion.
"Nevermind-and this is light rum," Garret explained while turning the bottle over slowly in his hands, "see the rest of the label? Plus the color's too dark."
"Really? Shoot, I can't tell the difference. Don't drink. Deadens the mind and the reflexes," Russell said and shrugged, leaning against one of the crates and taking out a pocket knife out of the pockets of his coat. He pushed a button on its side and its blade revolved out in one swipe. Its blue-tinted metal reflected the light coming off overhead highlighting a unicorn engraved on one side, a pegasus on the other. He turned it side-to-side, following the light spot as it rushed around the walls.
Garret hadn't known Russell for long or very well, but he knew from first glance that he had been involved in some close encounters. His tanned skin was covered in discolored patches and deep-set lines, scar tissue grown over from long-gone wounds. One scar ran straight down from his left eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, a dark mark that ran over his eyelid. His eyes were a golden-amber, striking against rustic skin and chestnut hair. Sinewy muscles were coiled around a scrawny collarbone visible past his T-shirt and that raggedy, long coat.
Russell Sherwood wasn't usually seen in Eaden because he worked at The Twisted Strider as a bouncer. Usually the owner came himself to deliver, but he had been called out to business in New Detroit for about a month, so Russell had been assigned the task. This confused Garret because Russell was from the area, judging by his accent. He thought a native would have been better to send there, but this was the second time Russell had made the delivery.
Perhaps it was a test. Russell hadn't been working there as long as Jackie, the bartender, and he wanted to see how the new guy held up responsibility when the boss was away. He had been doing fine so far, but Garret wondered if he could keep it up.
"I'd appreciate it if you could please keep your blade in your pocket, Mr. Sherwood," sounded a voice front the front of the store," it may be close to closing but children are still present in this building."
"Sorry Mr. Harrison, didn't mean anythin' by it," Russell pocketed the blade as he answered.
"Halifax."
"What?"
"His name is Aaron Halifax."
"Oh, dang! Sorry, sir-," he looked down in embarrassment after Garret's correction,"-Mr. Har-Halifax-um..all of the load you asked fo's right here and everythin'. I think? Lemme double check."
He rushed outside the back door to a pickup truck not unlike his own waiting outside. There were more crates that had their lids removed but not unpacked. Garret observed that they were correctly individually separated by diagonal wooden blocks to keep the bottles from clanking into each other. The first time Russell came, about a third of the bottles had been cracked and had to be replaced. That had been the biggest blow to his savings ever since the incident with Mr. Crowbar.
Russell was acting a bit nervous, which wasn't a good sign. It had been obvious that the replacement for all of those wares had affected him and had to be done behind his employer's back no less. It always seemed to be two steps forward one step back into Hollywood's inaccurate depiction of quicksand.
"He seems to be a bit out of sorts," Aaron mused while watching him.
Garret nodded his head in agreement, "Russell's just trying to be careful. I know Jackie must have given him an earful for all that broken merchandise. It's not easy to keep things hidden from a man as observant as Mr. Ruskin."
"Well I hope it works out for him, even if he does have kind of a sketchy demeanor. He's got scar's I've seen that rival old Lars's."
"I doubt he got any of those in the War," Garret responded, "if he did, he needs to tell me where he managed to biologically reverse his physical age by fifty years."
"I don't know if I would take some of that. I've gotten used to being ancient," Aaron grabbed a piece of paper off the counter that had been neatly placed in front of the register. He scanned its contents before placing it with a thumbtack on a corkboard on the wall. He slipped into the back rooms.
Garret briefly looked to where it had been placed. It was a supplies list with sections dedicated to clothing, groceries, and miscellaneous items. Every item was listed in alphabetical order with some items written in red ink. What caught his attention was the handwriting. It was clear and concise, like Chell's, but flowed across the page. Letters swirled with loops that could have just as easily been seen in an eighteenth century business manuscript as it could a modern shopping list. The lettering spoke of sophistication and an educated, artistic background. It was too familiar.
Garret felt tired. "I'm heading up."
Aaron poked his head out from the dusty shelves and called," Already? I thought you got enough shuteye in the Ottens' barn."
"Ahah, yeah, sure. I just want to turn in early today, so I can get up and make up for lost time."
"Alright, good night then, sweet prince."
Suddenly, a loud shout could be heard from outside.
"Damn it!"
Aaron moved to the source and hollered back, "What seems to be the problem Mr. Sherwood?"
"The brandy! Jackie told me like fitty times 'Don't forget the brandy, you know's how they're gonna want it and you're gonna have to drive back.' And guess what? I hafta drive back!"
"Didn't he give you a written list of some kind?"
"Yeah."
"Well, what does it say?"
"I can't check. It was layin' on top of the brandy. Argh!"
He punched the side of one of the crates in frustration.
"Argh-owowwoow.." and managed to get some splinters caught in his fingers.
Garret looked towards Aaron with a slight grin. Aaron replied with a shrug and went to try and share his earthly wisdom with a young man who was in dire need of it.
Good luck, Garret thought and pushed any unwanted thoughts out of his mind as he made his way upstairs.
[-]
Now that Garret had finally gotten into a relatively normal sleep cycle since yesterday he was feeling quite refreshed.
He had finished his to-do list early, Aaron was running the store by himself because the foot traffic wasn't too bad, and he had no repairs scheduled for the day. Therefore, he had spent most of the morning climbing on Fox installing the new relay system.
Currently dressed in a different pair of overalls, a toolbelt, and climbing cables, he looked like he had just stepped off the cover of an old hardware magazine. The cables that snaked into the loops of the belt gave him the appearance of being manipulated by a skilled puppeteer moving him in between the rods and beams. His innate knowledge of the tower's structure allowed him to maneuver around them quickly.
The tower cast a looming shadow in the midday sun, obscuring it from his view when he looked up. Rays highlighted the sturdy and chaotic jungle-gym of tangled rainbow wires in all directions. Satellite dishes were packed in every place Garret could have fit them. They all varied in size, make, model, and color. Some were pointing off to the left, upwards, twisted frontways, backways, and any other ways that he could physically "convince" them to move. Giant hooves bolted into the ground provided support. The rusty-colored metal clashed with the steel of the bolts holding it together. If the generator had been turned on, the whole structure would have hummed at an incessant, unhurried pulse, making the plating and bolts sing a low hymn.
To any passersby, it might have looked like a strange modern art sculpture that just so happens to also transmit radio waves. She even had her name painted in bleeding orange letters of spray-paint on one of her support legs.
FOXGLOVE
It was obvious this tower had been a labor of love. But then again, love hurt, and sometimes Garret had to make major adjustments to get any response from her.
His face was obscured by a welding mask, a torch in his right hand. The relay system was being welded to the inside of the upper railings so that the dishes attached would be strengthened. Normally, Garret would listen to music while working, but the inner mechanisms of this relay were too finicky for mistakes. He had to give it his full focus. The only sound he heard was the roar of the gas-fed flames against searing metal.
A side-portion of his brain subconsciously registered a murmuring noise from far below. It was bouncing all over the place, sometimes lowering into a hushed shout and at others raising into a high-pitched whining tone. And frankly, it seemed quite annoyed with itself. It seemed to be someone speaking but it was hard to tell over the flame.
Garret finished the weld he was on and turned the gas off. The sound turned out to be someone speaking quite rapidly below him. At such a height, he couldn't see many details of this person, but he could see that it was a man, blonde hair, had glasses, and was wearing a bright blue tie that was in horrible need of a steam iron.
Wait. A tie? Garret thought. Now he was intrigued.
He loosened the cable to drop down a good five feet. His boots met one of the main legs attached to the steel hooves and he clicked the cable into a horizontal girder. Leaning outward, he craned his neck to get a better look. The man was kicking at the dirt, continuing to mutter to himself in his flighty speech. There was something else that was off about his voice, but Garret couldn't hear him very well.
The man looked up and was suddenly gaping his mouth wide open. He started still for a moment, and then loudly proclaimed, "Oh, what? What's one of those?"
Garret then knew what was off about his voice. He was British.
Garret had met plenty of people from other parts of the country (what was left of it) through visiting relatives of the residents. Most of those people were from out west or further to the east coast. Romy herself sometimes sounded like she had come from the Georgia area. Depot also had folks from all walks of life, some even descended from people relocated from other nations by the Combine. However, Garret had never heard of anyone British except over the radio and television.
Maybe Mart was right, interesting was certainly the word of the town right now.
The stranger had turned his attention to the lettering, reading it as his scrunched face moved up its length.
"EV…OLG…XOF," he read, "Evolgxof?" He blinked at the letters and stared at them with blank confusion.
Guess it's my turn to cut in, Garret thought as he put on a cheerful disposition and corrected him.
"Foxglove."
"Ohh, right," the guy said while twisting his neck in Garret's general direction, "Oh, that makes much more sense, that does. Foxglove. I-aah!"
He startled as he finally realized that he had been spoken to.
"Who- oh, there you are, up there! Had me worried for a second there. Hallo!"
"Hi," Garret replied in turn, raising the mask off his face and waving his torch in a friendly greeting. "You must be the guy Mart Otten was talking about. How's Chell?"
His face scrunched up in discomfort at the mention of her name. It seems all that muttering had something to do with her, judging from the immediate reaction.
"Fine, fine," he responded in a raised voice, "-she's fine, er, got of a' bit of a hole in her, long story, but you know, got it stitched up with a bit of string, no harm done! Well, harm done, obviously, but not actual, lasting damage, is what I mean. Physically. No lasting physical damage done."
Garret's brain was currently complaining to him about having to work overtime.
"Glad to hear it….I think."
This guy was a bit of a talker, Garret noticed. His speech came out alternating between long tangents and short, clipped fragments. There was no order to it at all, either. It just came as an incessant flood of words that overstimulated his language center with pure data. Filtering it out for coherence was taking quite a bit of mental energy, which was slightly annoying but not unmanageable. It took him a moment just to process and come up with a response. All he could do was scratch the back of his head.
This was getting awkward.
He decided this would be a good time to introduce himself. He smiled broadly.
"Garret Rickey."
Another awkward pause.
"What?" the stranger asked. It took him a moment.
"Oh! Right, that's your name. Did not know what you were on about there," he said while leaning back against one of the support poles. "Wheatley, by the way. My name, I mean. Interesting sort of contraption, this, isn't it? Very…advanced-looking. Very Sciencey. I know a fair amount about this sort of thing, you see, quite knowledgeable about, um, machines, machinery, computers… your own work, is it?"
Mostly, Garret thought to himself, but there's no way I could have done this by myself. He thought of his dear, stubborn friend.
"Well, she's kind of everyone's," Garret said and resolved as an appropriate response, "we've been working on her for 'bout three years now, all told." He put the welder away in a custom holster and patted one of the upper rungs in an affectionate manner.
"Three years? Blimey. What took that long? I mean- I'm not being rude or anything, it's very impressive, but, er…"
He looked lost again. Garret picked up the conversation.
"Soon as I get her working, you'll find out," he replied while grinning, "she's going to put Eaden on the map."
The stranger, (Wheatley Garret reprimanded himself), was cocking his head up skyward and nodding absently as he said, "Oh, it draws maps as well, does it? Funny, because to me, it looked more like some sort of communications set-up, what with all things all over it and everything, and the big antenna on top. Fine, though, I can see now, obviously- maps happen to be something else I am a bit of a legend at, by the way. Reading maps, following maps, that whole area of map comprehension and interpretation is my particular speciality within the… map sciences."
Garret nodded along with him, leaning back in a you're-full-of-it kind of way. Well, Garret could be full of it, too. He told brain control to put a smile on his face that continued to show friendliness, but to put something else into it.
Time for some fun.
"That so? Well, it's great to get to talk to someone who knows as much as I do about the technical side of a job like this."
"Yes I-"
"Between you and me, most folk around here are pretty handy with a hammer, but when it comes to how to spot-weld an RSJ or splice your basic belkin-batch cable, you might as well be speaking flux-shift for all they know 'bout it."
"Er-"
"Most of them wouldn't know the difference between an in-line LNB signal amp and a tri-ax optical MDU."
"Right-cause what sort of moron wouldn't know that?" Wheatley finished while laughing nervously.
He was slumping his neck into his shoulders even more so than when he was initially, and his eyes seemed to want to argue with each other about which direction they should face. Garret could tell he was a little bit overwhelmed by what friends would call his "nerd mode", most people were. Those were the times when he didn't hold back on how much of a complete obsessed fanboy he was for anything and everything machines.
This was usually the time where people asked him to speak their language or demanded to explain, but it seemed Wheatley was content to continue pretending knowing what he was talking about.
As Garret clipped off to a lower height, he finally got to get a better look at him. He was wearing a white-collared, button down shirt with yes, a tie, and black slack pants. The limbs that went through them were lanky, bony, and looked like someone had just stuck two sticks onto a snowman thinking that they were acceptable replacements for arms. His haystack of hair was perpetually both sticking to his forehead and trying to fly off his scalp. Facial features were cartoonishly proportioned with a mouth that took up almost half his face.
His eyes were the most striking thing about him: deep, goggly cavities behind bottle-thick glasses. They were a stratosphere blue that was intense and vivid. You might just get blinded if you stared at them too long. Not that you would get the chance. They were currently darting in all directions inside their sockets, threatening to roll out and come up snake-eyes.
"By the way," Garret said while looping around wires he had gathered, "I better get these hooked up before I fit the rest of the panel back on. Can you pass me a three-eighths crimper? Should be in the tool-box there- looks we might be able to reach, if I lean back some."
His tool-box contained all the instruments he had collected that even remotely related to machinery. It followed the same madman methodology as his living space. Drawers were stuffed to the brim.
"Oh," Wheatley muttered, "That's quite intense."
"Umm, absolutely! Not a problem!"
Garret tried his best to ignore the ramshackle rummaging that was going on below him and resumed, "She's mostly scrap of course. Stuff from Aaron's stockroom- you met Aaron?"
"Err, twice! Briefly. Here ya go!"
"Thanks, but those are slip-joint pliers." Third drawer from the top, second from the left of an alternating position between a pair of vise-grip pliers and an adjustable spanner wrench. Yes, he had that memorized.
"Oh. Well, er, easy mistake to make, think you'll find, they do look very similar, slip-joint pliers and… and what you said the first time- give me a moment-"
Some more rummaging.
Again, Garret continued his thought, "Sure, take your time. Anyway, that place is a goldmine. We weren't getting anywhere 'til I had the idea of looking through all that scrap he keeps lying around in there. As it is, I still had to write the software to get all these different systems to talk to each other from scratch, let alone the dish relays themselves-"
"-Ahah! Got it, got it, there ya go."
"Uh, well, that's a Robertson screwdriver. Have a look in the fourth drawer down-" it would either be there, in the drawer below, or in the first on top, depending on the day. "-so at first we were only trying to get a better radio signal in here, fit up a more reliable way of communicating with the bigger towns we trade with, that kinda thing."
"How about this?"
It took Garret all of his mental strength not to stare at him for too long. "Yeah, no…closer, though, kind of. That's..a hammer."
He went back to plaiting wires. "And signal's always been kind of patchy around here. There's just a lot of natural interference for some reason, so you need a good strong transmitter to start with. But then I got thinking, since the Ottens don't mind this thing in their field, why not go for something a little more ambitious?"
Frayed, bright eyes looked up at him with weak hope. "This?"
Garret sighed inwardly. "That'd be my sandwich."
He took it from Wheatley, gently, argued with himself, gave up, and responded, "I guess it is time for a break. I'll come on down."
The sandwich, like most food, went straight to his mouth. He unclipped himself from the wires and slid down the iron jungle without a single hitch. He tore a piece of the sandwich off and noticed something else about Wheatley from his new perspective.
Mart was right. The man was positively, ridiculously tall, even with his slouching posture. He was a good six feet at the least, making Garret come up to barely about his shoulders. He had to crane his neck up just to look at his face. An unpleasant position, but he would manage.
The tall man currently looked even more frantic, if that were possible. His hands were knotting overtime over each other.
"So-er, just to clarify," he said, trying to change the subject, "what does it- she, sorry- what does she actually do?"
Garret caught that change- another odd thing- most people didn't consider his way of addressing her. He looked longingly up-and-down his creation, and decided to answer a question he was often asked. Romy jokingly always called The Speech.
He started," When she's fired up, she's gonna act as a base station, getting us signal clear across the tri-state area, maybe even further. We'll get wireless digital signal processing and data transmission as high as two g-bits per second. We'll have long-distance capability that'll put the vorts to shame. Radio, of course, and phone, internet, all the public news broadcasts, independent channels- you name it. No more shifting around trying to get a good signal halfway across town- if it all works out, we'll be able to send and receive anything as well as those hotshots over in New Detroit. Maybe even better."
He was beaming by the end of it- proud of where he had come- and determined to show where he was going to go. Three years may have seemed like a long time, but it was nothing compared to the good she was going to bring this town in the long run.
Speaking of which, he had to record today's findings. His aide was taken out of his pocket, mouth full of the remains of his sandwich, and his fingers were already flying across the virtual keypad.
There might have been someone speaking, but he had already shifted focus to his work.
A voice replied, "I'll just leave you to it, then. "Can see you two need some, er, alone time. Keep up the good work."
"Nice meeting you," Garret managed to speak around his lunch in his mouth, "Come back and help some time, we always need more hands."
"Right!"
Garret looked out of the corner of his eye as Wheatley retreated by walking backwards. He saw a familiar silhouette of a lady around the barn. He only got to see half of her, but he sighed in relief to see that Wheatley hadn't been lying about Chell being alright.
Her dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail, as usual. A slip of white under her shirt, probably bandaging to seal the wound. She almost dwarfed by her companion, even with her rigid posture.
It was a peculiar sight. A bent wittering stalk in a crooked upside-down J position next to a warm, stone pillar daring all around her to even try to question her presence. In any other context, you wouldn't see two people of these descriptions even a boulder's throw within each other. But, Garret saw familiarity in Chell's body language, a gentle patience in her stance, a wry glint in her gaze. It was obvious these two had a history.
This was the first time he had even considered Chell had a past. She was a woman of the now, the present, the what-needed-to-be-done. Get the task done, tick it off the list, bring on the next. Always driven ever forward by some unseen force that was as constant as gravity drove meteors in the atmosphere, debris into planets, and stars into black holes. There was no reason, no logical explanation, just a simple fact. She kept going, never looking back.
Wheatley, or at least his first impression of the guy, was….not.
This guy was all over the place. His speech was constantly trying to get in a word in edgewise over itself in a heated debate that only it understood. Sometimes it seemed like he would get stuck on one idea and incessantly repeat it in any possible combination of ways to get the idea across.
He wondered how they knew each other.
The engineer's curiosity could wait. Garret had a task list to finish and lost time to make up for. This had been an interesting distraction, but that was all-a distraction. Fox had been waiting on him long enough.
The gears of his head switched into a state of relaxed focus, hungry for action but controlled and uniform to the teeth. He wolfed down the rest of his sandwich, clipped himself back into the cables, and climbed to his previous workplace with the newly bundled wires.
He kept his attention on his work, but the automatic pace of finishing the panel's weld allowed a sliver of attention to diverge. Garret ignored it, but he still felt the as-not-yet acknowledged feeling of uncertainty itching the crook of the back of his neck, hairs starting to rise. If he had consciously acknowledged it, he would have recognized the symptom's similarity to eerie shadows of an empty house.