AN: I am so sorry for the long wait! I've been busy with school (as usual), but here's a chapter with more of Aperture's "darker tones" to make up for it.


Wheatley marched through the corridors like a determined war hero, making his way to the janitor closet. He had everything planned out like a master tactician- the type of flour he was going to use, the kind of red candy topping, the kind of butter . . . there was only one thing left.

"Hey, Chell! What's your favourite kind of choc-?"

"Ah, Mr. Carl. Good, you're finally here."

Boss?! What was he doing here so early?

The authority-filled boss was standing next to Chell, whose back was as straight as that of a military officer. "Hello! So, uh . . . What's going on?" Real smooth, Sir Starchy.

"I have a special task for the two of you today," said the boss, serious as per usual.

"Ooh! I love tasks. I really do."

"Great. I need you two to go down to Test Chamber #0." He readjusted his tie.

Zero? Ooh, sounds real exciting! Zeroes- ah, they were always exciting.

The boss readjusted his tie again. "A little . . . accident happened down there with the mantis-man experiments."

"You mean the one with all the guns?"

"Yes . . . That one."

Chell and Wheatley glanced at each other, eyebrows raised.

Oh, this was not going to be good, was it?

"Remember to bring some of those with you," he said, gesturing to set of Aperture Science approved toxic garbage bags.

Wheatley and Chell nodded their heads with much determination, before picking up their tools- Chell had the mops, Wheatley had the bags.

"You might want to use a basket to carry those bags-"

Wheatley promptly stuck the set of bags over his head, determined look still on his face. He will not lose this battle! He will win! He will achieve victory, and Chell will wear a pink dress with puffy sleeves and he will carry her bridal style up to their bedro- Well, maybe not to the bedroom.

"Or you could stick it over your head . . .? Well- just try not to choke, okay?" the boss began to walk away, readjusting his tie for the fifty thousandth time that day.

"I'd hate to have to replace the slave janitors so soon. Those fake ads cost a lot."


Test Chamber #0 was a dark, dark place- cobwebs, suspicious red splatters, oozing piles of goo- it was just like a scene out of a horror film. Carl Wheatley, of course, was not bothered by it all. Really, it didn't faze him one bit. . .

"Gah! Bloody hell, what is that thing?!" he shrieked, tools clattering to the floor.

Chell being Chell, instantly picked up her mop and started smashing the doll like a piƱata repeatedly 'till it fell off from the ceiling like a large wad of wet laundry. Wheatley fumbled for his torchlight, heart pounding as he switched it on, revealing a lump of rubber, molded to look like a crude representation of a human being.

It's only facial features were a pair of drawn-on X's for eyes, and some text that read: REPLACEMENT FOR SUBJECT 3. "H-Hey, Sir Starchy?"

"Yeah?"

"I think this might be a two bag job."

Wheatley quickly pulled out a pair of plastic bags, along with a pair of scissors- something told him that the doll wasn't fitting through that narrow door whole. Chell took the pair of scissors from him, crouching down to begin dispatching the . . . whatever that thing was.

To her horror, a gooey vermillion liquid splashed right out, coating her in red as Mr. Wholegrain Wheatley screamed like a baby. "My god! Is that blood?! What kind of psychopath would put blood in a doll?"

"Fact: I would."

"Argh!"

This time, both Chell and Wheatley screamed like babies, hugging each other tightly in fear of the disembodied voice that had somehow picked up their scent trail- and decided to hunt them down.

A tall, shadowy figure slowly emerged from the pits of the abyss, long, shiny black boots clicking in the darkness. The soft glow from the blue-eyed janitor's fallen torchlight illuminated the man's face, revealing skin as pale as a sheet, and a smile too cold to be real.

"Salutations. I believe we may have met, junior."

Blue eyes met violet, and it was now Wheatley's turn to be thrown into some estranged childhood flashback.


"Salutations, junior."

A kid, couldn't be any more than ten. A snobby teenager, couldn't be any less than thirteen. And a little brother in tears.

"Hey! What did you do to him, Mitchelson?!" demanded the kid, balling his fists and referring to the teenager by his last name- his elder brother had said it would make him sound scarier.

"Oh, nothing out of the ordinary."

"H-He called me stupid!"

The teenager shot the brother an irate roll of the eyes. "I believe the correct term was, 'intelligence-lacking brat'."

"It means the same thing!" yelled the younger brother in frustration.

"Don't worry, Lennie," reassured the kid.

"I got him."


Back to present time, Wheatley was occupying himself with a very much productive hobby of glaring daggers at the mysterious man before him.

"Sir Starchy, are you still alive?!"

"Wait, what?! 'Course I am."

"You've been standin' there, just glaring your head off at 'im! For ten minutes!"

"Ten minutes? Hmm, it didn't felt like that long . . ."

Chell placed her hands on her hips, giving Wheatley her own glare. "Well, I've been over here, oh-so-very-much-easily chopping this doll into twenty pieces!"

"'M sorry . . ." Wheatley hung his head in shame like a scolded puppy.

"Perhaps you might like some assistance in cleaning up this . . . trainwreck, miss?"

"No can do. This is the job of the Sanitization Duo, good sir . . . whatever your name is!" said Chell, brandishing her mop like a weapon- which was deemed slightly ineffective by the fact that it was still floppy and soaking wet with doll blood.

The purple-eyed man blinked. "Oh, forgive me for forgetting to introduce myself. How careless of me, he remarked. "I am Dr. Alex Mitchelson," he said, extending his hand towards Chell, and pointedly away from Wheatley.

"I ran this experiment."