AN: Hello all. Right, so...this is awkward. Here I was, humming along and writing chapter fifteen, when I realized that I was up to nearly 3k words. I didn't quite want to end the chapter there, but at the same time, the chapter felt too long, so...I'm uploading two chapters this weekend. This one is going up Friday (obviously) and the other one will be up...soon. I can't honestly guarantee when it will be up, since it still needs some editing, etc., but it will be up sooner than my regular upload schedule. My goodness, that was a long note. As usual, please feel free to comment/review at your leisure. Comments let me know what you guys think, and I'd love to hear your thoughts! With that, read on!
Chapter Fifteen
For the record, Wheatley hated mopping. He'd been excited as anything—absolutely hopping—when his aunt had set him up with a job at one of the biggest science companies in the country. Aperture was one of the most successful science industries out there, matched by none but perhaps Black Mesa, but his aunt had been quick to warn him to never ever say those two words together. To be specific, she had advised against so much as using the word "black" whenever he was on company grounds.
He'd been excited, a bit nervous, true, but he trusted his aunt and knew that even if he started in a simple office job, he could work his way up, really charm them—
The mop plopped down on the white and grey checkered tile with a soggy smack. Wheatley sighed and began scrubbing. It was a long hallway, and he still had a ways to go.
"No no no no—oh! Oof! Unh!" All of a sudden there was this scrambling, skittering thing, all elbows and knees and bright orange fabric, sprinting towards him. This thing turned out to be a rather slender, leggy little girl in a bright orange dress.
"Oh, hide hide hide hidehide!" She was panting to herself as she whacked cleanly into the side of Wheatley's bucket. Too late he jerked it aside.
"Oh G—sorry! Here, lemme help you with that." He knelt to the girl's level—no easy feat given her reduced height laying sprawled on the floor and his own lengthy legs—and gently took one of her little hands. She flinched at the touch and jerked away at first, eyeing him warily and still breathing hard.
He realized with no small amount of shock that was blind. Her eyes were cloudy and mistrustful as they stared in his general direction.
"—she went around the corner somewhere—"
"—tell them we'll have to delay—"
The girl flinched again at the sound of the distant voices and got to her feet.
"Oh! Is that—is somebody looking for you?" He asked, trying to get a grasp on the situation. The girl turned back towards him again, her features creased in concentration as she seemed to laser-drill a hole in his skull with her sightless stare. Something shifted in her expression, and she smiled, lighting up her whole face with the expression.
"Could you help me?" She asked, most politely. To be quite honest, it was probably the most polite sentence that had ever been said to him during all of the two months he'd been working as a janitor.
"Uh, sure, yeah here um," he glanced around for a couple of minutes, spotted the bucket, then smacked himself in the forehead, "here, get behind this, and I'll cover."
"Tell them you didn't see anything, but only if they ask first." The girl rattled off quickly, before ducking behind the huge yellow bucket.
"—I swear I saw her…hey, you—uh, janitor guy…uh," a trio of awkwardly puffing scientists, flanked by at least two security guards, came down the hallway. The foremost among them and the most collected one by far attempted to subtly read his name tag, before continuing, "hey…Wheatley. Listen, we're looking for a…an asset, maybe you saw something come this way?"
"What? No, no…I don't think so, I mean I might have seen something, but I don't really know what it is you're looking for, so I mean, a bit difficult isn't it? To remember without any sort of visual to go on, but I mean I can do my best to keep my eyes out, course if you could give me some sort of—"
"The asset and all related details are classified." One of the other scientists cut in flatly, staring blandly from behind thick glasses.
"Ah, right," Wheatley twitched a little at the blunt reply, "well then, good luck. If you'll excuse me, I've got a hallway to—"
"Set up a perimeter search for the surrounding offices. Check every single cubicle and storage closet, she's got a talent for sneaking into tiny spaces." With that, the group hustled away, without so much as a "thank you" or "nice job there, Wheatley, let us know if you see anything, will ya?"
"—mop." He finished lamely. "Rude, isn't it? Really, I mean it takes all of ten seconds to say a quick 'thank you' or, or—or something, but noooooo, nope, we can't bother that, thanks. We've got a schedule to keep, with our busy little…little," he trailed off as the little girl rose like some kind of silent swamp monster and stared at him from the other side of the yellow bucket. More than that, she was staring with an expression of what seemed almost like…awe?
"That was brilliant!" She whispered. "I cannot believe how you just chased them away like that! I wish I could do that, but of course, if I said anything like that, I'd probably get punished. Would you like to run away with me?"
She said all of this so quickly that even Wheatley had trouble keeping it straight. "Run away where?"
"Oh! That's the fun part! You can decide, if you'd like. I'd prefer somewhere sunny—I hear Tuscany's quite nice," she paused, "although…I'm not sure how far a trip that'd be, and honestly, you can pick if you want to." She offered magnanimously, but the gesture felt genuine coming from her, as opposed to say, Dave from the office down the hall. Wheatley had never really forgiven the fellow for walking over the floor when it was clearly labeled wet.
Wheatley's first instinct was to correct her; he opened his mouth, fully prepared to inform the little girl on why exactly it was highly doubtful that she'd go anywhere sunny dressed in that color and just how much more unlikely it would be that she'd visit Tuscany. As far as he knew, the place was simply where his other aunt—the French one, if he remembered correctly—went during holiday, but she was an heiress, so she could jolly well just live in a vineyard if she wanted. Furthermore, as far as he still knew, they didn't just let children buy plane tickets—or boat tickets, for that matter—so it seemed ridiculous to think that she could ever get on a…on a…
A thought struck him with surprising certainty, like a crack of lightning but infinitely more helpful that being smacked with electricity from the heavens. She knows already, he thought, utterly nonplussed as to how he came to that conclusion. For all his weaknesses—resentment towards authority, a level of intelligence that most would consider slightly subpar, and a sense of self-preoccupation that was selfish at worst and distracted at best, to name a few—Wheatley recognized in rare moments he had a kind of superpower.
It was the oddest, craziest, and perhaps the most delusional thing he would ever say out loud (if he did ever say it out loud). In rare moments, he would look at someone, like this girl, this kid, and all of a sudden it felt like he could peer right inside their head. Perhaps it was the tilt of her head, or the creases near her eyes, or any number of things, but Wheatley got the sudden, abrupt sense that the little girl knew that what she was saying was a sham; she knew that as a test subject—because surely she was, if people were looking for her—she couldn't hope to see the sun down here, and to hope to see someplace like Tuscany was ludicrous in the extreme. Yet still, she seemed to cling to the silly idea like a nice daydream, happy to enjoy it until it dissolved into cold morning.
The girl smiled again, but it had a touch of sadness to it, as if she were bracing herself for some unpleasant task.
"Here, why don't you walk me back to my, er," her voice faded, as if searching for the right word, "…my…room." From the tone of her voice, she didn't seem to like this "room".
"What about the whole, 'running away' plan? I mean, sure, I'd be happy to walk you back and all—absolutely my pleasure and all that—but are you sure you—"
"Yes." She sounded as if she wanted to convince herself, but he didn't argue.
"Alright then, sure thing."
They walked in silence for a bit, but the girl took his offered hand as they went along. At some point, the girl tugged him left, then right, then right again. Despite being blind, she seemed to have an excellent sense of direction; something in direct contrast to himself. Also in contrast was how quiet the little girl was. Naturally, he chattered away the entire journey, as the girl hadn't indicated that his prattle was unpleasant. If anything, she seemed to be actually listening, nodding every once in a while to what he was saying or shaking her head as appropriate.
At last they reached the offices where her "room" was. They entered, though how Wheatley wasn't precisely sure, since there was a clearly locked keypad below the door handle, and immediately found themselves in a smallish chamber. It was plain, white, and spartan, with utilitarian bookshelves filled with dusty tomes, a white, narrow cot, and a porcelain toilet. Other than the bookshelves, it looked remarkably like a relaxation center, or at least, it looked like what Mark, the other janitor said the relaxation centers looked like. He'd been very quickly shooed away from the area, and he had regaled Wheatley with all the thrilling details afterwards.
"Thank God. Where exactly have you been, young lady?" The voice was unpleasant and grating, so Wheatley was not terribly surprised by the appearance of the person that accompanied it.
The woman speaking was impeccably dressed, with her pencil skirt, fluttery blouse, and elegant scarf all neatly in their respective places. Sensibly low heels in a decidedly less sensible cherry red hue clicked efficiently on the white tiled floor as she came close. She snatched at Alex's arm, and the slightest expression of surprise came over her face as she realized it was already attached at the hand to Wheatley's rather lanky arm. He grinned sheepishly, which the woman did not appear to appreciate.
"And who exactly, is this?" She asked crisply.
Wheatley opened his mouth, but the little girl beat him to it.
"Oh this is the janitor Mr. Wheatley. He was so nice to me when I got lost. He helped me get back, see?" The little girl spoke as if she were eight—which was probably how old she was, Wheatley didn't exactly have a great deal of experience with children—yet she had spoken with such intelligence before. Though he wasn't certain, he was fairly sure that his own name had been the longest word in her entire speech.
"Right." The woman flicked her eyes from Wheatley to the little girl and stared with such intensity that Wheatley felt uncomfortable just being in the same vicinity. "And how," she dragged out the word "how" with heavy emphasis, "would he have helped you?"
"He was very nice to me, so I knew I could trust him."
There was a weighted silence, and Wheatley suddenly got the impression that the little girl and this woman were engaged in a war of sorts, subtle and secret, neither one daring a full frontal attack but rather engaged with all sorts of ambushes and counter-maneuvers.
After a long moment, the woman retreated. "Good, then." She tacked the second word on awkwardly, then went on. "Thank you, Mr., ah," she glanced at his nametag, "Mr. Wheatley. You may go."
Wheatley exited the chamber quickly, wondering what he may or may not have gotten himself into. All the same, he had floors to mop in the meantime.
The dream dissolved, and Wheatley woke suddenly, surprised but happy. Alex's mention of her nickname for him—BFG, which naturally stood for Big Friendly Giant—had brought back a few scattered memories, but those were dull and vague on the whole. The dream was already fading a little, but the pleasant surprise at finding someone down there who was polite and kind, right off the bat, without any sort of introduction to speak of—well, it was wonderful. The sheer kindness of it still struck him, however many years later now.
"Dad?" Ah, that's why he woke up. Sophie was whispering somewhere at the entrance to her parents' bedroom.
Careful not to wake Chell, though he knew enough by now to know that she was probably already awake, he slipped out of bed and met Sophie on the landing.
"Hey, Sophie, what you need?" Wheatley glanced at his daughter's face and quickly caught on. "Oh…ah, I see the…right."
Her eyes were glowing. Again.
Not too long ago, something like this had happened; Sophie simply woke up one morning with her eyes a bright, stratospheric, glowing blue as if the nanites in her system had given her a backlight. Which, he supposed, they probably had. The tiny robots had made a number of changes to Sophie, both mentally and physically, with glowing eyes as only the last in a long list.
"Alright let's," he glanced back, saw the door to the bedroom nearly closed and dark beyond and began padding down the stairs, "c'mon let's head downstairs and deal with it down there, yeah?"