There was a clear disadvantage when Science, and not even a particularly pleasant aspect of it, was literally the only thing you knew.

There was also a disadvantage when you had no job, your only memories stemmed from being nothing more than a glorified lab rat, and you were walking around wearing a tattered orange jumpsuit from the Facility along with dingy but still functional long-fall boots. Not to mention carrying a charred, bulky cube with pink hearts painted on each side.

And it was made even worse when, soon after arriving in a strange city, you just happened to run into a high-ranking employee of the biggest science facility in the area and were pretty much hired on the spot, without even so much as an interview—just because you were so obviously associated with the place you never wanted to think about again—whether you liked it or not. An entire year later and nothing had changed.

Chell trudged home with her face set in a scowl. Her black bangs clung to her sweaty forehead and she swiped one arm across it to wipe them away. Under her other arm she carried a fat folder, the label of which couldn't be read in the darkness. The flashlight she always carried with her was tucked away at the bottom of her satchel. She had to make her way home without it tonight, as the thing had flickered and gone out about two seconds after she had tried to turn it on earlier.

"They told me, if I ever turned this flashlight on, I would DIE! They told me that about everyth—"

The sudden intrusion on her thoughts startled her and when she recognized it she brought it to an immediate, screeching halt. Angrily she shoved the memory—that voice—to the back of her mind and buried it as deeply as she could.

She gritted her teeth and clenched the folder so tightly that it bent. Why had that memory even resurfaced? Was something as simple as thinking about a flashlight enough to… to…?

Chell blinked, momentarily taken aback. The folder she'd been carrying had been flung onto the ground, thrown wide open, with the papers that made up its contents scattered around it. Next she came to notice that she had slipped into an attack pose and was breathing heavily.

She calmed her breathing, irritation at herself (and at the old emotions dredged up by the memories) stewing in her gut. Not again.

Slowly she picked up the folder, shuffling the papers back together and sliding them back into the flimsy cardstock pockets.

A year after being released from… That Place… and she still couldn't control the occasional bouts of rage that rose up unbidden at the slightest provocation. Whatever she was holding, she either threw or broke.

Once the papers had all been collected she rested on her ankles and ran her hands over her face, her dark, silver-streaked hair falling forward in a curtain around her ears as she slowly shook her head from side to side. This job… It brought up too many memories that she would rather just forget.

She supposed she was lucky Membrane Labs had hired her, though. With her meager skill set, which basically consisted of jumping and the ability to fire a portal gun with marked precision, she wasn't sure what else she could do.

Chell had only met the CEO of Membrane Labs (its namesake Professor Membrane) once, when she had first started working there. Around that time she'd wondered what his first name was, since it was never mentioned. Then one of her co-workers had assured her that Membrane was his first name, and no one seemed to know what his surname was. Strange that two famous and influential scientists, Professor Membrane and Cave Johnson, had unusual nouns for first names.

At last she dragged herself out of her thoughts, tucked her folder under one arm again, and stood once more. It was still a long way back to her apartment.

Her head dipped forward slightly at the thought that she probably needed a car. Needed one, but didn't particularly want one. Her own two legs had never failed her before and she didn't much like the idea of depending on a clunky metal box with wheels to get her where she needed to go. The thought of driving just seemed wrong, somehow.

But of course, maybe that was exactly why she should do it. The corner of her mouth twisted up in a wry, half-hearted smile.

After another half hour of walking she finally made it back to her apartment complex, letting out her customary little ashamed sigh when she caught sight of the state of the place.

Life had not been kind to Chell since she had left That Place. Living in the rattiest apartments in town, earning very little money by doing the one thing she knew but hated… Still. Chell took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air smelled thick and disgusting, but on the plus side it lacked the pristine, chemical scent of the test chambers she had been forced to run for so long. It was another sign that, against all odds, she was free.

Chell made her way up the stairs to her own apartment, walking with a slight but noticeable limp. She still wasn't sure where exactly she had gotten it. It could have been from any number of things that had happened to her at the Facility; after all, she still had received little to no medical attention for any of it. If she ever encountered some sort of problem, she simply pushed past it until it went away on its own—just as she had been accustomed to doing ever since she had first woken up in a small glass room with barely any idea of where she was. The limp had been there for almost the entire year she'd been free, though. That was stupid.

She had hardly set foot in the apartment when the phone on the wall rang. Chell closed and locked the door, dropping her folder on the card table where she usually sat to eat, but didn't bother to kick off her shoes before picking up the phone.

"Chell?" a tight male voice asked. It was Mr. Simmons, right hand man to Professor Membrane. "I'm calling to tell you that we need those calculations by tomorrow. We're inches away from finishing the project but there's always something wrong with the numbers you give us. Why were you so insistent on working on this if you barely know what you're doing? We can't even afford to switch you with someone else now! We're too close!"

Chell offered no response and her face remained stoic.

Mr. Simmons grunted. "Get those numbers in by tomorrow, and make sure they're right, or I'm sorry, we're going to have to fire you. We'll just have to deal with the setbacks." He hung up.

Chell lowered the phone onto the table with her hand resting on it, staring at nothing. They had been threatening to fire her for months. Nothing had been done yet.

She hung the phone back on its receiver and went into the kitchen, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. Then she sat down at the table and rested her gaze on the folder.

'Artificial Intelligence Experiment 238: Sentience!'

The last word was in bold, a larger font, and was followed by a plethora of exclamation points. Chell couldn't exactly say she shared in its optimism. She flipped open the folder, closely examining her notes on the calculations and formulas needed for the newest experiment on sentient artificial intelligence. As far as she could tell they were quite good. Very accurate.

Fortunately, Chell was highly skilled in the art of breaking things.

The house phone was ringing off the hook, actually rattling in its receiver on the table. Eventually the base Computer got fed up enough with the noise that it alerted Zim, who threw on his disguise in his underground base and allowed an elevator to take him to the surface.

The phone never rang this incessantly, not unless GIR had kept a rented movie for weeks past its due date again. Perplexed, Zim picked it up. "Hello?"

The excited person on the other end started babbling immediately. "Listen, I know where those space probes came from—!"

"How did you get my phone number, Dib-filth?!" Zim snarled into the phone, balking at the familiar voice.

"Keef gave it to me. I guess you must've given it to him when you were doing that stupid friend thing," Dib replied.

Keef knew his phone number? Zim made a mental note to take care of that carrot-haired human's memory later.

"Look, Zim, I wanted to let you know that I got the other core working today and it told me where they came from. Have you ever heard of a place called Apert—?"

"NO!" Zim cut in. "What space probes? Don't call me, human. Your voice is stupid."

"The space probes I brought to your doorstep last night!" Dib reminded him. "The ones you said would explode in my face? They're actually called cores. Turns out they're from a science facility called Aperture Laboratories. Have you heard of it?"

"Why would I have heard of it?" Zim snapped.

"Look, Zim, I called you as a last resort," Dib said. "The facility has a webpage, but the entire thing's been wiped. The only other thing I could find was a news article saying it had been gassed, everyone in it died, and the entire place caved in. I asked around my paranormal forums to see if anyone knew anything about it other than that, but they didn't."

"Why do you insist on boring me to death with your drivel?" Zim asked, his eyelids drooping.

Dib just raised his voice slightly. "Think about those two cores I found! They were up in space but they clearly weren't made for it, and they came from that facility—even though everyone's supposed to be dead! I'd say it's all really suspicious, wouldn't you? And they're some of the most advanced technology I've ever seen!"

That caught Zim's attention. "What? Nonsense!"

"They're sentient!" the human said excitedly. "Much more sentient than your stupid robots, even. I've never seen anything like it!"

Zim paused. "And, they came from… where, again?"

"Never mind about that. Since you don't know anything, I'm gonna go try to—"

"Give me one!" Zim commanded.

Dib stopped talking for a moment, taken aback. "What?"

"Give me the space probes!" Zim said. "Let's see how 'advanced' they are when they're disassembled in a pile of scrap."

"What? No! I'm not gonna give you—"

"GIR's advanced," Zim interrupted with more than a hint of pride. "There's no way your stolen robots are anywhere near his caliber."

"Forget it, Zim." Dib hung up without so much as a farewell taunt. Zim glowered at the phone still clenched in his hand, and then slammed it on the receiver.

Once again the human had no idea whom he was dealing with.

Dib put the phone back on its receiver, chewing the inside of his cheek. Any sort of information about this science facility was proving difficult to unearth, but of course that just made him more determined. He turned off the TV—which was playing some sort of special on sentient clouds instead of the new Mysterious Mysteries episode he'd been promised—and climbed back upstairs.

It was getting late again and he entered his room with the full intention of going to bed. However, he quickly realized that unless he wanted to go the night without any sleep, he'd have to put both cores somewhere outside his room until morning. Either that or find some heavy-duty earplugs.

"All I'm saying is that there is clearly something wrong with the sky here," Wheatley was declaring from his spot on the desk, where Dib had set him back down after their return inside. At Dib's arrival the core looked up. "Oh! Good! I wanted to ask you about the sky. Did you see it, earlier? Did you see it? Brown! The sky was brown! What kind of bizarre weather pattern is that supposed to signify, anyway? Rain? …Mud? Raining mud? Didn't know that was possible, pretty sure it's not. But I mean the sky is supposed to be blue. Everything I've ever read says the sky is blue."

"STARS!" the yellow-eyed Space Core squealed next to him, catching sight of the night sky outside Dib's window. "I SEE STARS!"

"I think your sky is broken, mate. Someone should really check up on that. You should get a man in. In my opinion."

Dib massaged the skin under his eye with his fingertips. "Look, I'm going to put you both out in the hall for the night, okay?"

Wheatley swiveled to face him, optic wide in surprise. "What? The hall? Wait, what's wrong with your—" He cut himself off as Dib hoisted him up by the handles and walked to the doorway, setting him on the floor outside his room. He then followed suit with the Space Core, putting him next to Wheatley. As soon as both cores were out of his room he closed his door again.

The room was silent now. All right, so maybe dumping the cores outside was a little cruel, but Dib knew he needed the quiet. He wasn't used to people making conversation with him at the best of times, let alone while he was trying to sleep. He'd visit with the cores again in the morning. Maybe he'd even manage to get some more information out of them. In fact, he'd gotten an idea for how that might be accomplished...

For a moment, the hallway was hushed, with the only light being the strange mixed glow put off by the cores' respective stratosphere-blue and gold optics.

Wheatley blinked. "…Oh." He stared at the bedroom door, then rolled his optic about in his casing as he scanned up and down the hallway. "All- all right, then. This is as nice a place as any, I suppose. In the dark hallway of a strange building. At night. In the dark. Alone. Well, except for you, obviously." He cast the Space Core a quick glance, then his vision flicked back to the closed door. "He probably wants to go into, ah, sleep mode—sleep, just regular sleep, I mean—and- and, er, didn't want us to keep him up. Humans are sort of sensitive about that kind of thing, I think. That's the- that's the only reason he put us out here, obviously."

"I like it here. I like it. Hey," Spacey said, rocking back and forth as he waggled his handlebars and glanced at Wheatley. "Hey."

"Yes?" Wheatley asked, a bit uncertainly.

The Space Core blinked, his lower optic shield pulling up in a smile. "Are we going back to space?"

Wheatley shivered. "I bloody well hope not, mate."

Suddenly he quailed and the aperture of his optic contracted tightly. What if this new human—Dib—what if he did send them back into space? What if he did something worse? Like… like… What if he sent them back to the Facility?

Wheatley huddled into his casing, blinking rapidly and simulating heavy breathing. Would he do that? No, no, of course he—what if he was in league with Her? Why else would he toss them out in the hallway to fend for themselves? His vocal synthesizer rasped out a choked, garbled croak at the thought.

When Wheatley had been falling from space, he'd been absolutely sure that She was the one behind it. He'd all but given up, right then and there, knowing that if the mistress of the Facility was controlling his downward plunge then he had no way, no way to avoid whatever fate was awaiting him. But then when he had come back online just a few hours earlier, he'd found himself somewhere else entirely: a human's bedroom. Just a plain, normal, everyday human's bedroom (presumably, as he'd never actually visited one before today).

It seemed he had been wrong about Her. And it seemed there was still a small spark of hope left for him, after all. A slightly bigger spark now, actually, given that he was no longer incapacitated in space. Maybe this human could help him somehow. If Wheatley could trust him, of course. Okay, I'll come up with a quick test, he thought. The moment the word crossed his mind he flinched. Sorry, experiment. Let's say experiment. Right. If this human DOES NOT send us back to space or back to the Facility, then he's on our side. No doubt about it. I can tell him all about everything. At some point. Possibly. But, um, the other hand- on the other hand, if he does send us to space or to, to the—back There, then um… he is clearly not on our side, and I'll… Well, in that scenario there isn't really much I could do except… er… nothing.

He sincerely hoped Dib wouldn't send them off anywhere.

But your track record with humans hasn't been all that fantastic so far, mate, a snide little voice on the very edge of his processor said. Him earning your trust is all well and good, but how the bloody heck do you expect to earn his trust? What happens when he finds out what happened to all the others? You've killed how many humans, ten thousand and six? Ten thousand and seven by now, probably. There's no way that lady could've survived testing this long.

Shut up! It's not like he needs to know about that! Wheatley thought furiously, shoving the unwanted comments away from the forefront of his mind. He'd do better this time, he would, he'd make sure of it. He was out of That Place now, he was away from Her, away from the poisonous mainframe—But you're not away from yourself. Those things didn't cause your monstrous behavior back at Aperture so it doesn't even matter that they're out of the equation now, does it? That was ALL YOU, and you know it.

I said shut up! Wheatley wailed in his mind, spinning wildly in his casing. "It's not my fault! That was not my fault. That was the bloody awful body I was in and that blasted Itch, nothing else! All right? I didn't even know what I was doing half the time and—" That's a lie. "—Well who asked you, anyway?! And I never would've done it if the mainframe hadn't—" Are you sure? "I mean, I—agh, why can't I—"

"Hey."

The tone of that single syllable was so cold and hostile that Wheatley froze completely, one hundred percent certain for a split second that She had actually found him at last. Slowly he rotated his inner casing to face in the direction of the voice, his optic a mere pinprick of faint blue light.

A girl was standing in the hall behind him. She squinted down at Wheatley, her eyes narrowed so far that he couldn't even make out the whites; they along with most of the rest of her face were nothing more than black shadowy pits, somehow even darker than the surrounding gloom of the hallway. She was wearing an outfit that seemed to be all one piece—with even her hands and feet covered—and had a zipper down the front. Two small bat-like wings protruded from her back and Wheatley honestly wasn't sure if they were just part of the outfit or if they were actually attached to the girl herself.

"…Er, hello," Wheatley managed to say. He tried to recall who this person was but was pretty sure he'd never seen her before.

The girl glared down at him, opening one eye wide enough that in the dim light he could see an amber iris, the same color as Dib's. "I don't know what you are," she said in a slow, even tone, "but you're talking so much that I can't sleep."

"Um. Er, sorry, um, Luv."

Both of the girl's eyes were open now. "What did you just call me?"

"Nothing!" Wheatley said. "I just called you, um, 'Glove.' Yes." He silently begged Spacey to do something but their radio connection was badly damaged and apparently he hadn't picked up the art of telepathy, because the yellow-eyed core continued to twitch and babble about nothing but space-related paraphernalia. "Also I've just been… talking to myself, yeah. Bit stupid, really, but I do that on occasion, and I'm really sorry I disturbed you… um, whoever… you… are." He shivered. Something about this girl scared him out of his circuitry.

The girl just grunted and closed her eyes again. "You're one of Dib's things, aren't you? I saw him carrying around you stupid spheres all day and trying to tell Dad how you're so intelligent."

"Intelligent?" Wheatley perked up somewhat, awe spreading through his processor. Intelligent? Someone—a human—had been trying to prove he was intelligent?

"Just stop making noise," the girl said, turning away. "Or I'll throw both of you out in the yard. It's supposed to rain tonight." With that, she left, making her way silently back down the hall and into a different room. The door closed with a soft click.

Wheatley hunkered down in his casing and turned to the core next to him. "Right… you heard 'er, Spacey. No noise. Absolutely no noise, one hundred percent silence. All the time. Silence. Otherwise we'll end up out in the rain, which does not sound ideal, or- or we'll end up somewhere worse. Back There, maybe."

"Space?" the yellow core piped up instantly.

"No, the other 'There.' The Facility."

"QUIET!" the girl shouted from her room, and Wheatley immediately fell silent.

It was going to be a long night.

Morning sunlight filtered in through the round windows above Dib's bed as he knelt in front of his closet, rummaging around in an old cardboard box.

"All right, this is the cord with the closest matching plug I can find," Dib said at last, standing back up with a long black cable coiled in his arms. He put the box back away and closed the closet again. "It should work, but it might be a little glitchy." He unraveled the cord, plugging one end into one of his dad's ancient USB adaptors and in turn fitting that into his computer. He held the other end of the cord up to show Wheatley. "Okay. Ready?"

The core's upper lid drooped and he gave Dib an uneasy look. "...Having second thoughts about this, actually. I've never been plugged into an actual… you know, computer computer like that before. I mean who knows, it might have some sort of virus that affects robots, too. But um… If it'll answer your questions, and as- as long as I don't have to talk about the Facility…"

Dib gave a brisk nod, swiveling the core around on the desk. "Yeah. All right, let's find out about this horrible science facility of yours."

Wheatley craned his optic to try to see behind him while Dib examined the three small prongs on his back port. When he clipped the end of the plug into the port Wheatley gave a violent jerk, yelping. Dib released the plug immediately.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing! Nothing," Wheatley stuttered. "I'm fine. Just surprised me is all."

Dib rotated Wheatley back around to face him, sat down in his desk chair, and then turned his attention to the computer. Text started flickering up on the monitor:

/New device detected

/Origin unknown

/Scanning for origin… Processing…

/Mark IV Personality Construct copyright Aperture Laboratories 199_ [error data corrupt]

/Open connection with device y/n

"What's it doing?" Wheatley asked, shuffling his handles to try to face the screen. Dib turned him towards the monitor, making sure the cable remained secure. He punched the 'y' key and the text on the screen vanished. Despite having Wheatley plugged in, everything on the screen still looked the same. Maybe there was something wrong with the—

The screen went dark.

"Oh. It's black," Wheatley said after a pause. He glanced at Dib. "Do I, er… Should I try to hack it?"

"No, hang on," Dib said. He pressed a few buttons on the keyboard but it didn't affect anything. Maybe Wheatley should try to "hack" it, although… That seemed kind of like a bad idea. "Can you access anything?" he asked hesitantly, turning his head to the robot. Wheatley's optic shutters narrowed in a squint at the screen.

"Yeah… yes, I think I—Let's try this…"

There were a few beeps and the monitor flared up with a blindingly bright image of a white background featuring a black, circular, shuttered logo exactly like the ones etched underneath the optics of the two cores. The black logo faded to a muted gray and more text blossomed into existence in front of it.

Welcome, Aperture Science personnel, to the automatic AI inspection server! This server will inspect your Aperture Science Personality Construct for any circuitry damage or corruption. To access, please sign in.

Username:

Password:

"Inspection server?" Wheatley said. "Never heard of that before. Must be new. Oh, also, that does not look good. Username and password. Nasty. Not sure I can hack that, y'know, both of those at the same time. Little bit tricky."

"Hang on," Dib mumbled. Why was Wheatley so bent on hacking things? Dib moused over to the bottom of the screen where a tiny link labeled 'Create New' could barely be seen, and clicked it.

Hello, and welcome, new and valued faculty member of Aperture Laboratories! Welcome to the wonderful world of SCIENCE! You are about to embark on a fantastic journey of testing, data, experiments, and more testing. Create your personal account here. (note: all Aperture Science employee accounts will be closely inspected five times a day at random and unposted times.)

*Username:

Password:

Confirm password:

*Full name:

Email:

*Social security number:

Birth date:

*Mother's maiden name:

*Allergies (and severity of said allergies):

*Address:

*Close family/friends:

*Elementary and middle school GPA (if applicable):

*High school GPA:

*College degree and GPA:

*Awards won:

*Experiences with SCIENCE:

*required field

Thank you for helping us help you help us all. :)

Note: If this is Greg and you just forgot your password again, you're fired.

"...Or you could fill out one of those things," Wheatley said. "Careful, though, if you make a fake account, it says they check those things five times a day. They may catch on or something."

"Everyone who used to work there died," Dib reminded him. He quickly filled in the form with information off the top of his head and hit enter, then typed in a few commands.

The screen fizzled out to be replaced by pages and pages of scrolling code of which Dib could only decipher a fraction. Names scrolled up, too, along with their birthdates—no, death dates… 'ASHPD test 18,' 'ASHPD test 25,' and so on. Some—no, he realized again, most—weren't even named, just labeled with things along the lines of 'Test subject 00054.' Dib began to feel a bit queasy.

"'Test subject'?" He cast a cursory glance at Wheatley.

"Oh, yeah, there used to be loads of them," the core replied nonchalantly. "Ten thousand, give or take. They were all sort of sealed away when She was shut down and uh…" He stumbled over his words. "Well, long story short, they all died… most of 'em."

Dib's eyes widened as he watched the scrolling names. There were so many of them…

He'd had enough. Quickly he typed in the first command he could think of and let the screen go to something else.

"Okay, I'm going to look up everything I can about Aperture Science," he said to Wheatley. "Try not to—"

The screen changed, though he hadn't told it to. It was replaced by a jittering scene, tinted blue, of some sort of shady hallway. The viewpoint shifted from wall to wall as if whatever this image had come from was looking around, then it cut to black and came into view again. Just like a blink. The camera went up to a nearby door and a handlebar came into view, and rapping on the door to create a knocking sound.

"Hello? Anyone in there? Hellloooo?" Wheatley's voice called, but it was coming from the computer rather than the robot himself. The real Wheatley's eye widened as the recording continued. "Are you going to open the door? At any time?"

"Oh! I think it's playing one of my memory files!" he said. "You don't have to- you don't have to watch those—"

The scene changed again in a short fit of static. There was more rolling along above an empty hallway, absolutely no one around—then in the distance there was a black, sparking podium that looked like it should be holding something—then there was falling—travelling along catwalks, suspended in the air by arcs of electricity fizzing from a white gun that a woman held poised in her arms—a giant, white and black, bulky thing with what looked like a yellow optic, which never turned to look at the screen—then flashes of static and vibrant colors and then black—

At the sight of the memory on the screen, Wheatley shuddered and pulled into his casing.

The scenes began progressing more rapidly, so fast that Dib couldn't keep up with them. There were more flashes—a bright white light—a woman in an elevator rising off the floor—shattered glass everywhere—white robots being shoved together with giant bulky cubes—an array of flat panels with spikes on the bottom, surrounding a woman standing alone on a platform—fast, confusing images of a wide room with blue, orange, and white paint splattered across the floor—blackness, stars, the craggy white surface of the moon, space—

"All right, all right, stop! STOP!" Wheatley cried, cringing away from the screen. "I think you've got enough information now, haven't you? More than enough, definitely, so just—" he glanced at the screen, closed his optic again, and looked away. "—Just turn it off. Please."

"Are you sure?" Dib asked. "Can't we just—?" When Wheatley didn't respond, he pulled out the cord attaching the core to the computer and the memories flashing across the screen shut off at once.

Wheatley simulated a long, relieved sigh. "That's better. Much better. Thank you."

Glancing at the blank computer again, Dib's brow furrowed. "Bad memories?"

"You could say that," Wheatley replied, his eye downcast. "Not anything that needs to be worried about, though, haha!" He attempted one of the most unconvincing laughs that Dib had ever heard. "I've put it all behind me. All of it."

Dib took a long, deep breath. "Wheatley," he said evenly. "What exactly happened at Aperture Laboratories?"

"Professor Membrane, Sir—" A man poked his head into the room but stopped abruptly when his eyes fell on the only occupant. "…Oh, sorry. Do you know where Membrane is?"

Chell, sitting at a table at Membrane Labs where she was been rewiring a couple of electrical components, looked up. She dusted off her hands and stood with a shake of her head.

The man gave her an odd look before realization crossed his face. "Oh! You're the one that doesn't talk much." He looked down at the enormous stack of papers in his arms and bit his lip. "Hey, are you busy?"

Chell nodded.

"Good, good, I need a little help." The man, apparently having ignored her response, walked forward and dumped the papers into Chell's arms. "Can you do me a favor and hand these off to the professor? I have got to get back to work."

Without waiting for Chell to accept or deny the request, he turned and left. Chell narrowed her eyes at the space where he had gone. Well, she supposed she wasn't that busy. Also, it might be good to meet the "great" Professor Membrane again. She'd remember this, though, if that man ever asked her for another favor.

She frowned as she left the room. The professor could be anywhere. He hated the idea of working behind a desk—she wasn't sure if he even had an office. He wanted to be in the thick of things, working hard on some new invention or innovation and almost completely disregarding the existence of the entire rest of the staff in his fervor to create SCIENCE (oh how she hated that word). He was almost always at the lab, too, and Chell had heard from someone that he wasn't married, and he probably never had been, but he had two kids. How did he even take care of them?

But of course that wasn't actually her business (not that staying out of other people's business had ever bothered her before). She pushed her ponderings aside and turned her attention back to the task at hand—finding Mr. Membrane.

At last she heard his booming voice from down the hall and hurried to the closed door that led to it. She was just about to swing it open when she caught some of the words being spoken and paused with her hand hovering in front of the handle, wondering how long she could get away with eavesdropping.

"Not now, Son!" the professor was saying. "You told me about those robots yesterday, and I've told you that artificial sentience is not currently possible! Now run along, I am extremely busy today. We'll have to talk later."

"But Dad—" a boy's voice said. Either he was in the room with his father or Chell was overhearing a video call. "This is important! Well, everything I tell you about is important, but this is even more so! It's about a corrupt science facility! Remember the one that was gassed? You showed me the article about it years ago."

Chell's hand went slack on the door handle and her heart thudded faster, her gaze drifting up along the door and a shadow of horror flickering across her face. She struggled to calm herself down. There were lots of science facilities. The boy couldn't possibly be talking about—

"Dad, will you just listen?" the boy said in an almost exasperated tone. "This place has human test subjects and according to one of the robots I found, there's still one in there, and if someone doesn't get her out then she'll be killed. Here, Wheatley'll tell you! Go on, Wheatley."

Chell's entire body seized up and her heart stopped working. Her wide-eyed stare at the door burned, as if the sheer power of her gaze was capable of searing a hole in the wood. No. No, this couldn't be happening. This wasn't real.

She should leave. She should just back away, run, never look back, she didn't have to stay here—

A third voice spoke. "It's true! What he's- what he's tellin' you. It's all true."

The entire stack of papers cascaded out of Chell's arms, hitting the floor with a whump.

For the whole of the last year she had only ever heard that voice in flashbacks and nightmares.

"That sounded like important documents being dropped!" Professor Membrane said. "We'll talk later, Son."

"Dad!" the boy's voice took on a pleading tone but was cut off. On a reflex, Chell grabbed the door handle and flung it open, stumbling into the room and taking it in with wild eyes. She found herself face-to-face with none other than Professor Membrane, who was turning around to open the door himself. In front of him hovered a floating screen—blank, now, but she was sure that a moment ago it had displayed the image of Membrane's son… and, unless her ears had deceived her, that… core.

Professor Membrane looked down at the pile of scattered papers in the hall in what she assumed to be dismay. "Oh, I see! They're only more fan letters. Send them off to Simmons, would you? He'll answer them for me."

The Professor walked briskly into the hall, sidestepped the papers without breaking stride, and marched off. He didn't even usher Chell out of the room.

Chell's harried look dissolved into her familiar stoic expression. Mechanically she walked back into the hallway and pulled the multitude of fan letters back into some semblance of a stack, wedging her fingers underneath it and lifting it back up. She stood for a long moment with her cold, calculating gaze resting on the hover screen. Then she turned on her heel and strode away from the door, drawn up to her full height and staring straight ahead down the hall with steely eyes and an odd expression on her face.

It was a look she was accustomed to wearing and which she wore well. It was a look of pure determination.