Chapter Eleven

The Hidden Depths

Rattmann fiddled with the chamber lock, pulling aside a panel and twisting the wires underneath. Overhead, Wheatley paced – or tried to pace – back and forth on his management rail. "Are you done yet?" he whispered for the fiftieth time.

"Almost," Rattmann answered yet again.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing? I mean, that is complicated hacking and all."

"I can hack my way into almost any Aperture system," said Rattmann. It wasn't a boast. It was a solid fact. "Just as long as the firewalls aren't too strong. Like cameras. I've found out ways to hack into the cameras, display things that aren't there using screens, monitors. Doors are easier. A door is one of the simplest—" Then the door hissed open, the two halves of the circle twisting apart. "Here we are, there we go," he muttered, then dodged inside. Wheatley followed. The door closed behind them.

One by one, the strip lights in the ceiling lit up, illuminating the rooms interior. The first thing Wheatley noticed was lots of screens, and he commented on it.

"This is the central hub for all the cameras in the entire facility," said Rattmann, sitting down in one of the dilapidated chairs, setting down Cube beside him on a table and beginning to wake the dusty equipment. "I cut it off from GLaDOS, hooked it to a different power source. She can't get in here. Only I can."

"Well," said Wheatley. "Well done, mate. Yes, very…"

A screen flicked on, casting a spectral glow throughout the room. It lit on something and flashed back green. Wheatley interrupted his own sentence with a strangled cry of terror. "AHHH! What is that- what is that?! Oh, God, that scared me! What is it? Wait- it… it's a human! It… it's two humans!"

Rattmann, who had jumped at Wheatley's scream and clenched the back of his chair like a lifeline, relaxed just a tad. He knew what Wheatley had seen.

Two relaxation chambers, filled with bubbling green liquid, a human in each. The chambers stood against the wall, plugged into an outlet.

"Two bloody humans, right here!" continued Wheatley. He jerked back and forth between Rattmann and his new discovery. His tone slowly changed from startled to overjoyed. "Oh, God, oh… oh, Doug Rattmann! Look! Just look at them! Both humans! Both in stasis! Oh! Chell! Chell's going to be so…"

"Don't bother," said Rattmann, turning his back again. "I put them here myself. They're both dead."

"What?" Wheatley's joy took a steep downward turn into horror. "You put dead humans in stasis chambers? What- what for? Why would you do something like that?"

Rattmann shrugged, his eyes fixed on the screen before him. "Hope."

Wheatley shivered. This guy was more macabre than he had given him credit for. He had no idea what kind of an answer 'hope' was, but he knew that stacking dead bodies around the wall for decoration could not stimulating for mental health.

He turned his attention back to the chambers. As a Relaxation Center attendant, he could now see that the humans were undeniably dead. The pulse meter on the side was flatlined, although oxygen levels in the blood were still high. Deterioration was at a minimum. These corpses had been preserved in the most involved way possible, from the inside and out. Despite the heart not beating, everything was ready for the humans to just get up and go.

Wheatley, having finished observing the chambers, next commenced observation on the humans inside. There was one of each gender, he noticed. A man and a woman. They were both only moderately dressed. The man wore white pants, no shirt, and the woman had one of those jumpsuit things, except no sleeves, also white. Their hair waved gently in the green fluid and their skin was dappled jade with the filtered light. The humans had their eyes closed, arms at their sides. They looked very peaceful.

"Ah," exclaimed Rattmann, whacking the side of his computer, making the screen sputter static. "Here she is."

"You found her?" Wheatley asked, his attention successfully diverted. He zipped over and peered over Rattmann's shoulder at the computer screen.

"I did," said Rattmann. He leaned back and chewed on a hangnail. "She's in testing."

The screen portrayed Chell, a new white portal gun gripped in her hands, taking down a turret with a pair of portals and a cleverly shot box. Her expression was set, tense, like it had been when she was testing before, back when GLaDOS had first been awakened. With another set of portals, the box dropped onto the button and Chell exited the chamber, every tight movement displaying just how much she hated it, being back here, doing this same old thing.

"How did she get there?" wondered Rattmann, his face blue with the computer's light.

"What does that matter?" snapped Wheatley. "How're we going to get her out? She can't test her life away."

"Yes, but how…" Rattmann began to type rapidly on the keyboard. "Give me a moment to rewind the cameras."

"Right. Sure. Ok, not like she's going to die unless we get to her," fretted Wheatley, feeling as if his opportunity for redemption had already passed him by. "Not like that's going to happen."

"Here." With another click of a key, Rattmann set the camera for Chell's entrance. The platform came down empty and GLaDOS called for her to come out. "She thinks it's me," Rattmann said with a laugh. "She set the trap for me. She thinks it's me."

When Chell revealed herself, Wheatley yelled, "No! Don't do that!"

The past played before their eyes. Riveted, Wheatley and Rattmann watched the engrossing sight, the one-sided banter between GLaDOS and Chell's expressions which were – as always when facing GLaDOS – blank.

And then they watched the part where the ceiling exploded. "What?" whispered Rattmann into his clasped hands.

"Hey, hey, that's Mr. Thomas," cried Wheatley. "He's the bloke from the surface, that fella who gave Chell the black portal gun!"

"But if he's here," Rattmann said slowly, "why is Chell testing later?"

"Oh, oh no," said Wheatley, starting to feel as if this movie he was watching was not going to have a happy ending.

"We will bring the Genetic Life and Disc Operating System to the surface to study, delve within Aperture to learn its secrets. We will learn everything!" the recording of Mr. Thomas declared. He handed Chell over to the men, even though she was still trying desperately to say something.

"Take your hands off her," whispered Rattmann, glaring at the screen.

"Bloody brute," Wheatley agreed.

"Cyborgs used to be a thing of fiction," the recording continued, "but not anymore, Miss Redacted. With the cannibalization of the personality core, we integrated the Aperture brand into ourselves. We are now registered Aperture products."

"Oh," Wheatley moaned. "Oh, that's sick. That's… that's terrible! Poor little mate! The poor Space Core all ground up into spare parts and stuck into humans. Doesn't even bear thinking about, really. He wouldn't have liked that at all, would he? Poor Spacey. Ohhh, oh wait, I just thought of something. It could have been me, couldn't it? Yep, yes, definitely could have been me. Could have been me there." Wheatley felt sick to his circuits.

"Shh," hissed Rattmann. "He's going to turn GLaDOS online."

"What!" cried Wheatley. "Nonononono, terrible idea, mate! Bad idea alert! Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it—he did it."

He shrank a little as the monster began to stir, whimpered at the sound of Her voice. He cringed as all the men dropped to the floor. Moaned softly as Chell moved onto the testing track. "Well," Wheatley asked, "happy? Happy, 'mister I-have-to-know-what-happened-in-between'? Because that did not make me happy. Just saying, definitely very unhappy at this moment. So much for an easy escape," he huffed.

Rattmann shook. The ringing was back in his ears again and shadows danced before his eyes, although he hardly observed them. "Stop talking, Stephen," he whispered.

"Stop calling me that," whined Wheatley. "Seriously, it's really getting on my nerves. Right, no, doesn't even matter. Doesn't matter. We need to find Chell. Out there, testing all alone. Poor luv."

"Don't call her luv." Rattmann kicked his foot out, spun the chair around to glare at Wheatley.

"Why not? She's not here, she hasn't got her bloody Sleep Button. Good thing, too. I really hate that thing. I can call her anything I want."

"Love her?" Rattmann let out a high-pitched, unnerving giggle. "You didn't even know her name."

"I told you before, mate," Wheatley sighed, "her file was corrupted, alright? All it said was C. Redacted. How was I supposed to know that 'Redacted' was her bloody name? What sort of a name is 'Redacted'?"

"Took her around, woke up the monster," chanted Rattmann, "watched from between the panels." His voice became low, deep in his throat. "All for your own gain."

"It wasn't just my own gain," Wheatley argued, getting angry again. He had forgotten for a moment – and just a small one, at that – how much he hated this fellow with his big words and big attitude. He didn't like him one bit. "She wanted to get out, I wanted to get out. We had a common purpose, her and me!"

"Until you didn't anymore," whispered Rattmann. "I led her through the dark. Through the dark with my paintings and my letters. I led her to GLaDOS, I put her name at the front to save the others. I hooked her up to the reserve power when all else was fading. I got shot in the leg for her, and what did you sacrifice? Nothing. Zero."

Wheatley winced at his own words being used back at him, and with such a mocking tone. A wide smile with lots of teeth – Wheatley hadn't noticed how scary they were before, teeth – spread itself across Rattmann's face underneath the tangled beard. Rattmann's eyes were wild.

"All you did was boss her around, but now who's the boss? Who's the boss?"

"Not you," Wheatley said in what was supposed to sound like determination but held a small quaver. "You're not the boss, not here, not of me, not of Chell. Nope, that's… you can stop right there, mate."

"Dropped her down a pit, tested her." Rattmann cocked his head and the strange, maniacal grin grew even longer. "Tried to kill her."

"I'm going to apologize," Wheatley defended himself. "I am sorry."

"Sorry?" Rattmann snapped. Suddenly the smile was gone, but the look in his eyes still lingered. "You're not sorry for anything."

"Yes, yes I am!"

"Liar. Moron."

"I am not a moron!" both shouted at the same time. They glared at each other in silence.

Then Rattmann began to speak very fast, so quickly that Wheatley could not get a word in. "You're not sorry. You're sorry that you did wrong, you're sorry that there were consequences for what you did. You're sorry that you were stranded in space for as long as you were. You had time to think it over, didn't you? Didn't you? But you're… not… sorry." He shifted in his chair, just enough so that he looked straight at Wheatley, unblinking. "You're not sorry for her sake. Do you know what you did to her?"

"Well, I—"

"You turned on her, called her selfish, punched her down a pit."

"I wasn't aiming for her!"

"Did it matter? Do any of your intentions matter when picked down to the bone of the deed? How long did it take you to give up searching for her? A minute? Two?"

He had followed them all the way down, or tried to. There had been a point when his control ebbed and he couldn't sense them anymore.

"How hard did you try before the Itch took hold?" demanded Rattmann. "Until you started making your boxes, when she was down there? Did you try to find her at all?"

"I—"

"And all the while she was hurt by your words, but you didn't apologize. She was tired, but you didn't let her rest. All the while you were letting yourself be addicted to testing, consumed by the Itch." Rattmann's eyes were inches away, now, never wavering, never blinking. "And when she came up, even though she was longing for some hope, what did you do?"

"I—"

"You sent her right back to testing! Doing exactly what GLaDOS would have done, what She HAD done before to her, twice. Do you know how long it had been since she had eaten?"

Wheatley had never thought about this angle. Humans had to eat, or they would stop working. How hard was she pushing herself, running on fumes?

"How long it had been since she had had a drink of clean water? How long it had been since she had slept? And yet you tested her. You tested her and tested her, even though she was cracking apart from the inside because you were her friend and you stabbed her in the heart, and all she could do was put aside the part of her that hoped and bury it under rage. Forget that you were once her friend, now you were her enemy."

Wheatley trembled, but Rattmann wasn't done.

"It won't be enough. Not enough. It wasn't enough, was it? The testing began to wear off. Once the reward ceased coming, you had to have more. You tried everything, you were exceedingly cruel to her trying to squeeze the reward out of her. Do you have any idea what things you said to her? Did you even listen to the words you said?"

Wheatley tried to speak. Failed.

"And all the while, the bit of her that hoped was dying." Rattmann rose from his chair, and even though Wheatley still hung a foot above his head, Rattmann towered over him. "You were killing it with every test chamber, with every word you said, every time you shouted at her you were killing her from the inside out. Did you even notice? No. You didn't notice. You wouldn't have cared if you did. That's how much you were overcome by your selfishness."

Wheatley winced. Now he was looking anywhere but Rattmann's eyes, because everything – every single painful thing Rattmann said – was absolutely true. There had been a complete and total lack of conflict, he remembered. He wished – oh, how he wished – that there had been a guiding voice in the back of his mind. Even if he had ignored it, he wished that it would have been there. Then maybe he would not feel so guilty now. But no, he had not felt conflicted and there had been no voice. Only the drive, the endless ITCH to test.

"And then your thoughts turned to murder." Rattmann's words were relentless, like acid poured on flesh. "It wasn't enough for her to be dying on the inside. You had to kill her completely. How many times did you try?"

Wheatley had lost count.

"How hard did you prepare for that moment, when the nameless test subject would fall and you would be in control yet again? But she kept fighting, she got farther than you ever suspected she would, all the way to your lair—" (Wheatley hated that word, now) "—and even though you threw bombs at her, pumped neurotoxin into the air, and shouted at her she kept going. All through this, even though you were ripping her apart, she kept going.

"The final moment came when you thought you had killed her, you had her beaten. She was on the floor, gasping, crawling like a worm, and yet you still shouted at her in that voice that she remembered once giving encouragement. And even then," Rattmann's voice faded to a hiss, but the spark in his eyes did not fade, "even then, she beat you. Clever Chell, clever little girl. And when you were being dragged away, both of you, do you remember what you said?"

"Let go," Wheatley whispered, dragged into a nightmare made from Rattmann's words.

Rattmann nodded solemnly. "You told her to let go so you could drag your own selfish self back inside, fix everything. But she didn't let go, and GLaDOS had already fixed it. What did you do then?"

"I told her to hold on." Wheatley's voice was dead.

"What did you want to do since she was holding on?" Rattmann asked. "What would you do when you were both back inside? Use her as a shield against the wrath of GLaDOS? Is that what you would have done?"

Wheatley did not answer, did not look up from the floor tiles.

"And then you were the one let go, vanishing off into space," said Rattmann. "Screaming for the help of someone who you had tortured physically and mentally, who you had abused for your own benefit, and who – at the last moment – you had tried to sacrifice to save the shattered remains of your facility and your pride." Rattmann's voice dropped even more. "Who else do you have to blame for this but yourself?"

Wheatley made little sniffling sounds. He wished that his optic held water so he could cry like Chell had. Like humans could. He wished he could turn back time. He now saw so many things that he could have done and wished to undo them. He wished with a strength that defied words, wished for friendship to be restored, wished for brokenness to be rebuilt. He wished. Oh, how he wished—

No wonder she had never let him ask for forgiveness. Until now, he had never realized just how much he had done to her. How much pain he had put her through. Sure, he thought that he had put her through a lot, tested her like She would have done, but had Chell really cared that much for their friendship? Had she really been torn apart from the inside, like Rattmann had said? If so, he might as well be a murderer five times over. Ten million times over for what he'd done – or tried to do – to her, his only friend in the world.

"Ah," Rattmann said softly. "Now you're sorry." He sat down and turned back to the computer screen, which had frozen with an image of Chell on it. She looked very set, very determined, but there was a vulnerability behind her eyes which suggested that she might cry.

Rattmann stood back up, stepped forward, and grabbed sniveling Wheatley by the handles.

"What- what are you doing?" yelped Wheatley, alarmed and still a little bleary from sadness. "Let go!"

"Detach," commanded Rattmann.

"What?! No! I'm not going to detach! What are you saying, are you mental?"

"Detatch," Rattmann repeated through gritted teeth, "or I will rip you down."

Wheatley whimpered, straining to hold on. Something told him that Rattmann wasn't joking. He figured it would hurt if Rattmann ripped him down, maybe as much as the core transfer had. Either way, he was going to end up being held. Or dropped.

Giving a moan of resignation, Wheatley let go. Rattmann staggered as the core's full weight settled into his arms and he carried him over to the desktop, plopping him down and rifling through a nearby drawer.

"What- what're you doing, now?" asked Wheatley, scared beyond reason. His optic darted – pinprick small – around the room. Why did Rattmann sit behind him? Now he couldn't see what was going on!

"You were asking about Caroline?"

"Well, yes, yes I was, but I don't—"

"She was a woman who worked here in Aperture," said Rattmann, pulling out a cord and plugging one end into the computer, the other into Wheatley, who winced at the contact. "A bright lady, some said. Almost became legend. But she was taken. Cave Johnson, who owned the place, had her used in the most dangerous experiment yet: the Genetic Life and Disc Operating System."

"Hey, hang on a tic, isn't that—"

"GLaDOS. Yes." Rattmann began typing rapidly on the computer. Wheatley strained to see the screen but caught only glare. "They poured her in, twisted her mind, fit that in, too."

"When you say 'poured her in', what you mean is—?"

Rattmann turned Wheatley around so they were looking eye to eye. "Caroline became GLaDOS," he said.

This took a moment to sink in. "Oh… oh bloody… what?!" Wheatley exclaimed. "You mean… you mean She was a…"

"A human." Rattmann turned Wheatley back around and recommenced typing. "GLaDOS used to be Caroline, once, but the System was never tested fully. It took the main emotions she was experiencing – rage, hatred – and made that the prime directive of Her core. Every time She was turned on, the scientists and the whole of Aperture was in danger. They tried so many times to calm Her, to slow Her, to do anything to make Her stop, but She was too strong. And so…" He pressed a final key and Wheatley felt a buzz in his circuits. "They made you."

Personal access granted. The message swept across Wheatley's inner optic.

"Oi, wait a bit, did you just… are you hacking me?" he demanded.

"What would you do if they took a friend of yours and told you to erase their mind?" asked Rattmann, his attention devoted to the screen where files upon files of Wheatley's memories were displayed. "If they told you to take his memories and delete them?"

"Um… not do it, I suppose?" Wheatley's fear was reaching a whole other level. "Are you… going to erase my memories? Is that what you're doing, now?"

"No, Stephen." Rattmann entered a locked folder and imputed a password. "I'm giving them back."

"For the last time, my name is not—"

Those were the last words he uttered before everything unlocked.

()-()

Grahame and Wash sat on one side of the business table, looking uneasily at their employers on the other side, wondering just what they had done wrong. It wasn't just their employers, they noted, glancing nervously at each other. Most of the people crowding the room were scientists from the robotics department. That could mean one of two things. The first and most desirable possibility was that they were going to start using robots on the testing track.

Neither wanted to think about a different possibility.

"Thank you for coming, gentlemen," said Henry, who stood at the opposite side of the dark wood business table.

"May we know why we've been brought here?" asked Grahame, by far the calmer of the two. Wash was sweating and twitching at every sound.

"Straight to business, eh?" asked Henry with a smile. "Alright. We're here to ask about your colleague, Doctor Stephen Ley."

"Is this about the Freeman girl?" yelped Wash, losing his composure entirely. "Because his was the only name on the paper!" Grahame dug his elbow into his coworker's ribs.

"This is not about Chell Freeman," said Henry. "We simply want to know what Stephen Ley is like. What are his accomplishments?"

Grahame relaxed. They were transferring Ley to another sector. Again. He was going to be taken off their hands! The same discovery must have hit Wash as well, because he started to smile.

"Ley! Oh, Ley is…" he gave Grahame a sideways glance. "…Interesting."

"Ley is very positive," said Grahame, being very careful with his choice of words. If there was the possibility of a transfer, he would want to make it clear that Ley was not desirable in his position, but also make it seem as if he might be desirable in another. "He is… enthusiastic about work."

"Yes, very enthusiastic," Wash seconded. "He gets these… ideas, and he makes us listen to them whenever he comes up with a new one!"

"Good ideas?" urged a scientist to the side.

"Well, not usually," admitted Wash.

"How bad? Scale of one to ten, ten being groundbreaking, one being devastating."

Wash squirmed. "Well, ah…" He gave Grahame a piteous glance.

"A two," Grahame said frankly. "Maybe even one-point-five."

The gathering chuckled, and to the men's surprise, some were even nodding their heads in appreciation.

"Not that it means that that's his only qualities," Wash added, trying to minimize the damage. "He's also very helpful. He loves to be useful, basks in attention."

"He also likes to talk," Grahame added. "A lot."

Now the room erupted in laughter. Henry nodded, his mouth stretched in a large grin. "A bit of a nuisance? A distraction, even?" He shot a meaningful glance at the dark-haired young man sitting beside him.

"At times," Grahame said.

"Always," Wash said, throwing caution to the wind. "I can't think when he's around. His mouth just keeps going. 'Oh, look, here's an idea! Oh, look, here's another idea!' Stuff like that all the time!"

"A bit of an… intelligence dampener?"

"Absolutely!" Wash exclaimed with a laugh. "Perfect way to describe it! But, you know, he's a good guy. Nice fellow," he added hastily.

Henry nodded again. "Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all." He motioned to the exit, but he looked very pleased.

Wash scampered for the door. Grahame followed at a more leisurely pace, turning back in the doorway. "Are you transferring Ley, sir?" he asked.

"If he wishes it," said Henry. "Your comments have been most helpful."

Grahame nodded his head very slowly. "Then I think I might as well tell you," he said. "Ley has been a bit distracted lately. Over the Freeman girl. He's been doing everything he can to see her because he feels so guilty. I just thought you should know."

"Thank you, Doctor Grahame."

Grahame gave a final nod and left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, one of the roboticists leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Enthusiastic to the point of distracting? A nuisance to his coworkers? Always coming up with terrible ideas? This guy could be it!"

"But what he said about the Freeman girl," added an elderly woman, creasing her brows. "Is that important at all?"

"It might give us a bargaining edge," said Henry.

"Bargaining?" demanded a fiery fellow with a mad gleam in his eye. "Why not snatch the fellow now? Grab him, put him in. You saw his files. Nobody would miss him. It's nothing we haven't done before."

"Stop." Henry massaged his forehead, walking in a slow circle around the table. "Don't you remember what happened the last time? We must tread very carefully with this one. If we make one mistake, we might be saddled with another anger core, or a fear core. The System picks up whatever emotion is strongest, and if we're not careful… Listen, we've got only one chance with this. We might as well start the right way. Doug, you're staying very quiet. What's the matter?"

Doug looked up from the paper in front of him. "Just… making a man into a core…" he said. "Toying with brain processes like that…"

"The core idea was yours," the fiery man reminded him.

"I know it is," said Doug. "I just never thought of using it for something like this before."

"You sound unhappy about that."

Doug sighed, looked at every face in the room in turn. "We tried this once and created a monster," he said. "What if we do the same this time around?"

"This man will be doing it of his own volition," said Henry. "Whatever happens, he brought it on himself." There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "GLaDOS is getting stronger by the day, we all know this. We need something to slow Her down, don't we? If a human mind inside a computer started this, why not end it with another?"

"All the other cores are shallow, programmed with one function," said a scientist near the back. "We need one who is as complicated as Her, who has more mental depths than the regular cores. That's the only way we can effectively fight back."

"But not one strong enough to overcome Her," added another.

"We are, of course, open to other ideas," Henry offered, looking straight at Doug.

Shut Her down, Doug wanted to say. Give up this entire demented plan of godhood.

But he didn't say it. Even if he thought it, he would never say it out loud. He knew the uproar he would cause, every man against him. He would be out on his ear, wandering the streets for a new job by sundown. Doug wondered vaguely if he was a coward.

"No, sir," he said.

"Good." Henry thumped his knuckles on the tabletop. "Tom, get to the medical bay. We might be able to arrange a deal between ourselves and Doctor Ley."

"You won't let him know everything," Doug murmured to himself as he left the room. "He will never know the full extent of what he's getting into. I know you too well."

"Still muttering to yourself, rat?" joked one of the scientists, joggling his arm as he walked down the corridor.

Doug continued, head down. This wasn't fair. Not one bit.

()-()

The first thing Chell saw as her blurry vision adjusted was a single, round light hanging above her head, sparking slightly.

Wheatley, she thought, and then immediately regretted it. Everything that had just happened came back to her in a rush. The transfer. The betrayal. The fall. The freshness of the wound throbbed in her heart. Even now, she could hear his harsh words echoing in her mind.

Her eyes saw a hint of movement. A bird above her head, perched on a cross-beam. It pecked at something in its talons. GLaDOS the potato. With slow, leisurely flaps, the bird flew away, the potato in its grip. Chell slumped even further. Now she was truly alone.

She was lying flat on her back in brown, slimy water, but she did not rise. She had sunk to new depths, both figuratively and literally. Here, right here at the bottom of the elevator shaft with the broken lift dangling above her head, this was the lowest point of Aperture than she had ever been. And just a few minutes ago she had been close, so close to the surface! The elevator would have opened and they would both have been free! Freedom had been so close for both of them.

Wheatley.

Ley.

She had never been able to differentiate them. Even though they could not possibly be the same, the similarities were endless. The way they talked. Their weird quirks. Even the way they bobbed or eyes shifted were the same. She had come to trust Wheatley just the way she had trusted Ley.

But Wheatley had let her down. Just like Ley had.

Chell began to cry, a dull ache in her throat, the tears welling up and spilling from the corners of her eyes. Why was it so impossible to let the elevator go up? Would it have been that hard? They could have escaped this place together! They could have been free! She would have talked to him, then. She would have said 'apple', or 'hello', or anything he wanted! And now all that was gone, vaporized like mist. Like a dream.

Why even get up? Chell wondered. Why continue on this fruitless quest? Why not just face that freedom was gone? Face the truth. Ley was long dead. Wheatley had turned on her. GLaDOS was a potato. Chell was miles and miles from the surface. Why continue at all?

Chell cried until all her tears were spent, splashing down a fist in the stagnant water. She was angry and afraid. Very much of both. The tears spilled for all emotions, cleansing her mind, freshening everything.

The tears slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Chell lay in silence yet again. There was still hope, she knew. It was a very scant hope, and farther away than before, but there was still hope up above. Besides, lying around did not get her any closer to the surface. Trying would not bring her farther down.

True, Wheatley had betrayed her, but perhaps he was not beyond reason. Chell was not an irrationally optimistic person, and she knew a full repentance from Wheatley was out of the question, but maybe – just maybe – he knew he had made a mistake. Maybe there was a chance.

Chell sat up, wincing at all the bruises she had obtained. The portal gun – miraculously unscathed – lay beside her and she picked it up, raising it to chest level. She would need it if she was going to gain the surface.

That was her goal. The surface or death. Let no one stand in her way.