Chapter 17, everybody! In which Willow reflects on a rather macabre science theory….

Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment

Portal © 2007 Valve

The incinerator was steadily warming up—probably another five minutes, and it'd reach its standard "4000 degrees Kelvin."

Even when they had been sliding towards their doom, Wilson had taken the opportunity to correct their persecutor. "It's 4000 Kelvin," he snapped. "The Kelvin system doesn't make use of degrees."

Well, you'll have to tell him that when you see him, won't you?

Wilson's irritation at an improper science term snapped her out of her horror, enough to quickly spot a likely way out—

She shot a portal at the wall above the viewing platform in front of them, then one to the side—

"Jump!" she ordered, shortly before doing so.

She managed to eke through the portal, but Wilson's foot caught on the lip—she reached back and hauled him forward before he could slip back—

They lay on the platform, gasping.

"He tried to kill us," Wilson said finally.

Their persecutor, meanwhile, was spluttering at their survival. What do you think you're doing, you…you….

Willow blinked as he trailed off. Maybe he had given himself a coronary.

He spoke again, proving to Willow that her luck just wasn't that good. Congratulations, you passed the final test!

Willow looked to Wilson, who shook his head minutely—no, that wasn't part of the test.

We'll be sending someone along to collect you shortly, so….Just lie there like you're doing. After all those tests, you need a break, right?

The way he was talking, all cheery now, set off every warning bell Willow possessed. Whatever they did, they most certainly should not just keep lying there.

She saw white paneling above them, a railing….

There was another level.

"Come on," Willow announced, raising her portal gun. "We're leaving."

She did indeed find a dual portal device—probably one of their old ones—and was now following the lighted prompts that were getting her out of the incinerator.

She hated to do anything he wanted, but she also hated to be in the incinerator, despite its association with fire. Just bide her time, get to a position of relative safety, and then start hunting her way out.

Although now, as he said, he was on to her tricks—she'd have to do a lot better this time around.

She hated it—hated that she couldn't escape his inexorable chatter, hated the fact that she was right back where she started. It was like her whole escape and time with Wilson was a dream.

But as she listened, she noticed something: he was scared. He was scared and he was broken.

His voice—which had always reminded her of a harmonium—sounded wheezy, like someone had let it fill up with dust and then played with the bellows. Whatever they had done to him before, it had done a number on him.

And he was bound and determined not to let it happen again.

You know what I found out? He asked, still rambling. It turns out I have a sort of black-box quick-save feature—so in case of a quote-unquote 'unexpected shutdown'—she could just picture him doing the hand motions—the last two minutes of my life are recorded for analysis. So I got to experience the last two minutes of you two killing me over and over and over and over for the rest of eternity.

She wondered what a blue screen of death for Maxwell would look like. Probably something like Say, pal, you've got a major malfunction going on—press any key to continue.

She had to fight a smirk down.

I don't know about you, but a lesser person would be angling for revenge, don't you think?

Ignore him—that bothered him worse than anything she could possibly say.

Ah, the silent treatment—I can't say I missed this. I suppose that was one benefit of the cooperative testing initiative….Oh hey, look at this! I have a file here about reanimating the dead! 'Project Touchstone.' Huh. Maybe I ought to find the moron and bring him back—I did miss seeing his veins pop.

Wait—what? He hadn't found Wilson yet?

Don't get ahead of yourself, she chided. Most likely, he hadn't dedicated any time to looking for him.

That was good, she decided, forging ahead. If he found Wilson, then he'd use that to torture her worse than he already was. So long as Wilson was still missing, there was still hope. Wilson was now playing Schrodinger's cat—so long as no news of him surfaced, then he was still alive.

Wilson would probably like the scientific correlation, she decided.