Chapter X—A Party of Three
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The puddle was only about knee-deep on Chell, once the water that had sloshed out onto its banks had trickled back in. Yet, she was utterly soaked from head to foot, and so was the cloth covering Wheatley. He seemed to be fine, though, all things considered—she shook him, just to make sure. ('Hey!' he yelled in confusion).
So he had survived the tidal wave, had he?
Judging by his lack of comments about the pond, Chell determined that water must not pose a very dangerous threat to his internal hardware. Aperture technology remains safely operational in up to 4000 degrees kelvin, said an unholy voice in her head (a voice that sounded suspiciously like her). She shook herself, unwillingly taking notice of the many droplets of water that rained down from her sopping hair, showering the surface of the pool. Tiny beads of light flickered across it, glinting blue in the glare radiating from Wheatley's optic. It sort of reminded her of firelight.
Also like firelight, this room—wherever it was—was lit enough for her to see some things once her eyes adjusted, whether by Wheatley's optic or from shafts of pale light falling from above, she was not sure. The sight was harsh, jagged; and yet she felt the light calm her, for it contrasted the contents of the memory of her voice better than anything else could.
She scanned the high walls, trying to squint, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar. This place had to be on the complete opposite side of the facility from the testing tracks. If she hadn't known, she wouldn't even have guessed that she was still inside of Aperture.
Good news, I guess, I'm alive, and so is Wheatley. Wet and cold, but a little water's better than the deadly alternative…
You all right? she asked silently, bumping the core sharply against her hip. She wanted to make sure that he really was okay before continuing on what would surely be a long, hard trek in the dark while drenched and filthy. Initially, she had been more than a little angry that he had guided her down into a foul, stinking culvert, but now that she had caught her breath she was sure that he honestly hadn't meant for it to happen. There were no more doubts in her mind if he was sincere—if he said he was sorry, then… he was sorry. Plain and simple.
He didn't even need to say it this time. Sacrifices had to be made if they wanted to get to their nearly impossible destination.
Seeking to reassure him (even she found the dark down here slightly creepy), Chell shook him gently, pressing him further into the crook of her arm. "M'all right," he mumbled in reply, rotating his optical plate further into her side, as if trying to bury himself wholly into her warmth. "I was just a little startled, is all. It's all fine."
Satisfied with his response, Chell unstuck her boots from the mud with a nasty sucking sound. She stumbled, as twin waves of water sloshed automatically to fill the holes, leaving the two sandy footprints invisible under the murky liquid. She waded through the shallows over to the sloping bank, stepping carefully to avoid getting her boots caught in the thick layer of mud beneath the water.
"Disgusting, though," said Wheatley, clearly appalled by the sounds as well as the residual splashes of muddy water. "Absolutely disgusting down here. Should've known there'd be a giant old puddle, eh? What with those little streams and all. 'll be a job for me, then, next time: warn you of oncoming obstacles. Yes."
Wringing out her tank as best as she could, Chell climbed onto the slimy banks and tried not to slip on the slick, wet patches of grass. It was a good thing that Wheatley's flashlight was still working, for she couldn't see hardly anything, even with it. By its light, she noted that her already filthy shirt-and-jumpsuit combination had most definitely not gotten any cleanerduring the day's events, that was for sure.
Chell pursed her lips in frustration. She would not be able to drink this water anymore (which had probably been crystal-clear two nanoseconds before their crash landing), for the muddy bottom had been stirred up by the impact. It would be more productive to lick sand off of a beach, she mused, wishing that all this water hadn't made her feel so thirsty.
Why is it that whenever we come across something that could be potentially useful, it's either already ruined, or the act of getting to it ruins it?
She felt her stomach give a strong rumble at the thought of water. How was it that even water could make her feel hungry?
"Oh," said Wheatley interestedly, his optic flicking to her middle. "I thought we'd just fed you potatoes last night? Already needing more sustenance? So sorry, but now's not really the time to stop and eat."
She shrugged in agreement.
"Ah, well," said Wheatley, watching trails of dripping water race down the test subject's clothing. They trickled onto the ground and back into the puddle via rivets. "I would say, at least there's water down here, but I wouldn't drink that, if I were you. Quite nasty. And, it didn't even help us get any cleaner! Still smelly. Ugh," he groaned at her, and she nodded in agreement. Yes, they were, and she didn't need reminding—a hot shower was already top priority if she should ever get the chance.
"At least a bit of water isn't going to hurt me," he said finally, watching the test subject try to wring out her hair. "The engineers must have thought that maybe one day a crazy jumpsuited lady might throw herself down a not-bottomless pit with me in her arms, eh?"
The ghost of a smile flitted across her face. Shivering, she stifled a small laugh.
"On the other hand," he said, watching her, "that bird. Did you see where it went, by any chance?"
She had almost forgotten about the bird. Automatically, she spun around to stare back up the shaft suspiciously, but there was no sign of it anywhere.
She huffed, letting her shoulders sag heavily. The core's optic followed her glance around the cavern.
He squirmed uncomfortably, a little upset by her lack of interest. "Are you sure you didn't see it?" he asked seriously. "Unquestionably positive, you didn't? I was trying to keep a lookout, but it was a little bit difficult, as you could imagine. The whole falling through the air thing didn't help. And now we've got no clue as to where this bird has gone."
No, she felt like telling him, I didn't see where the bird went. Too busy falling—and trying to save us from plunging to a horrible death, no big…
Assuming that it had flown back into the upper reaches of the facility, or back into wherever its nest was, Chell staggered forwards through the gloom. With each step, the soaked ground underneath her footing secreted little clouds of moisture. The accompanying noise was a rather nasty squelch.
Luckily, the material out of which her jumpsuit had been hewn must be at least partially impermeable. Chell found that, upon taking a few steps out of the water, her legs had actually been kept quite dry, and so had her feet.
But her upper half had not been so lucky.
The fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin, exposing far more of her physique than she would have liked. Through the white top the small indent of her belly button could be seen.
Very conscious of the beam of Wheatley's flashlight travelling up her body, Chell crossed her arms over herself, shielding the sight from him. The last thing she wanted was Wheatley to see—he had a knack for pointing out the very thing she was least comfortable with. She shivered a little, noticing that a bitter draft was gusting through the narrow cavern.
What is this place? she wondered.
"Drowned as a rat, aren't you," said the core, his interest piqued by Chell's shy body language. "Hmm. 'Drowned as a rat'. Not really a great comparison, is it? Not unless we were drowning rats, of course. Then it might work. But, ahh—rat or not, I'm sure you'll dry off soon enough."
He nodded reassuringly, and Chell smiled lightly down at him.
"Ahh," he said, narrowing his eye to in an attempt to see further ahead through the gloom. "Sorry for having to bring you down here like this, mate. If there had been a better way, we'd have been sure to take it."
She squeezed him a little closer into her side and gave a soft pat to the top of his casing. I forgive you.
"Well," he replied, a little embarrassed about the affectionate gestures, "all birds and not-bottomless pits aside, at least we're on the right track. Our destination still lies miles below, and we've got a long way to go until we reach another rest stop. So, uhh… I know it may look like nighttime down here, but it's not. Full day ahead. So just spin me around, yeah, and I'll light the way out for us."
She pulled him to the front of her body, tilting his core like a lamp. It didn't do much to break through the ominous gloom of the place, but it helped.
Behind her was an immense, chain-link fence, marked by many decaying signs reading things like 'danger—keep out' and 'this area contains elements of radioactive fallout and cosmic ray spallation'. Behind these, she could see an endless flight of stairs, probably leading back up to the very top layers of the Enrichment Center.
From the high ledge she had fallen from, she could just make out a total of two streams cascading down slimy, slick walls, each feeding the churning waters of the puddle. Their tinkling, musical din was added to the only other two sounds permeating the dankness: one was the sloppy, mucky suck of her footsteps, and the other was the sound of Wheatley's mechanics buzzing as he shifted his optic to and fro.
The puddle only had one outlet, a sloping path leading downhill into the gloom. It was very narrow, bordered by towering cement walls, higher than any Chell had seen. The stream ran underground, lost from sight by a mulch of iron beams and large chunks of concrete, all fallen from the collapsed roof above.
It would be a dangerous march.
In contrast with the perfectly balanced, smooth hallways of the Enrichment Center above, this was a treacherous, chaotic mess. It was so laced with sharp, deadly outcroppings that Chell felt her breath quicken from the idea of crossing such a mess by herself.
"Right state this place is in," Wheatley whispered from under her arm. "Like I said before, Scientists wanted to make a courtyard for themselves, or something. Lazy buggers. Didn't think that it might destabilize the entire foundation of the place."
She supposed he was right. The path held signs of once having been held together by large, rusted wires, now hanging dangerously from above. A few still bridged the gap, linking the two walls, but most had crumbled away with age.
What had caused this? She wondered about it, but would never know the answers. Why hadn't she fixed it? Were these scars too deep for even her to mend?
More likely, they were just out of her 'reach'.
Chell shivered, eyeing the wall on her right uneasily. Portions of it had been torn away completely, leaving gaping holes shrouded only by concrete mesh. Inside, she could see remnants of stairways and rooms that might have been offices.
She breathed deeply and swallowed hard, holding Wheatley close to her as she picked her way downhill.
"This is it," he chattered, trying to keep up a constant stream of encouragement in the form of babbling. "The beginning—of the end. Hopefully. And then it'll be a one-way trip to the surface, mate! Just you and I. We'll be able to properly dry you off, heat you up. No shortage of heat and light up there! I daresay, you won't even need my flashlight anymore! Except for at night. Yes. Might need it at night, not unless you can find some electricity up there, somewhere."
Casting him a wistful smile, Chell took the first few hesitant steps down the crevice. Her left hand flew out to stabilize herself against the slimy wall as her boots slid precariously. Evidently the metal heels of her boots, so useful for long falls, were not equipped to traverse areas of slippery lichen and moss.
This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
And Wheatley, as helpful as his encouragement and flashlight were, was not going to make it any easier.
It's hard to balance with a fifteen-pound weight slung over one shoulder.
"It does bring up a good question, though," he said, completely oblivious to Chell's predicament. "What if they don't have electricity up there? To be honest, I'm not sure if they do. And, ahh—well, that'd mean there aren't any management rails up there, either… And possibly no ports. That—could be disastrous. Didn't think of that. Bugger, why didn't we think to grab an extra set of batteries while we were up there? I mean, fair enough, you won't still be around a hundred years from now when it runs out, but…"
Whether or not there would be electricity up on the surface was the least of her worries right now. Maybe for Wheatley it would be a big deal, but after living so long as an outcast, Chell was kind of used to a hard-knock way of life. If there wasn't power and the nights were dark and held no light, it'd still be better than this place.
The scree-strewn cleft was a lot longer than she had initially thought, she soon found out. She dodged between half-hidden segments of sharp, tough wire, meandered her way past broken shards of glass, ignoring the darkened rooms beyond. She slid over boulders, leaped past broken iron beams, and tried to ignore the way the core's flashlight made pinnacles of debris shine like terrifying swords in the night.
She rested a short while on a carpet of moss, breathing deeply and listening to Wheatley's prattle. He talked a lot when he was nervous; but she couldn't help finding it comforting.
"Hmm," he hummed quietly. "Doesn't look as though anyone's been down here in ages, does it?"
Chell nodded, shivering a little. It was bloody cold down here, not to mention damp.
"It's almost like a graveyard. For-for technology. Hellish place, this… At least she can't touch us, though. I seriously doubt she'd ever look here, if she didn't think we were dead. Umm… just keep that sustaining thought going, and-and add in that, once we do reach the rest-spot, we'll probably be able to make another one of those fires."
Chell privately felt that she agreed wholeheartedly, especially about this place being like a graveyard. Under her control or not, it gave her the creeps.
But she rose to her aching legs at the notion of fire. Wheatley was right, it was a sustaining thought.
She heaved him further onto her back, and, one hand lining a slimy wall for support, staggered forwards.
Much of the journey passed in this fashion—with Chell clinging fearfully to the wall, trying her best to navigate a safe path through the rubble, and with Wheatley rambling softly behind. Once or twice, her breath caught in her throat as her weight dislodged an avalanche of stones, threatening to send her cascading into pits of sharp, lethal edges and boulders large enough to crush her. Her boots slid regularly against the damp surfaces, as the metal grinded crudely against rock, sometimes producing a blinding flash of sparks under her heel. With every step, the stream underneath grew louder and her path grew steeper, descending into the very heart of the facility.
Her footsteps echoed, beating a strange rhythm against the walls, joined only by the whisper of the small stream. Both cut their own path downward resolutely. Occasionally, Wheatley would shout out warnings for Chell, his heightened voice echoing between the towering walls until her head rang with it.
She appreciated his help, though. So far today, he had proved himself to be a worthy escape-partner. He had graduated from damnit-you-moron how-can-a-computer be-so-infuriating to okay-maybe-you-can-stay.
"S'all right," he'd tell her, putting on a brave face. "Carry on, luv, one small step, or however the saying goes. No rush. Better, err, be safe than sorry, we'll get there eventually."
She lost track of time. All she knew was her sore limbs, aching feet. The world was a cold, dark place, its air moist and chilly. Wheatley's light barely cut the fog, and did nothing to ease the iciness penetrating her heart. Each hop onto another rock, another safespot, was daring and dangerous, and despite her racing pulse she could not sweat. The air did it for her, only serving to moisten her already damp clothing.
At least there were no eyes here. There were no blue eyes to follow her wherever she went. The panels and pistons were broken and offline, covered in vines and creeping feelers. Lifeless robotic arms lay scattered, all with their usual blue optics dead and colorless.
What happened down here, she felt like asking the core. What had rendered such a great portion of the facility 'offline'? Or had it always been so?
Her head span as she contemplated this, so she stopped.
But the vertigo had been enough for her to lose her footing. She stumbled, sliding off of a rock towards a deep, dark hole, and the boulder beneath her feet slid with her. It tumbled into another, and another, and suddenly the chasm rang with the sound of falling rock and Wheatley's deafening yell.
"Arrrrrrgggghhh!" he shouted. "Jump—there, jump there, that looks like a safer rock, right there!"
Leaping blindly into the direction which she thought he meant, Chell landed, crouching instinctively as her boot heels hit a flat surface. Whatever it was, it was firm and metal, and when her boots hit, the material held fast with an extremely loud bang. She opened her eyes, uncurled her arms from her usual landing position, and tried to ignore her heart beat hammering hard in her throat.
"Oh—that works. Very well. Nice one," he said lamely.
She didn't hear him. Instead, she was frowning at the surface she had landed on.
"Are you…" said Wheatley, sounding unsure. "What on earth are you looking at?"
She rose, only to look curiously around her. Her eyes darted between the two walls, observing in silence.
The material had been placed here deliberately, in contrast with the rest of the debris. It was an ancient, rusted metal platform, a diamond-plated deck turned orange by the countless years of exposure to the moist air. It looked like a sort of loading dock, or maybe once it had been a balcony—whatever the reason it was here, Chell wanted to know.
"Are you staring at the ground for any particular reason?" Wheatley asked, confused. "Are you hurt? Is that why? Did you injure yourself, jumping off of that rock, like that? I knew you should have jumped to the left—excellent jumper indeed, pscht—is that what I'm seeing? That you've hurt yourself?"
No, she thought vaguely as she examined the ground. She bent to trace its surface, fingers lining in-between each of the criss-crossing bumps associated with a diamond-weaved texture.
"Ah." He blazed with sudden understanding, sounding relieved yet curious. "I'll take that as a no, then. Good. Means that you shouldn't have any troubles with—OHGOD! RUN! RIGHT NOW! AAAARGGGHHHH!"
She nearly leaped from the platform in fright—his shout, incessantly loud inside of the canyon, had shocked her bad. DAMNIT, she wanted to yell, but instead she tried to swat at him and missed—oh, she'd kill him for scaring the daylights out of her!
What was he yelling about, even?
But she froze as another sound met her ears. A low warble of a blackbird and shifting wings was audible, coming from not too far away.
"RUUUN!" Wheatley was screaming, writhing, fighting against the harness in panic. "FOR GOODNESS SAKE, WHAT HAPPENED TO LITTLE MISS TEST SUBJECT! THAT'S A BIRDYOU'RE LOOKING AT, MATE! I SHOULD ALSO POINT OUT THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, STILL LOOKING AT IT, WHEN YOUSHOULD BE RUNNING FOR OUR LIVES!"
With a half-opened mouth, Chell blinked and scanned the gorge in search for the bird in question. She wasn't scared—it was a bird, not a bloody mashy spike plate—but Wheatley's cry had surprised her. It had probably surprised the bird pretty well, too. Both of them might be half-deaf from the freaking racket the core had made!
She spotted the animal a minute later. It swooped across the canyon and sang one long, loud note as it passed overhead, and came to rest atop a long spire extending lethally into the darkness.
But its flight had served only to send Wheatley into an even greater panic. "ARRRRRGHHHH!" he bellowed, trembling in alarm against her back. "ARRGGHHHH NOO! HOLD ME! DON'T LET IT GET TO ME! I… wait a second…"
He stopped as he saw that the bird was sitting motionless, high over their heads. Its eyes glinted ominously in the distance, reflecting the beam of his flashlight.
"Oh," he said finally. "It's… flown away. Further into the pit, where it can't hurt us—at least, for now, that is. Brilliant! I must have scared it off, all by myself, no thanks to—"
He halted, seeing the toxic look spreading across Chell's face.
"Ahem," he coughed, back pedaling. "I mean, uhh, mission accomplished. We survived. Well done, go team 'birds beware'!"
She watched him with amusement as he squirmed in discomfort. Honestly, she chuckled to herself, so much drama over an animal only about a third of the size of you. I would have expected that from... lesser constructs?But you?I doubt that birds even eatcomputer parts, not to mention metal spheres, screaming at the top of their—lack of lungs?—probably really unappetizing for anyspecies.
She glared at him. Even I wouldn't eat you, and I haven't had a proper meal in… how long?
It was a joke, though. She could understand that he was afraid, and would respect that. He sure made much better company than she could have foreseen, even if he was a bit slow sometimes.
Yeah. He wasn't a terrible person (amendment—core), and he made a better friend on this dark and lonely journey than any construct could ever be.
(High praise, coming from her. She blushed at the thought of what he'd say to that. Good thing Wheatley couldn't read minds.)
Was it suddenly warmer in here, or was that just her? God, she was embarrassed, and for no reason! With cheeks burning, she looked away from the core so he wouldn't see her flushed face.
Above and beyond the crouching core-and-human, motionless on the platform, the bird sat contentedly. It was watching them with two yellow, luminous eyes, eyes far too reminiscent of another, haunting optic.
"Bugger," said Wheatley, shooting a glare towards the bird. "Now it's watching us. Probably making sure that we don't make a break for it before it can eat us. Can-can you turn me around, mate? Please? I don't—I don't want to look at it. It reminds me of her."
Chell frowned down at the core at once. "It's the eyes," he whispered. "I swear it. Proper creepy, they are."
She made a small noise of disbelief in her throat. Wheatley was quivering lightly against her side, his optic darting fearfully between the bird and the path ahead.
She observed the bird in silence. Maybe he was right, after all… it was a bit creepy, she had to admit. A little like her.
Her shoulders sagged heavily as she yawned, overwhelmed with a sudden wave of exhaustion. Really, she was too tired to care much about the bird. She'd be so thankful for rest, maybe a little food, and another fire.
How long had it been, since they had set out? It felt like forever. It was impossible to believe that only this morning she had been enjoying the brilliantly warm, pleasant rays of sun.
Chell reached into her pocket. The smooth, metallic surface of the fire-starting-contraption met her fingers, cold to the touch. Well at least that's still there, she thought, dimly surprised that it hadn't fallen out during the last, hectic hours. Her pockets were deep, but she had already crammed the bottoms with the wrinkly remains of potatoes. They better not have been squished to a pulp by accident!
She swayed a little, contemplating just staying here, on this platform, for the night. There wasn't any fuel in sight, but it was doubtful that she'd find a cozier spot, not when the path ahead looked no better than what was behind…
But then she saw it.
An indent was apparent on the side of the closest wall. The gap was small, easily missable due to its uneven surface.
The moist rock gleamed against Wheatley's light, even though his optic was still focussed on the bird above. She tried to pay it no mind, wanting to ignore how it sat like a silent, ominous guard.
If she had cared, she might have thought that this bird was a watcher of sorts. It was an unmoving gargoyle, so still it could be carved out of stone. As the keeper of this alcove, or crevice, it looked down upon them with a solemn eye, waiting for an unknown sign.
It wasn't threatening as much as observant. Perhaps its behavior was peculiar, but Chell knew nothing of birds, so she disregarded it. She shot it one last, blank glance, silently requesting permission to enter the passageway—and it cried out in confirmation, granting her access.
"What is it?" Wheatley asked, catching on quick. "A passageway?"
She nodded.
"Oh…" he looked at the wall uneasily. "You're not thinking of—?"
Of course I am, she said to herself. Where else am I going to spend the night?
"You are, aren't you…" he wondered, his optic narrowing as he surveyed the cleft. "That's, uhh… That looks dangerous. Are you mad? I suppose you don't remember me saying to you that it's my job to warn you of any potentially lethal obstacles?"
As he spoke, Chell moved closer to the wall, holding the core in front of her to see better.
"Well, warning flag's going off," he squeaked, his pitch heightening in fear. "Look. It practically says 'danger—keep out' on the doorway, okay? Are you seeing this properly? Obviously not, or you wouldn't be trying to go in there. Whole place looks like it's about to collapse, and I'd rather it didn't collapse with us inside…"
Sure, it looked dangerous, but not more dangerous than the rest of their path had been thus far. Wheatley had a point, and she was grateful that he was trying to warn her, but… she wanted to see what was inside!
She was drawn to it!
Tired and hungry, freezing her arse off—surely nothing beyond this cleft could be worse than what they had already encountered?
Making her way towards it, she ignored Wheatley's panicked gasping. "No," he groaned, his handles springing backwards as if he thought he could hold her back with sheer force. "No, STOP! I said stop, please, d-don't—oh, no, no! Don't go in there… Auuughhhh!"
She crossed the platform with a soft, metallic rhythm, her heels tapping lightly against its surface. Above, the bird shifted on its perch. It snapped its beak at her, but it did not take flight. Wheatley shuddered violently.
"I can't watch," he groaned finally. "Can't do it. Not with that bird sitting there. J-just let me know, willya, when we're inside. O-or, better yet, only tell me if you find nothing dangerous inside, because if I'm going to die, m-maybe it's best I didn't know…"
Quivering with fear, Wheatley let his optic slide shut.
Chell slammed her palm into his side in retaliation. I can't see, you idiot! I'm going to walk off the freaking edge by mistake!
His metal hull rang with the impact, and his eye cracked open. Gryos buzzing out of control, he let out a protest:
"Hey! Do watch what you're doing, lady!"
She pulled a face at him, sneering and gesturing towards the far edge of the platform. How would you like it if we stepped blindly into that by mistake?
"Very well," he growled, and Chell jogged the remaining distance to the cleft. Wheatley shuddered, unable to look away from its black interior. "Preparing for the dignified death," he sobbed into her arms, "of a trusty sidekick (you), and her brilliant, faithful leader, proper astute fellow, he was, very charming, good-looking (me)… Let it be known that he did not lead her into her death, that was entirely voluntary…"
Shut up, she thought angrily. From this angle, she could see that it was a long, slender gap, ending in a short flight of stairs disappearing further into the room. You first, core… if only you had legs to actually go first…
She held her breath as she stepped down, the steel stairway rattling with each step, and the bird outside made a soft noise in reply. It was like a cry of farewell, Chell thought, but Wheatley shivered closer to her, ducking his optic further into her warmth.
The room beyond was surprisingly wide. It was an airy, circular room. Its ceiling was high and vaulted, punctuated by one single, round chimney-like chute.
It was actually a grimy glass tube, as wide as the other pneumatic diversity vents located throughout the facility, though this one had no suction. It was still and silent, for it had been broken by unnamed forces about halfway up. Broken glass littered the floor, for the breach was wide enough for her to climb into, though doing so would result in sharp glass-induced injuries.
But the tube gave away the room's secret. It was a disused elevator shaft—which meant that this was an ancient elevator room.
Much older, though, than the ones she knew. There were no monitors, only stone walls. Some of these walls were crumbling, but, surprisingly, most of them were intact.
"…Are we dead yet?" asked Wheatley, his voice muffled in her shirt. She pulled him back by the handle, smiling a little. She waited for him to have a look at the room.
"Oh!" he said slowly, his optic dancing enthusiastically over the walls. "D'you know what this is?" she nodded. "Pity it's broken, otherwise we could have used it to take us down. I wonder who broke it? Maybe the same bloke who's gone and left all of this rubbish lying about. Have you seen this?"
He was nodding towards the opposite side of the room.
Chell's eyes followed the beam of his flashlight over a strange sight. Someone had left objects in here for whatever reason—there was a makeshift, dusty desk, shoved haphazardly against a wall, many empty food cans, and a pile of ragged, moth-eaten blankets folded neatly in a pile.
Immediately, she made for the desk, wanting to pull open its drawers to check if anything of worth had been left behind, but something else made her stop.
The signs of human life had been welcome, after so long by herself, but they were not what captured her. There was something else within this place, something etched across the walls, drawing her in until she could not look away.
"…And I don't really even know why someone would have chosen to live here, of all places," Wheatley was saying, oblivious to Chell's interest in other matters. "I mean, look at the state of this part of the facility! Not very homely at all, is it, really. Now, if I were escaping…"
He stopped speaking as her sooty hand found his upper handle, raising it a few degrees to shine the beam onto the wall instead. His eye widened in shock as she did so, not at the gesture, but at what they both could now witness in greater detail.
"Blimey," he whispered solemnly. Chell's eyes widened as she looked, with the core still held firmly beneath her left arm.
"Get closer," he suggested. "Let's have a look. Couldn't hurt."
In silent agreement she stepped forwards, examining the first bit of the wall. Somebody had painted a mural here, smeared ancient ink across the peeling wall. Chell found herself wondering how she could have missed such bright colors.
There were four, but she saw only the first for now, examining the brilliant hues of orange, the vibrant blues, blood reds. The strokes were messy, untidy; scrawled and sprawling, yet beautifully so. She recognized the work, there was no doubt about that—she had seen his hand before, painted within distant portions of the facility.
He knew things. That much was clear by his work. The works of art depicted many horrific events, a tragic story, a strange and magnificent encounter of the facility's darkest secrets.
He taught her, through his art, and she felt his presence in return. It gave her strength and hope, made her believe that she wasn't as alone as she felt at times. Wheatley helped, too, but there was only so much comfort she could expect from him—he was a machine. He could never understand.
"Who did this?" the core asked, his voice unusually quiet.
She shook her head. She did not know.
This man (she supposed by his heavy hand, and his occasional faceless self-portrait) was a mystery, but she had a sense of who he might have been. A lone survivor, a maverick much like herself, fighting a never-ending battle with insanity against almost certain death.
But he was much more chaotic than she was. He had suffered, she knew, as she had, but her memories failed her. He kept all of his.
And he drew her, knew her. She had no memories of him, no inkling of who he was. Maybe she had dreamt of him, but forgotten. The murals triggered an elusive sense of nostalgia, maybe déjà vu, even, but it was not enough to bring back the recollections hidden from her behind what Wheatley might call 'serious brain damage'.
"D'you think he's still alive?" he asked her.
No.
She did not think he had ever successfully escaped from this place. Judging by the quality of this room's furnishings, far too many years had passed for him to possibly have survived.
"You know," said Wheatley thoughtfully, peering up at the mural, "If this is that same bloke who had written all of that rubbish about cake, back in the test chambers, I reckon he might have been an employee."
Hmm, now that was worth a second thought—Chell stared down at him, her eyes filled with unasked questions.
"Have a look, there," was all that he said in reply.
So Chell did. She moved even closer to the first mural, trying to examine the faces.
There was a man, here—a familiar man, tall and strong, front and center. He had a harsh, aging yet handsome face, his brow furrowed and arms held aloft, directing a crowd of people.
He had the unmistakeable air of being the boss—and Chell knew who he was. It had to be Cave Johnson.
But the people behind him were all unfamiliar. They were struggling, writhing pairs, fighting, man against man, woman against woman. Chell felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room as she looked, for half of the faces were of innocent people, all staggering to escape from Cave Johnson's Aperture employees.
They appeared to be administering some sort of a choke-hold. There was about ten employees, with their startlingly-white lab coated arms wrapped around others' throats—but no face was happy, all were filled with despair and cowardice.
Cave Johnson had been dying, his ideas had become even more reckless, his plans hurtful and illogical.
The artist-man had known this, and had written across the mural in very messy strokes: 'Tier One, Heimlich Counter Maneuver = Death.'
Neither Chell nor Wheatley said anything. They didn't move, save to take a look at the second mural of the row, both feeling like they had entered some sort of funeral service.
The second mural was of children, their hopes and dreams stolen from them by the same nameless Aperture employees. Their faces were blank, full of despair and shock, and misunderstanding.
Most of them had been special needs, too, children who had wished and wished and deserved to see their wishes come true. But Aperture had stolen them, just like they had stolen her, herself. Would it be able to take her last hope from her, too? Her dream of escape?
The unknown artist had called this mural 'Tier Two, The Take A Wish Foundation = Broken Hearts.'
But the last mural, Chell knew its contents. Test chambers, buttons, the Dual Portal Device. This mural was a depiction of the laws of physics conquered, and the fiery, oval gates she knew so well—portals.
He had written 'Tier Three, The Portal Project = The Future.'
Chell inhaled sharply.
"Or maybe he was a test subject, too," said Wheatley slowly. "Yeah, probably. He must've known a lot about the facility."
She nodded, her frown deepening in thought.
"I think he escaped," he said, and Chell turned to him reflexively.
What?
"Well, he came down here, didn't he, yeah?" he said. "And he wrote those warnings inside of the test chambers. He was brave, I think. Kinda like you, mate."
She stared at him for quite a while. Her? Brave? She had never considered herself brave before. She always did what she had to do. Fear was just a byproduct of her daily life, something she had learned to live with.
Her job was to run, to escape, no matter what. What else was she going to do, lie down on a scaffold and let her bake her alive?
Her primal drive to survive was stronger than fear. It was what kept her going, kept her on her feet when she felt too weak to stand.
"Yeah," said Wheatley confidently. "I think he escaped. All the way up to the surface, probably up there right now, maybe even drawing some more…err, nicer pictures. See? We can do it, too. If this old bloke could, then we can, and we will."
Despite how serious she felt, she smiled. He was so confident, so sure. He was positive that he was going to escape. That they both were.
"Smiling," he said, observing her. He tried to mirror the expression back. "Optimism in dire circumstances such as these is great. And, look! I guess we can rest here, since this bloke has left us great, er, resting materials? Yes, wonderful, just look at that comfy stack of blankets, maybe even a mattress."
Yes—after she looked at the fourth mural, she'd rest.
The fourth was the biggest. It was the size of perhaps two of the others combined, and was the most interesting, she found.
It told a story: in the depths of the facility, Cave Johnson had hid his fourth project. Locked away in one of the old test shafts was an experiment, one which they had spent many, many years working on. The mural depicted what was supposed to be a great celebration, its first activation, which had gone so horribly wrong.
Neurotoxin. Unreason. The Prototype failed, with no restraining bolt, no morality. The only option would be to use someone as a base, a human subconscious; sentience based only on programming directives would not be enough.
'Tier Four, The Prototype = Failure.'
Unmorality was like a chain, each generation linked together, passing down accepted immoral concepts until they were no longer regarded as such. This was what the artist was saying. The chain needed to be broken.
"What does it mean?" Wheatley asked, and Chell shook her head.
She had an idea, but she wouldn't voice it, even if she could.
He turned a bit in his shell, facing a lower section of wall. "Have you seen this yet?" he asked her.
By his flashlight, she saw that he was staring somewhere near the very bottom.
"That writing, there," he directed, sensing her apparent confusion. "Can you read it? I can't read it. It's too small."
She couldn't, either. She edged closer, squinting, trying to read the tiny lettering.
It was a poem. She knew the poem, she'd seen it before:
Fear the turret, for it is knell
That summons you to heaven, or to hell.
And:
Login: DRattmann
Password: Unreason
"What?" Wheatley asked in surprise. "What in the name of bloody Science does that mean?"
He looked up at her, silently requesting she explain it. She shrugged.
"Oh, for God's—couldn't this bloke have explained a little better, what it is he's trying to say?" he was a little more upset than the situation warranted, she thought, but she knew better than to try to tell him otherwise.
"Well, I'll tell ya," he said, watching to make sure she was listening, "last thing I'm going to do on an escape is scribble bloody riddles across a wall. And, you know what, the worst part is, the worst part, that the password-thing looks like it's actually important, too. A password? Username? Probably one of the ones the scientists used to use to override the mainframe."
Override the mainframe? Curiously, Chell stared at him.
"…Yeah," he continued seriously. "It's probably why he left it here, I'll bet. For the next poor fellow who might come across here. Of course, I personally have no use for it, because I can interface directly with the system, but you… Maybe you ought to memorize that, in case we come across a computer terminal somewhere, or something."
True… Chell tried to remember the words through the exhaustion quickly seeping into her brain. She had been standing too long, and the adrenaline she associated with leaping over dangerous boulders had dissipated. If by chance they did find a computer terminal somewhere… she'd be ready.
"All right," Wheatley said finally from her side. "Now let's have a rest, shall we? Still got some of those potatoes left? You're looking proper tired, mate, not to mention still soaked, and I think I saw a little firewood over there, by the entrance… Why don't you make another of those fire-things? Sounds tremendous, yeah?"
In silent agreement, Chell made her way across the room. She stopped only to examine the desk and pull out each of its drawers, sifting through its contents for anything useful.
She found a collection of rusted, empty cans of beans and two empty water canteens. The very sight of the canteens reminded her of just how thirsty she was—her lips were cracked and dry, her mouth parched.
A fire was first on her list, though. She'd deal with the empty containers later.
She deposited Wheatley onto the desk so she could work. "Man alive," he whispered to her, giving her a proper once-over now that he was no longer tucked tightly into her side. "You really are all wet, aren't you? I didn't even realize. You must be freezing!"
It was true—her hands shook as she pulled the wrinkled jumpsuit from around Wheatley. Immediately, she slung it over her back and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, her breath wavering for a moment as she adjusted to the temperature change. Then, she pulled her firelighter out of her pocket, fingering it with an unsteady grip. By the light of his flashlight, Chell directed her trembling, chilly limbs into action, gathering firewood into a small pile near the center of the room.
"Yeah," Wheatley nodded in agreement. "Sleep'll have to wait. Delicious-looking potatoes, first."
Delicious, yeah, right, she mused.
The core watched with interest as Chell managed to produce a steady flame, as though he were trying to learn how it was done. The fire suddenly illuminated every edge of the room, from the vaulted ceiling down to the debris-covered floor. She felt a wave of warmth wash over her, and she sighed, her eyes closing lazily at the sensation.
"That's nice," Wheatley sighed in similar contentment, letting optic shields quiver down. "I'd join you, if I could, mate, but these handle bits'd get in the way. Bit annoying, really."
She didn't care—she was perfectly comfortable, here. She kept him within eyesight, slumping languidly against the glass chute, listening to the nice noises of the place.
There was the faint crackling and popping from the fire, and, distantly, at the very edge of her range of hearing, she could still hear the sounds of the whispering creek outside.
And it was that which spurred her into action, even though she was so pleasantly content. Water—she grabbed one of the empty containers, stopping for a half a second to look down at the core.
I'll be right back.
Then she promptly strode the length of the room and ascended the metal staircase.
"Hey, wait!" Wheatley called in confusion. "Where are you going?"
Rolling her eyes, she turned and gave him one single gesture in reply—a thumbs up, directed towards outside.
"But-but," he choked, "It could be dangerous out there! That bird is still watching, I don't doubt, and God knows what else is a-creeping around out there! And my flashlight! You need my flashlight!"
Ignoring his protestant stuttering, she turned and swiftly climbed back out of the chamber.
She regretted not bringing him with her almost at once.
It was not wholly dark, but it was a close thing. The strange, luminous smog that seemed to fill most of the lofty areas of the Enrichment Center persisted here, too, she noted, wishing that she had Wheatley's light to guide her through the darkness.
She wished for his light, but she could not have brought him, not unless she wanted an even bigger headache. She was sure that he would have objected to her embarking on such a ludicrous, midnight quest for water.
Chell wrapped her arms firmly around the water canister, pressing it into her chest, giving it a bulky, uncomfortable hug. She stepped forwards carefully, her heels the only sound besides the ever-trickling stream.
It was this stream which she sought in the night. She squinted around, blindly trying to find the source of the noise, her outstretched fingertips brushing against slimy rock. Above, the ever-watching bird let out two musical notes.
Her eyes flickered to it, but she could not see it through the gloom. A second later, however, she heard it take flight, its wings beating a repeating rhythm through the chilly air.
It swooped low, and came to rest about five feet away, right beside a small outcropping of rock. The only way she could tell that it was still there, was by its curiously luminous eyes, glowing a dull yellow through the night.
Unlike Wheatley, she was not inclined to fear this animal. She felt drawn to it, rather than afraid; it was the only other living thing she'd witnessed in a very, very long time.
It cried out as she moved forwards, but she ignored it, seeking only the stream. She found it directly below the bird's perch and lowered the canteen into the water, disregarding the way it ruffled its feathers and beat its wings uneasily at her closeness.
She dipped down, her back towards the bird, letting the swirling, icy water fill her bottle. She shivered again, freezing without the heat of the fire, the mist coming off of the water dampening her almost-dry clothes.
With the canteen almost full, she straightened, or meant to—but at that moment, something soft brushed against her neck and she froze, paralysed with surprise, her heart beating a drumroll inside of her chest—
The thing, soft, with knife-sharp talons, not clinging hard enough to draw blood but firmly enough she'd have little marks left should it fly off, cawed jovially from her left shoulder.
She hardly dared to move. Her arm locked up with the effort of holding the now-full canteen. She barred her teeth in concentration, trying to think. Calm down, she told herself, it's only a bird, it's not going to—
But then it shifted in closer, almost flush against her skin, and its talons squeezed almost painfully. Absurdly, she had a feeling that it was trying to tell her to move on, walk back into the room—it's a bird, she thought, only a bird.
It'll fly away if I move.
And with her arm unable to hold the canteen a moment longer, Chell shifted arms and strode, straight-backed, towards the room. Her jaw locked and eyes focused onto the entrance, she felt the bird sway but not take flight.
It made a small noise in her ear, something she was not expecting. She jumped a little, but it only nuzzled her, singing out a quiet song of contented notes.
It was like, welcoming her, happy she was here with him. She couldn't help herself, she smiled a little at its soft touch in her cheek, an unexplained comfort and contentedness spreading from the pit of her stomach.
She unstuck her spine and walked casually, the bird retaining its perch with ease. She breathed out one long, low breath, internally grateful that it hadn't left her—yet.
But why hadn't it?
It's probably after my potatoes, she remembered with a jolt, and one hand automatically drifted to her pocket, checking that they were still there.
Potatoes, check.
But there was still one other problem, she knew, and she stopped, just outside the entrance to the room. He was in there, and was going to have a screaming fit if she brought this bird back with her…
Whatever, she decided in favor of the bird. She had taken a liking to its weight and warmth on her shoulder.
So she descended the stairs.
"Oh!" called the core at her arrival, "there you are! I was beginning to get a little worried, mate, what with that bird out there, and all—"
He froze, his eye shutters drawn comically wide, his entire facet compacting as if he were drawing in his breath.
The sight of him almost made her laugh but she refrained, knowing fully the seriousness of the situation. The bird sang a welcome note of greeting, and snuggled closer to her cheek when the core did not respond.
With a sudden pang, Chell understood—this bird was lonely. If it had ever seen a human before, or any other sign of life, it had probably been a very, very long time ago. Perhaps, the last human it had seen alive was the man who had once claimed this place home, D. Rattmann.
"W-wha…" Wheatley stammered in shock. "Wh-what the bloody hell do you think you're doing with that thing?"
The sentence hung heavily in the air, and she shrugged, feeling the bird tilt its head in interest at the immobile core. It made a tiny, nearly inaudible sound, which Chell barely caught, as if whispering inquisitively into her ear. She knew that it was wondering who both she and the core were, and, most of all, what they were doing here, of all places.
"Hahahahhahahah," Wheatley was chuckling, a high, forced laugh at the determined expression spreading across her face. "You've got to be kidding me. Are you—oh, no. No, no, no, no, NO. You're not seriously considering keeping that-that thing as a pet, are you?"
She contemplated the idea, and absent-mindedly reached up to stroke the bird's black feathers. It twitched in surprise, but held still, letting out one appreciative warble. She smiled.
Never breaking eye contact with Wheatley, she nodded slowly.
"Have you got—you really have got brain damage!" he yelled, and she felt her smile falter. "You're going to get us killed. Don't you understa—no, perhaps you don't. Let me explain. That thing is a killing machine!"
Chell blinked back in surprise. Killing machine? She knew he would overreact, but… that was a little far.
"And, you know what else?" he gasped, very upset. "You know what else? If you're planning on keeping that thing, I'm not going to talk to you. Yeah. It's one or the other, mate. You can't have both of us. So-so just, put that thing back outside, where it belongs, if you please. It can't hurt us while it's out there."
She opened her mouth, her brow furrowing in annoyance. So he wasn't going to talk to her, was he? That was well enough, she was tired, and he never shut up, normally. She doubted it was even possible for him to keep quiet.
Choosing not to react, she stoked the small fire and sat down beside it, shooting him one solitary, sour glare. The bits of ash and embers swilled in the air, retaining their glow far above her head, nearly reaching the high ceiling. The bird gave an appreciative chirp, thankful for the warmth.
Eventually her shivers died out, and she pulled two, medium-sized potatoes out of her pocket, deciding to save the other five for later.
She set to work preparing everything, with the bird (oh, she'd have to think of a better name) resting atop her left shoulder all the while. A torn bit of sharp, metal mesh was used to spear the potatoes with, salvaged from one of the outer edges of the room.
All the while, Wheatley did not say anything.
His optic followed her every move, though, narrowed in intense mistrust. He was steaming mad, and she knew it.
The potatoes began to cook, and Chell thought… what should the bird's name be?
It came to her randomly—Orion.
She was not exactly sure why she had chosen that name. All she knew was that she liked it, for it was one of those familiar-but-unfamiliar things, almost like she used to know what it meant. There was a vague suspicion that it had to do with the night sky, something beautiful, maybe, something foreign, remote.
He was like that, to her—his liveliness so unusual, so contrasting with her entire life, revolving around robots and more robots.
Orion. He sat lightly on her shoulder, watching her swallow bits of potato. What good manners, she thought, meaning how polite the bird was about her eating food so close to it. It didn't beg, in fact, it didn't even look hungry—but that could be blamed on how unappetizing the potatoes really were.
She held one up to its beak. It ruffled its feathers in disgust.
Well, that settled it, then.
Wheatley shot her a very offended look as she pet the bird. She pretended not to notice, yawned and then stretched, and finally removed herself from the edge of the fire.
The pile of blankets turned out to be resting on top of a small mattress. She dragged it over to the fireside. Where the material was worn in places, the springs poked out and dragged roughly across the floor with an unpleasant scrape.
She laid out the bedding, still ignoring Wheatley's staring optic. He had lost that pissed off look, his eye now fully open and tilted at an inquisitive angle.
His silence was about to crack, and she knew it.
But she was considering something else. The day's events had put her in a strange mood. She felt Orion shift beside her, and smiled a little.
She had made a new friend, but that didn't mean that there wasn't still a place for old friends.
And she fully intended on reminding him of that.
Without any warning, except for perhaps a sly smile, Chell crossed over to the core. He blinked up at her, confused, but before he could say anything, she had pulled him right into her arms.
"WH—aaaaaaaarrrghhh!" he exclaimed in shock as he squirmed. "Mate, what are you doing?"
Orion took flight at the noise and movement, coming to rest atop the faded desk, precisely where Wheatley had sat. His eyes reflected the firelight brilliantly—the old, creepy yellowish glare that was so reminiscent of her eye was replaced with a happy, content fondness.
She had placed Wheatley onto the center of the mattress and sat down beside him.
"Not quite sure why you've brought me over here," he gasped, a little muffled through the mattress and blankets. "But if you think this means we're on speaking terms again, I'm just going to reassure you that it does not." He nodded for emphasis. "Though… hypothetically, if I were speaking to you, I would waste absolutely no time in informing you that I'm still not going to talk to you until you get rid of that bird."
Chell nodded to show that she understood, watching him closely as he talked. He was still looking rather angry, she thought, and placed a hand gently atop his handle apologetically, stroking it in what she hoped was a soothingsort of way.
"What are you doing," he asked flatly.
She shrugged and turned herself over, pulling the blankets up over her body. She curled around the core and covered him up, too, wrapping one of her hands over the top of his hull.
He made out a startled, choking noise, clearly mortified. "Aaaahh… umm, wha—"
She rested her forehead against the bit of plating directly above his optic. He held himself still, but she could feel tiny tremors rocking through him as he quaked with uneasiness.
"Uhh… is this, standard protocol for you humans?" he asked awkwardly, his handles and optic thrusting outward in an attempt to push her away. She winced as a handle jabbed her painfully in the nose. "Because, as comfortable as this is, I'm not really interested in—"
She wrapped herself even more firmly around him, honing in on the slight heat radiating from his optic. She shut her eyes, breathing in one long, final breath of contentedness.
"Fair enough," he gasped, "if I were you, I probably wouldn't let go, either, but…"
She did not move.
"Oh, bloody hell," he moaned unhappily. "I understand, you must be lonely, but oh, just let go, wouldya? It's a little awkward, although warm, properly warm…"
He hummed into silence and buried himself into her, his handles going instantly limp. She smiled, glad for the closeness.
Anything was good by this point. She was really… lonely. Orion had reminded her of just how comforting close contact could be.
Maybe Wheatley was starting to understand, too. He had certainly stopped moving about and complaining. She felt another intense wave of exhaustion wash over her as she relished the heat from both the fire and Wheatley's optic.
The memories of their daily journey passed briefly before her mind—images of sunlight, the coolness of water. The green, fresh scent of plantlife, crisp as new spring grass. The collection of recollections was like a little vibrating ball of happiness in her chest.
I wonder if that's what the surface'll be like, she grinned. Sun and rain, plants and earth, animals…
The world could have easily been Aperture and nothing but. Her entire purpose could have been a lie, or worse, testing. Any inkling of the surface might have been some sham created by her as a very cruel form of mockery, a well-played jest.
But it wasn't. Freedom was real, and something she was going to have. Wheatley would make sure of that.
"Goodnight, then," he whispered to her finally, shifting one last time against her belly. "Hmm… I suppose it would be pointless, wouldn't it, to ask you if you could turn the volume down on your heart beat? It is rather loud."
She laughed quietly, knowing well that she could never expect him to fully understand her. Maybe one day, in some other place, she'd teach him. Yes, once they had freedom.
He was human enough, for a machine. He could probably learn more than she gave him credit for.
She'd teach him someday, maybe even a little bit on their way, if she could. Anything to break the mundane of a facility full of psycho computers was fine by her, and Wheatley already did a pretty good job of that.
She snuggled closer into the core.