The rain was relentless all month, driving torrents that kept him inside. Chell still had no choice but to go out for food, leaving him home alone for hours on end. Consequently, Wheatley now knew the number of doors and windows in the house and that there were exactly 242 floorboards in the living room.

She'd come home, having trudged through the wheat in the dark and the rain and the mud, sopping wet and empty handed.

The rain made it impossible for her to reach the small, abandoned town to the west, flooding the creek and making it dangerous to pass.

Wheatley began to worry. He knew that humans needed a certain amount of food, or else it was permanent shutdown. It was the fourth day that Chell came home without food, Wheatley came back into the living room with a sympathy towel.

She dried off briefly and began up the stairs to go change her clothes. Halfway up the stairwell, she sneezed.

"Bless you!" Wheatley called from the foyer.

The Android had come to know what to expect. At six o clock in the morning, she'd be downstairs. He would join her and they would discuss the upcoming day, and whether or not it was safe for him to go with her. When the answer was no – which it usually was – he'd help her get ready before they went their separate ways and he did whatever to keep him from going out of his mind with boredom.

She didn't like to break her routines – he'd learned that when he'd spent an entire day with a grumpy Chell because he'd broken her axe on the day she needed more wood. So he didn't understand why, when he ventured downstairs one morning, she wasn't there.

Wheatley understood that they cared for and trusted one another, more now than they ever did in Aperture, and had long ago realized that she wouldn't abandon him on a whim. Regardless, her absence was still alarming, to say the least. He climbed the stairs slowly, looking back over his shoulder every now and then just to make sure she wasn't already sitting at the kitchen table.

Her bedroom door was still closed, he saw as he peaked the stairwell, and upon further investigation, he found that it was also locked.

Their house had a peculiar floor plan (or so he'd been told. He honest to God couldn't find anything wrong with the floor!). There were four rooms on the second floor – Wheatley's bedroom, a bathroom, Chell's bedroom, and another bathroom. The last two were joined somewhere in the middle, but each still had its own door.

Normally, Wheatley would be more than content with never going anywhere near a bathroom, what with all the water nonsense. But her bathroom door, the one that led straight into her room, was unlocked. He entered nervously, keeping far away from anything made of white porcelain, as if it might jump up and short circuit him of its own accord, and was happy when the cold tile gave way to a soft, warm carpet.

She was there, in her bed, so that was something. But at the same time, that discovery was also very unnerving. It was more than obvious that something was wrong.

"Chell? Good morning, luv! Yes, yes, it is morning." He added as she gave a groan. "Up and at 'em, right? Oh. I suppose not, then."

She'd curled into the fetal position and pulled the covers far over her head, cocooning herself in a layer of white linen.

Uncertainly, he moved to her side and pulled her to a sitting position, then took a seat by her.

Her head swam as he pulled her up. She knew he was talking to her – she could hear a concerned buzz that she was sure was coming from him, but she wasn't hearing a word of it. All she could focus on was the constant churning of her stomach and the miles between her and the bathroom.

She gagged. Maybe it was her overly sensitive stomach, or maybe it was her imagination, but he smelled like raw plastic and hot motor oil. She planted a hand firmly on his chest and pushed him away, turning her head.

The concern in Wheatley's voice neared hysteria. "Chell, it's me. What's the matter? You can tell me, I wont… What happened?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her with some difficulty, as she kept struggling to push him away. Eventually, she stopped resisting, instead clutching a large clear bucket to her stomach.

Suddenly, her head pitched forward and her shoulders heaved as she wretched into the bucket.

He was disgusted and confused and terrified all at once.

He'd never had a lot of experience with Humans. After all the time he'd spent with them in the Relaxation Annex, you'd think he'd be some sort of Human expert by now. Truth was, all the humans he'd constantly watched over were asleep the whole time. They didn't do much.

Even so, he was fairly certain they weren't supposed to be doing this. All that green fluid pouring out of her, the ghastly noises, the way she looked positively miserable… she was dying, she had to be. Nothing else could be that unpleasant.

Wheatley buried his face in her neck and rocked them back and forth (Chell didn't think she could have possibly been more nauseous. Silly her.). Her stomach gave another unpleasant protest as his rocking continued. That combined with the possibly imaginary smell and the pounding in her head, she would have welcomed sleep a long time ago, but now he sat there with her, whispering weakly that she had to be okay, that he didn't know what he'd do without her. She was confused at his antics, but simultaneously reminded herself that this was Wheatley, after all. She wanted to smile, to tell him that she was fine and just needed sleep, but every time she opened her mouth, a wave of fresh nausea washed over her, effectively shutting her up and turning whatever prelude of a smile she wore into a grimace that only made him cling tighter to her. He pressed his cheek to her shoulder, her flushed neck hot against the cool, pale skin of his forehead. She could hear his quiet mumblings, unable to make out words.

What a sad pair they were: probably the last Human on Earth, sick to her stomach, and an anxiety ridden android who was apparently clueless as to the fact that, as sweet as his intentions were, he really wasn't helping.

Chills started to rack her as the winter air and Wheatley's inevitably metallic feel got to her.

He'd seen this before. The uncontrollable bodily functions, the shaking – this was neurotoxin. Every part of him stiffened, leaning away from her and taking her face in his hands. "I don't want to alarm you," he started, his voice tense and an octave higher than normal. "Probably harmless. Probably. And, again, nothing to worry about, but I think you might be experiencing some effects of the neurotoxin. Which, now that I'm saying it, probably isn't as harmless as I might have led you to believe."

She shivered again, grimacing and clutching her stomach.

"I'm so sorry," he ducked his head against her. "I think… I think you're dying, luv. I've seen it before, the – the scientists, back when they were still building her. Did this, then keeled right over. Oops, you're dead. It wasn't pleasant, really." He said, his voice cracking. She couldn't answer him, as she threw her head forward and vomited again. Wheatley waited for her to pick her head up before holding her closer. "Though, honestly, two and a half years, that is some delayed reaction. I'm sorry," he repeated. "I wasn't then, when I nearly suffocated you with the stuff, but I am now. Really, I am. And I… I just want you to know…"

She shook her head, swallowing another wave of sick and scooting away from him. He seemed a bit hurt when she broke his grip on her. She felt like vomiting again, but she wasn't going to let him beat himself up. She took a deep breath in hopes of settling her stomach enough for her to speak. It worked, though it made her dizzier in the process. "It's," she grunted, the sudden speech making her woozy. "not the neurotoxin." Her words were slurred and waterfalled out of her mouth. "I'm just," she hiccupped. "just sick. The flu."

Wheatley sated at her, confused for a moment. He was so sure this was what happened to a Human before they died of Neurotoxin poisoning. How on Earth could a little stomach virus produce the same side effect? Albeit, her symptoms were a thousand times less than the scientists he'd watched die, but then again, her poisoning had been two years ago. "Are… are you sure? Absolutely positive?"

She nodded, looking up at him with a weak smile before turning her head and vomiting again.