Chell gives the hint of a smile when the third password works and she's greeted by the wheat and potential for clues. But when she hears the noise, she immediately switches off the monitor and quickly goes for a place to hide.
There's the sound of a hand on the doorknob, and a particularly angry voice, muffled by the door. It sounds like Wheatley, but it also sounds like he's not at all alone and in the place for a conversation. "—really don't know what you're expecting of me, then, lady! Yes, yes, I heard you. Yes ma'am. —Wait, what? Why? What's that got to do with anything?"
The door is opening, and she's given only a moment to hide. There's a space to one side of the filing cabinet that's concealed in the corner, or she could duck under the desk; there's really not a lot of options.
She chooses the filing cabinet, tucking herself into the cramped space while feeling like a cat with its ears erect at the sound of a familiar voice. She conceals herself to the best of her ability in spite of the orange jumpsuit, her heart beating fast. Who is he talking to?
The door actually remains half open; his tall, sturdy, familiar form can be seen half inside the room, looking back over his shoulder, face turned away from her. "Yes, and I'm sure... What the hell is that supposed to mean? —Look, sounds like Mr. Johnson's after you, love, why don't you come by and see me later? I'll apparently be here forever and ever for the rest of my natural life. That was facetious! I have no intention of being here— Wait, I'm not a part of that initiative, what are you— oh, yes, absolutely, just walk away. Very mature of you."
He enters the room, shuts the door unnecessarily hard behind himself, and leans against it with an audible groan, wiping his hands over his face. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows (come to think of it, he never wears his shirts like that at home anymore), and his forearms look almost... bruised.
It's really him! He's here! He's all right!
Chell slides out from her hiding spot and moves fluidly straight over to Wheatley. She is so relieved to see him that she could hug him and just cry for a while, but she's so conflicted that she winds up only coming to a stop before him, a concerned frown on her face.
His hands slide down off his face, and he looks down, and suddenly his sister is in front of him. He jumps, just barely holding in a scream, which makes its way out as a choked sound of alarm instead. "Chell?"
Chell nods heartily at him. You didn't come home, she signs urgently. She looks torn on the idea of leaping at him and hugging him after all. Her eyes are big and full, conflicted and bright with emotions; fearful and angry and relieved.
He beats her to it; he steps forward and throws his arms around her, pulling her against himself in a tight embrace. He's full of questions, but the relief of having her here in front of them outweighs them all. It doesn't stop him from babbling a little, though. "Man alive, it's so good to see you— but how— why? Where did you get that jumpsuit?"
She doesn't answer right away, too busy returning his hug in kind, holding on tight and bunching her hands in his shirt like she might never let go. She doesn't want to; she feels like she never would. She buries her face in his chest and leaves it there.
"Not that it doesn't look good on you— no, let's be honest, those jumpsuits look awful on everyone," he says, leaning back slightly to account for her weight. He doesn't want to let go, either; he wants to wake up and have this all be a dream. "You shouldn't be here, you can't be down here."
Chell shakes her head against his shirt. She still can't say anything; her hands are entirely occupied. But she trusts that Wheatley understands why she isn't answering and what she really means by it.
"Oh, love..." His grip tightens a little bit. He does get it. "I have no idea how long I've been down here. Gets, gets a bit hazy, time does. I have no idea where my phone even is, and it's probably dead anyway."
Chell frowns, tugs back a little to look at him. Does he mean to say that he just didn't know he'd been down here for two days and one night? She stares at him in an attempt to communicate this question to him.
"No, no! I mean, I know I've been down here a lot longer than I'm supposed to have been. My shift was meant to have ended hours ago. I just don't know how many," he explains, keen not to have her think that he just wandered off and forgot to go home.
Chell looks distressed. Her brows knit, and she presses her lips together for a moment and shakes her head. At least he didn't just hang out down here because of the drugs she didn't know he was using. But hours? It's been a lot more than hours, she signs.
"What? Days, is what you're saying?" No, he seems to think, that can't be right. He can't have been down here that long. His disbelief and alarm show on his face. "—I don't think I've slept once."
Chell nods rapidly. More than distressed, she's come onto the border of desperate. How can he not know that? What kind of poison is he taking?
Naturally, Wheatley can't doubt Chell, so he just assumes she's telling him the truth. "Man alive, no wonder I feel so jittery. But still— I can't believe you came all the way down here."
She nods harder and then squares her shoulders, affecting a proud, stern expression. She has worked hard and done very risky things to follow him, and she takes pride in this. She thinks it's obvious. Of course she would come all the way down here, and further, for him.
"I know, I know. You have always been the brave one." He kisses the top of her head. "But look at me! I'm fine. Completely fine. You shouldn't be down here, you could get in a lot of trouble, you know."
She bites her lip. She finally takes one of her hands so that she can gesture at the jumpsuit she's wearing. Then she points first at him, then up at the ceiling.
"I'm... uh. Well, I'm not actually sure about that, is the thing. Not to alarm you," he says, taking one arm back to rub the back of his head awkwardly. "I'm not sure that I technically have the, ah, clearance to go topside right now."
Chell blinks, furrows her brow, and tilts her head to one side. A very concerned frown.
"But! That doesn't matter," he says, quickly, to reassure her. "Just a, ah, misunderstanding, I'm sure. Needed me for a few things. Down here."
Chell manages to look even more concerned, shaking her head vigorously.
"Sure! Just... forget about it, right? Hey, we need to get you back out of here, you don't belong here," he says, trying to change the subject.
Chell shakes her head again, puts her arm back around Wheatley and clings fiercely to him to get her point across.
"Now you're just being stubborn, love," he says, but he hugs her again anyway, and his body language conveys how relieved he actually is to have her here. "It's not like I'm being... held here against my will. ...Okay, that is kind of what I just described, but I promise, it's not all like that!"
Chell takes her hand away again to point at Wheatley's forearm, frowning pointedly at him. She is being stubborn, and she is not about to leave him to be held against his will, even, or especially if it's 'not all like that.'
"What?" He says, looking at his arm where she points, and then he sees the exposed tracks, and his cheeks darken. Up close, it is highly apparent that they are more than just regular bruises, and even he knows it. Hurriedly, he tugs his sleeves down. "Just, uh... uhm."
Chell taps his arm firmly, not enough to hurt. She gives Wheatley a sharp look; she knows, and she wants answers, and most of all she wants him to acknowledge that he is wrong.
"What? What about my arm?" He asks, pretending not to understand what she's talking about. He feels cornered, and he privately knows he's wrong, on some level, but he won't admit it to himself, and therefore can't admit it to her, either.
Finally she withdraws her other arm and steps back, putting a pace between them. You've been taking drugs, she signs.
"Drugs? Me?" Wheatley asks, not at all convincingly. His face is even hotter now, though he can't really define the emotions he's feeling. "What? No... what honestly gave you that idea?"
Chell goes over to the trash can and fearlessly grabs several syringes out of it. These she presents to Wheatley, shoving them towards him with a severe expression.
His cheeks are even hotter now, a tingling sensation that makes him want to turn away from her in shame. He lifts his hands, partially in self defense, and partially with the intent of taking the syringes from her. "Don't grab those like that, love, they're not clean. You nick yourself, you could get infected. Or worse."
Chell presses her lips together and wrinkles her nose like an angry canine. She knows, but she had to prove a point. She can take a risk like that if it will get what she needs to across to him.
Gingerly, Wheatley takes the syringes from her, and reaches over to deposit them back in the trash where they belong. "You know that drugs aren't the only thing you use those for, don't you?"
Chell's eyes flash. I know you aren't about to try and tell me you're diabetic or something, she signs rapidly, and gives a snort for good measure.
"Of course not," he says, wiping his hand on his shirt, despite the fact that there's not really anything to clean off. "It's just— you know, big ol' science facility like this, they're not an uncommon sight, syringes. Anyway, you know I hate shots."
I know you do, Chell signs, getting more incensed by the second. I also know you've been taking drugs. Even Caroline said so. Don't try to deny it. She spells out Caroline's name.
"Caroline?" He says, sounding more than a bit surprised and taken aback by her brazen use of the name. "You met GLaDOS and Mr. Johnson and you're still down here?"
GLaDOS? Chell spells out slowly in her confusion, the frustration temporarily leaving her expression. I met them. They brought me here. I'm supposed to be working for you.
"Caroline is just what Mr. Johnson calls her. It used to be her name by a technicality, but she'll skin you alive if you call her anything but GLaDOS," Wheatley explains, lips tightening. "And what do you mean, working for me? I've talked to that man a hundred times and he won't hire any more caretaking staff. Did you just... lie to Cave Johnson and GLaDOS at the same time and somehow make them believe you?"
Chell nods emphatically. She looks pretty pleased with herself, especially seeing Wheatley's disbelief. She doesn't even stop to think of all the questions that she should have about GLaDOS, because none of them are as important now as this conversation.
"Man alive." His hand claps his forehead, and he looks down at her in amazement, struck utterly speechless by the foolishness of his sister and his own admiration of her. "That's... impressive. Absolutely impressive, not gonna lie."
Chell is positively beaming now. Still, she does have certain concerns to address.
GLaDOS does not like me, though, she tells Wheatley. But Mr. Johnson thinks very highly of me. I did what I had to do to reach you. I was afraid for you.
"That's a given, love— GLaDOS doesn't like anybody. Not even Mr. Johnson, I don't think. Been more wrong about bigger things before, but she's... she makes her opinions known, mostly," he says, folding his arms and leaning back against the door, furrowing his brow slightly. He still looks overwhelmingly impressed with her, in spite of his concerns. "Would love to know how you got in Mr. Johnson's good graces, though. Man's a closed book."
Chell makes just one sign for this, with a big grin on her face. Science! It's very emphatic.
Wheatley laughs. It somehow, in some senses, is an enormous relief, to have her here, making this joke at the expense of his boss, to have her make him laugh in the face of the many things that are going wrong. "Right. Good call."
Yes. So now you are my boss. Chell states. Her hands are a flurry of motion as she goes on, We need to get out of here and you need to get off the drugs. I can do the work until we can leave. What is going on and who were you talking to before you came in here?
"I have not admitted to being on drugs, and I'm pretty sure that if I leave without getting the all clear, I'll get fired. Aren't you missing school right now?" This has just occurred to him, and it worries him greatly.
You are on drugs! Chell signs, punching her hand with her fist at the end and stamping her foot. Her bright pride has been replaced immediately with a redoubled frustration, a white hot anger. I know that's what's been wrong with you, don't act like I'm stupid! It all makes sense now. And GLaDOS could tell me all about it if you won't. I called to tell school I could not make it. You should just quit working here if it takes drugs to make it possible to do your job.
"Lord, you've been here for all of ten minutes and you're already attracting pretty girls," he jokes wryly, but it can't diffuse the tension, and he drops the humor a moment later. "Alright, fine, so what if I am? It doesn't make a difference, right? If you couldn't tell, it obviously hasn't been affecting me that badly."
I could tell, you moron! Chell counters. I've been trying to tell you that. I just didn't know it was... she pauses, searches for the word. What is that, meth? Heroin? She is someone who knows of drugs only from gritty movies. She has to spell the words, because she doesn't have signs for them. That's why you've been acting weird and on edge and cranky. You are not the same. I want my brother back. This has gone on too long, Wheatley, you are in danger!
Her sign for his name is big and wheat. Her hands tremble when she makes this sign and she realizes that they have been trembling for most of her speech.
"Meth," he says, spitting the word as if it has done something to annoy him, and only so that she will have a word to assign to the drug. He signs it as he says it. It's his practice to learn to sign words when he learns them aloud, and although he obviously already knew what meth was, he still felt he needed the word for it. "I'm right here, alright? I have not been acting weird, man alive. I've just been doing what I have to do! And I am not a moron!"
Chell looks like she is in danger of breaking down into tears at any moment. She swallows hard and mimics the sign. Meth. What an ugly word. It feels like it shouldn't exist out of those gritty movies, like it was something that Hollywood made up. It definitely shouldn't be in the hands and the veins of her brother.
I'm sorry, you're not a moron. You have been acting weird, though, or I wouldn't have noticed it and mentioned it all those times and worried about you. It's the meth. You don't have to be defensive about it anymore, Wheatley. I know now.
Wheatley looks like he wants to be angry. He's not very good at mastering his words, but a couple days without her has made him much less anxious to say anything that would upset her, and he wasn't particularly keen on that in the first place, so he doesn't say anything for a few moments, instead sinking down into his desk chair to look up at her. When finally he has reigned in his temper a little bit is when he speaks again. "It's just something that helps. I have to do so much around here. You'd be amazed how nice it is to have that extra energy. To feel like I can get everything done."
It isn't worth it in the long term, Chell tells him, stepping a little closer. But, listen, I'm here to help you now.
It's a start, anyway. She isn't sure how much good it's going to do, but it will do for now. She really wants to get him out of here and find him a new job, though. Nothing could ever be worth all this.
"You don't get it— I need the stuff. It's the only thing that makes me any use at all. Outside of that, I can't even keep pace," he says, leaning back and running his hands through his hair. "No, I'm not gonna pretend it's good for me or anything, but, you know, what's my wellbeing in the grand scheme of things? Besides, I can't remember the last time I felt this... sturdy. This good about myself and my work. It's clearly not all bad."
Chell looks shocked. Her expression is abruptly open and her eyes wide. What's your wellbeing? Wheatley, you're my brother! I need you!
"That's exactly it! I've got to be able to hold myself together for you," he says at once, as if she's just stumbled onto some great truth. "Don't you see that? If I can't help take care of you, what've I even got?"
Are you even going to be able to do that if you're taking meth? You didn't even realize you'd been gone for days. And, when I asked about you, GLaDOS said you'd probably overdosed somewhere! Chell challenges.
"Stop taking things GLaDOS says seriously!" Wheatley retorts, folding his arms. They only stay folded for a moment, however; he talks with them too much to keep them out of the action. "You don't get how much it helps! How could you? I don't blame you for that— between us, the only thing I got was the voice, everybody knows that. I know you've always got everything under control, but sometimes I need a leg up!"
Chell shakes her head. That isn't true. I believe in you, Wheatley. She thumps her chest for emphasis before going on. You don't need to use something that's going to poison you! Why can't you get addicted to energy drinks like everybody else? And are you even gonna address the fact that you didn't know you'd been gone for days? Because you didn't know you'd been gone for days.
"Look, I knew I'd been gone... longer than normal. I'm not totally oblivious. Yes, there are some negative side-effects. But if you ask me, the bad is outweighed by the good in this case. Anything that's gonna allow me to be able to hep you," he rebuffs firmly. "Anyway, I cannot stand the taste of energy drinks."
Chell puts her hands on her hips, frowning and sucking in her lower lip. She couldn't argue with him before she knew he was taking meth and she can't seem to argue with him now. It seems like she won't be able to impact the situation in a meaningful way until she finds out what exactly he's been pulling all these extra shifts for. What is Aperture having a simple caretaker do that calls for a white night and illegal drugs?
That's ridiculous and you know it. She tells him, biting on her lip a little. Who were you talking to outside just now? You sounded angry.
Wheatley breaths out in a rush of air, not a little bit annoyed at the question, but he answers honestly. "I saw GLaDOS out there. She just had a couple of questions for me, is all. Testing initiative. Whether I have a sister. S'pose I see why she was asking after that one now. She wanted to talk more to me, but it seemed she was walking with Mr. Johnson."
What's the testing initiative? Chell asks.
"Do I have a sister?" Wheatley counters, frowning at her, showing no shame at betraying his annoyance.
Yes, what's the testing initative?
"Very cute." He lightly kicks the side of his desk— not enough to be violent, or to make a real noise, but enough to express some frustration.
Is that's what's making you need to pull all these extra hours?
Unperturbed. Relentless.
"God— kind of?" He lifts his hands, palms up, then smacks them down onto the armrests. "More people staying here full time, more use of the residential wing and relaxation vaults, more personal care to attend to, more work for the caretaker."
Chell nods along. Good thing there is a new hire then, she signs.
"There most certainly is not," Wheatley retorts shortly. "There is a student who needs to not get expelled on the account of trying to make sure I'm alright."
Chell shakes her head. Students can take on jobs, and I've been hired by Cave Johnson himself. If you're staying then I'm staying. She decides firmly. There is no shaking this girl's resolve, none at all.
"Bloody hell." He runs his hands through his hair again. "I'm trying to take care of you, love, just let me. And like I said, I don't think I can go topside now, but I'm sure nobody will stop you."
GLaDOS would, Chell replies. Wheatley, I'm worried about you. We can worry about each other if you want, but I'm not leaving.
Wheatley groans audibly, kicking the desk again, in the same frustrated way as before. "Look, I know you're honestly better at everything else than me, but you do not need to show up at my job and start babysitting me."
I'm not babysitting you, I am working as your assistant, which you have been asking Mr. Johnson for for ages. Chell answers proudly, pushing her chest out.
"I had imagined somebody a bit less related to me," he says, lip curling slightly. "Matter of fact, I daresay I require somebody a little bit less related to me. This is a full-time job, love. I'm not going to be responsible for screwing up your education."
I'm not gonna let my education get screwed up, and you're not the one responsible for this decision. I'm filling a need. Chell insists.
He groans again, more loudly and pointedly this time, and runs a hand through his hair. "They're not even gonna be paying you for this. You didn't actually apply. You're not on the payroll."
I'll get that settled, don't you worry, Chell assures him. It's the work that matters most anyway.
"No, it's not. You're what matters most," he says, but he can tell he's losing this argument. Frustrated, he turns away from her, resting his arms on the desk, tilting his head so that he can still see her from where he's sitting.
Chell sighs. She comes over to him and rubs his shoulder. She doesn't want to argue with him. She just wants this to be over and for them to be home. No more meth. No more disappearances. No more weird behaviour and temper.
Wheatley leans into the touch gratefully. "...S'pose I should give you the proper orientation."
Chell nods, her expression softened. She continues rubbing his shoulder.
"Thing of it is, I had no warning at all. So, you know, forgive me if I'm not very well put together. Don't even know the welcome to Aperture spiel you're supposed to get," Wheatley says with a huff, trying to allow himself to relax.
Just tell me what you need me to do, I guess, Chell signs with a shug. I already got the history of Aperture from Mr. Johnson. She lets herself smile again and tilts her head a little.
"Hearing history from the man who made it," Wheatley says appreciatively, and now that her hands are off of him he turns to pull open a drawer, looking for something. "Sounds more exciting than it is in practice, doesn't it?"
Chell nods. There was a lot about himself in there, she tells Wheatley. I didn't know Aperture started out with shower curtains. And he gave himself awards. It was very... scientific.
He emerges with an employee badge in his hand, and this he offers to her, a small square of white plastic with his name and a number on one side, and a different number on the back. "Yep, shower curtains. But then he realized shower curtains don't go down in history. Here— badge you can use to get in and out of doors, very helpful when you need to get in and out of doors. Careful with it— that's my only spare. Number on the front— that one, yeah —is my employee ID, which I, ah, suppose is yours right now too. Number on the back will get you into any door in the whole residential wing that has a keypad. Again, please do not lose this, I do not want to have to ask to change the master combination again."
Chell gives a little laugh at this, silent but so very clear. She accepts the badge carefully in her hands, and watches him at he speaks before nodding her acknowledgement.
"Right? Good. Let's see, anything else you'll need before I give you the tour... well, I'm assuming they already gave you the welcome package and benefits information," he says, giving her a wry look.
Chell smiles in kind and sticks her tongue out part of the way.
"Right, you're going to need to treat this job with a little bit more professionalism than that," he mock chastises, wagging a finger at her as he shuts the drawer and stands again.
Chell stands a little straighter and puts her feet together. She purses her lips slightly and gives a mock salute.
"At ease," he says, swatting her shoulder. "Anything I should know about the lies you told Mr. Johnson and GLaDOS? Just so we've our stories straight."
Chell takes a moment to think this over. I told GLaDOS I was looking for my brother over the intercom, but when I was talking to her and Mr. Johnson in person, I said that I was here because I wanted to help further science, which I think means no brother, she answers.
"So, we're..." A short pause. "...Not related. Right then. Pleasure to meet you, stranger-I've-never-seen-before-in-my-life."
Chell nods and offers a hand in a quick motion.
Wheatley takes her hand in his and gives it a quick, firm shake. "Wheatley Rattmann, at your service. But friends call me Wheatley. Caretaker here at Aperture."
Chell lifts her hands after the shake and answers, Chell Rattman. I'm your new assistant. You can call me Chell.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chell," he says, signing along with the words. For her name, he doesn't even bother to spell it out as if he doesn't know her, but makes his familiar namesign for her- little bunny.
Chell giggles silently, feeling just for this one moment like things are normal, like everything is the way it always has been and there are no drugs, no Aperture Laboratories.
Likewise, Wheatley, she answers, using her namesign for him in kind. Hands clapped together, then split wide apart, then back together so she can make one into a field and make two quick motions of wheat growing from behind it.
Wheatley's smile softens as she makes his namesign, boundlessly appreciative. It feels like nothing in his life is in his control anymore, but the love he has for his sister makes it so much easier to bear. Still, worry returns for him a moment later, as he steps past her and puts his hand on the doorknob.
His voice softens, too, but in a melancholic way. "Now... love, listen. I know why you're doing this, but I promise you don't have to. I have just... the most awful feeling about you staying down here. Swear to me you're going to come back up to the surface just as soon as I do, yeah? With me? And not ever, ever come back."
Chell breathes in deep. She nods, then touches his chest and gestures outward. This is followed by, I want us to leave this place behind.
His mouth twists slightly, dissatisfied. "And why is me quitting my job a part of this equation?"
Chell presses her mouth to one side and frowns softly. She touches his arm where there's a bruise from the needle.
Wheatley pulls his arm back from her, the flush returning to his face. "That's got nothing to do with it."
She shakes her head and touches it again, then from his arm draws her hand up to say, It has everything to do with it.
"It— it really doesn't. All it means is I'd have to look for a new job where I'll be overworked and disrespected, one that probably doesn't pay near as well," Wheatley protests, rubbing his forearm self-consciously. "And without my boost."
You need a job where you don't use your boost, Chell tells him. She takes both his arms and turns him to face her.
He doesn't want to meet her eyes; his gaze focuses on one of her hands instead, which is a thin façade considering that her hands are on his arms and not doing any talking right now. "Not really in the market to get rid of it, love."
Chell shakes her head insistently. She isn't letting this go; despite knowing that she still needs that missing piece of the puzzle before she can truly get through to Wheatley, she nevertheless wants it to be known in the meantime that she can give no quarter.
Wheatley looks frustrated, sounds frustrated, but neither can possibly amount to just how frustrated he feels. "You don't get it. How do I make you get it? You don't need the stuff, you're Chell, but I— just think of it like coffee. Really good coffee."
Chell lets go of his arms to tell him, Meth is very different from coffee.
"Well— yes, it is. But you're focusing really hard on the bad parts. There's lots of negative side effects to coffee too, but people just shrug those off," he says; as soon as she lets go of his arms, he rubs his forearm self-consciously again.
Chell shakes her head with a frustrated sigh. Not like that. It's not anything like that.
His eyes meet hers, blue to blue; his are darker, a bit greyer, but they always catch the light just so, with an intensity that makes them almost light up. "You don't get it."
She nods to him. That isn't true. Gritty movies have shown her what happens when you inject things you shouldn't into yourself and she knows that the reality can only be worse, uglier than Hollywood. She gets that he honestly thinks that the meth is like coffee, after a fashion. She gets that Wheatley is Wheatley, although the stuff is changing him piece by piece into someone else, a stranger in her brother's skin.
"No, you don't, you obviously don't," he says, slicing a hand through the air to underscore the point. "Just— let's just do the tour, shall we?"
Chell sighs and nods reluctantly.
Wheatley holds the door open for her and gives a little bow. "Don't let it worry you, love. Lots to see and do down here."
It does worry her, of course, but she has to let that go for the time being. She gives him a half nod of acknowledgement and walks past, trying to affect a mock regal air.
He follows her out, pulling the door shut behind them. It feels strange for him to have her down here, wearing one of those awful orange jumpsuits, and while yes, he trusts her, and no, he doesn't think that Aperture is dangerous per se, he can't make himself feel like she's safe here.
"Right. Well. This—" A sweeping gesture to the hall in front of them, which has steel grating for the ceiling and floor, so that it's possible to see several floors up and down. "—Is the residential wing. Used to be a dozen or two really important scientists, now it's... an awful lot more. Some staying down here full time, others just doing overnight shifts. Follow along, I'll show you the relaxation vaults first; have to pop over there anyway, issue with one of the air vents I've to look at."
Chell nods. She is following along, of course, although she is taking in the strange and, in a way, almost exciting view of the rooms extending up and down as far as she can possibly see. They are not reminiscent of the rooms of a roadside motel so much as many huge steel crates, each containing entire housing units.
"Now, you may be asking yourself, what is the difference between residential and relaxation areas? Sound basically the same, don't they?" He leads her down a stairwell, not bothering to look back, because he knows she's right behind him. "Almost. Sort of. Residential facilities are for regular living. Relaxation facilities, on the other hand... bit different. In layman's terms, sort of a controlled coma. Cryo-sleep. Freezer storage, like you see in movies. 'Bout twenty of 'em, so far, and only in the testing stage, not long-term use."
Chell's head swivels to look at Wheatley, as if it will help his words to sink in. She hadn't known about the cryo-sleep chambers, and indeed it sounds more outlandish and impressive than anything she's encountered yet— although, when she thinks about it, GLaDOS definitely competes, whatever she actually is. No wonder Mr. Johnson is so proud of the advancements Aperture is making, if they can pull that off. Then again, the man has an almost comical ego, so perhaps that isn't such a good standard.
He's glanced back at her for her reaction, and he nods at the expression on her face. "Yep. That's it exactly. Mind you, they're also a great deal more stressful to look after than the residential areas. I feel like, if somebody dies in there, it's sort of my fault, isn't it?"
Chell nods, although she is still amazed at what she's being told. Goodness, and all this is Wheatley's responsibility! She supposes this is a part of what's driving him to such desperate lengths, but that cannot be all of it.
"Let's see..." They've reached a distinct block of these concrete boxes, each stenciled with a number, and he hesitates, trying to remember something. His hand goes instinctively to his pocket, but he still doesn't know what became of his phone, and he forgot to grab the note. "Which vault was it..."
Chell leans towards him as if she could help him to divine the answer. She looks at him with distinct interest, wondering what they're after.
He catches her interest, and answers her unspoken inquiry. "One of the bloody things is having an air vent issue I need to look at, and I forgot my notes. Eighteen, I believe...?"
Recognition flashes on Chell's face, and she nods.
Wheatley's hands linger in the air, and he gives her a curious look, before it settles info one of dawning realization. "You were poking around on my desk, weren't you?"
Chell's eyes widen slightly, but surprise doesn't last long before she turns her head coyly away.
Her brother folds his arms and gives her a stern look. "Should've expected as much. Learn anything good?"
I thought you'd disappeared. Chell admits, still looking away at the ground.
His look softens, and he unfolds his arms to lightly buff her hair with one hand. "Well, I suppose in a way I did. That bit's sort of on me."
Chell blows a raspberry and swats gently at his hand. Yes, it is. I was looking for clues.
"Find any, Holmes?" He asks, pulling his hand away from her swat and buffing her hair again.
Chell tugs away with another double swat and brightly nods. Lot of notes.
"I do make a few of those," he remarks, now moving down the walkway again, presumably towards relaxation vault number 18.
Chell thinks better of mentioning the computer, following him quietly up towards the relaxation vault and its mysteries.
If she reveals she was able to get into his computer, he'll probably change his password, anyway— and she might want access to that, in case of emergencies. Naturally, it is not in her best interests to bring that up. He still hasn't even explained what the testing initiative is.
"Right, this is the one," he says, approaching the cube marked with the right number, and punching a code into the access panel. The door opens before him, and he steps inside, ducking a bit as he does.
She steps into the cube behind him, greatly intrigued and curious about what she will find on the inside.
It affects the air of an extremely strange and somewhat bare-bones bedroom. There is a bed, there's a television on the wall, there's the door to what looks like a bathroom. A bizarre looking machine sits next to the bed, and there are cameras in either corner, as well as a rail on the ceiling for whatever purpose. Another thing that jumps out is that the air feels very thin. Wheatley leaves the door open.
"These units are pretty airtight," he says, going right over to the vent for a look. "So if the air vent didn't function, then there's just... no oxygen in there. Not good for the general living arrangement... or being alive."
Chell takes shallow breaths, looking over towards the bed. It's a strange environment, and nothing at all like what she'd pictured when Wheatley mentioned cryogenic stasis. It almost looks like a dingy hotel room. Is this room occupied, and is its occupant all right?
When Wheatley glances at her, he seems to read these questions in her expression. "Don't ask me. I don't understand the sciencey bits of it at all— I just know how to take care of the room."
Do they keep him in the dark about this, too? It seems like there is a lot going on that doesn't show on the surface, even way down here beneath the face the facility shows.
Chell asks, The people, too? Or just the room?
"Both," he says, putting an open hand on the vent and then frowning slightly at it. "Nobody's living in here full time yet. When they are, they've got all kinds of people watching them, including me sometimes. Also, air is coming out of this vent, but it's not oxygenated. Are you kidding me?"
Well, that pretty much answers her questions. Chell stands closer and watches with a slight frown. For air to be coming in that isn't oxygenated sounds like a tremendous issue, particularly when it feels like being on top of a mountain just standing in the room. She shudders inwardly to think of the effects of being stuck in here, comatose and totally unaware of your own slow suffocation.
Wheatley gives a soft, humorless laugh at the face she makes, and shakes his head. "You're right about that. Come on, we need to check if the other vaults are having the same problem. They should all be getting their air from the same source."
Chell nods, scrunching up her nose. She makes a cutting motion in the too-thin air and follows him with a certain alacrity. It's safe to say that the other units are probably having the same problem with the oxygen as this one, and those might not all be as empty as this one.
Wheatley leads her to the next one down the line, number seventeen. When he punches in the same code and the door opens, the air is just as thin as in the first vault. He groans, and takes a step back. "Somebody's gone and screwed up my air."
Chell breathes deeply so long as they are between vaults, a little bit lightheaded from being in the previous vault. She frowns in concern at Wheatley's comment, not immediately catching the thin air inside number seventeen. She feels a sinking in her gut.
Wheatley doesn't bother to go inside seventeen, instead moving back down the walkway to sixteen. Instinctively, his hand goes for his pocket, but there is still no phone there, no means by which to give his superiors an update, or to demand an update of them. When this relaxation chamber yields the same results, he turns to Chell. "Lovely mess this is. Love, can you finish checking these for me? I'm going to go make sure it's just the relaxation chambers having this problem, and not anything else I'm in charge of. I'll be right back."
Chell nods quickly, and turns at once to begin checking the remaining vaults from sixteen down. She power walks over to fifteen and opens the door, leans inside to check the air with a deep breath.
The result is the same. So is fourteen, and thirteen after that. It's a highly unnerving phenomenon, one with no ready explanation.
Chell is growing anxious, and ever so slightly dizzy. She keeps going anyway, determined to check every single last one of these rooms until Wheatley comes back so she can give him her report.
She's almost done by the time he returns, his quick pace made even quicker by his long strides. "What's the verdict, love?"
Chell shakes her head and makes a flat-hand cutting motion in front of her throat.
"Bloody brilliant. Several of the residential chambers are, too, but fortunately it looks like only unoccupied areas were affected." He looks aggravated, and it's only made worse by the fact that he hasn't slept in God knows how long. "Well, normally these are top of the line, extremely safe facilities. I'll have to show you the interiors in a bit more detail later, I need to call maintenance and give Mr. Johnson an update, and I still have no idea at all what happened to my phone."
Chell nods firmly, takes her own out of her pocket and offers it to Wheatley. She looks a little worried, but mostly serious. Nobody has died, that's good. This is, however, still a severe issue, and could soon affect those staying here, which again would be disastrous if they're sleeping.
He looks a little surprised, as if it hadn't occurred to him that he could use her phone, and he accepts it with a look of gratitude. "Thanks, love. Now let's see if I remember the numbers."
Chell makes the sign for eighteen, then quickly points downward.
"Phone numbers," he corrects wryly, but he signs thank you at the same time, a sweeping motion away from his mouth. He taps a number into the phone and leans against the railing of the walkway; it doesn't so much as quiver under his weight, but it still overlooks a very long drop.
She grins at him in reply. It doesn't remove the sinking feeling from her gut, but it does make her feel a little bit better. She waves her fingers, a hair's breadth from wringing her hands.
She doesn't like the look of Wheatley leaning against that railing, but she doesn't mention it.
He waits some several moments, and then he tells the phone his full name, and then he waits a few more moments, and then he's launching into a description of the problem, talking quite as much with his hands as his voice and even signing some of the words. To say he seems agitated would be an understatement, but he's actively trying to keep his cool.
Chell inches a little closer and gently nudges his arm in an effort to reassure him. It's so apparent how much he's changed, how the drugs are affecting him. Yes, the problem is severe and, again, could have proven fatal if they hadn't caught it, but he's so wired. It's in his every word, in his speech, in his wild hands. She doesn't know what to do except be there for him.
He actually jumps when she touches him, taken off guard by the contact, and he only relaxes when he glances down and sees that it's her, although of course he knows it couldn't have been anyone else. Absently, he puts his hand on her shoulder, comforting.
God, for him to be that jumpy... It's just so wrong. Chell sighs and rests her head against him. She closes her eyes, trying to convince herself to relax. There's a lot of work ahead of them.
He keeps his arm around her, and it seems to calm him down, more or less. Finally, he ends the call, and he glances down at her with a glint in his eye. "Can you believe? This idiots are trying to tell me they were testing the oxygen conversion units. I know that's a lie, those were already tested. Also, you don't test them by shutting them off."
Chell's eyes open at his voice and she looks up to meet his gaze. She frowns at this information. That's a bizarre lie to tell. What were they doing really? Whatever it was, it suddenly becomes sharply clear that there was no accident.
The affected units were all unoccupied, Chell signs.
Wheatley presses his lips into a thin line. Having this pointed out to him makes him suddenly unnerved. "Right you are. What do you make of it?"
They were trying something out maybe, Chell signs, although she's kind of wishes she hadn't mentioned it. The air was still running so probably wasn't just to save money.
"Whatever it was, I didn't appreciate it," Wheatley says tensely. He looks away for a moment, and shudders in some very negative emotion. "Never mind it. If that's the case, Mr. Johnson probably already knows about it, but for something like this, I still have to update him."
Chell acknowledges this, but can offer no particular input. Mr. Johnson would have authorized whatever this was, and now Wheatley has to tell him all about the effects. She feels frustrated on his behalf; that man must be a nightmare to work for.
Clearly rather unwillingly, he dials another number, and when this one is answered, he speaks to it with forced, begrudging respect. The first half of the call goes more or less exactly the same way; him describing what's happened, the person on the other end frustrating him. It's only after this that he pauses, seeming a bit taken off guard. "—Thank you, sir? ...What? No, I... Yes, she's doing fine so far. ...No, I'm not part of that initiative. —Because I only have one person helping me, and I literally only got her today! —Yes, I do, sir. You are, sir. But why...?"
There's that sinking feeling in Chell's belly again, and it's taking everything else down with it. She looks up at her brother, watching him speak with dread in her throat and her lips sealed tight.
There is only one thing she can connect the word initiative to down here, and it is a loaded word, heavy with meaning unknown to her. It's a source of unease, even horror to Wheatley, and so to her, it holds deadly potential.
His arm tightens around her shoulders. He doesn't seem to like what he's hearing. "—You know, that reminds me, I still can't go top for some reason. —Naturally, but I've been down here two days now. ...What? ...I mean, it helps, but it doesn't make me into a robot or something. —What? No, I just want to go home and get a nap in!"
Chell's brow furrows, and she puts her hand on Wheatley's arm, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. She can feel her insides twisting at his tone, and not knowing is making it harder and harder to take.
"—Yes, sir, but I— what? Wait— Mr. Johnson— He's hung up." Wheatley offers her the phone back with a soft curse, his expression dark.
She accepts the phone and puts it back into her pocket, the jumpsuit rustling as she does. She is frowning with tremendous consternation.
As soon as it's put away, she lets go of Wheatley's arm and asks, What's going on? What's wrong?
Wheatley opens his mouth, then shakes his head. "Never mind it, love. Just company politics, I suppose."
It sounds like the farthest possible thing from just company politics.
Chell taps his shoulder before signing, No, tell me what's going on. You got really upset. And it involved me. She looks stern, and yet there is very clearly fear in her eyes.
"Oh, that part? He just wanted to know how you were getting along so far, that's as much as you were involved," Wheatley says, underscoring the words with his usual hand gestures. He doesn't deny how upset it got him. "That and I mentioned that I don't have any bloody help around here, but I think I mention that every time he talks to me."
What about going to the surface? And the initiative? Chell insists, giving no quarter.
"Says he's looking into the surface bit, but who ever even knows with him," Wheatley says. He does not address the initiative.
He mentioned something that was supposed to help you. Did he give you the meth? Chell asks accusingly, frowning at him. She goes on to repeat, And what about the initiative?
Wheatley's face heats up. "Awful leap in logic, there. And the testing initiative doesn't apply to me, so it's not important."
It is not, answer the questions! Both of them! Chell signs, shoving her hands towards him. She punctuates this demand with a stamp of her foot, her cheeks reddened.
Wheatley glances away for a moment, and then back at her. "Yes, Mr. Johnson gave me the meth. I did not know what it was at the time. Are you happy?"
Chell deflates visibly. She looks gloomily from Wheatley to the floor and then back up again. She shakes her head. But then she puts her hand to her mouth and waves it down in front of herself, palm up; thank you.
She then sighs and reaches to touch his arm again.
Wheatley looks like he's ready for a fight until she says that. Then he sighs, and he puts his arms around her, hugging her to his chest and resting his chin in her hair. "Soon as I tried the stuff, I felt like I was on top of the world, like I could do anything. I also felt like I was having a heart attack. But he did not warn me what it was that he was having me put in my body."
Chell stays put, biting her lip at this new revelation. She should have known. For the first time she is truly seeing that Cave Johnson is a monster, treating employees as though they are disposable in the name of furthering himself, calling it scientific pursuit. This is what had pushed Wheatley so far, had made him work night and day at menial tasks that many people should have been doing. This is how he began putting poison into his veins, why he would barely speak to her and so often started fights. This place and that man, who would pump the oxygen out of residential units and lie about it, they are grinding Wheatley down like stripping cogs, and they will not stop until he is smoothed down, ruined and useless.
Wheatley holds her to himself and leans against the railing, physically, tangibly exhausted. For a few moments he's silent, and the only sound is the soft ambience of the facility itself. Finally, he sighs again. "I need a nap. I think I'm just going to hole myself up in my office for a bit."
Chell nods into his shirt and gently disentangles herself from him. She puts her arm around him as she does, offering her support to help him get back to his office with a meaningful, concerned look.
"I can walk just fine, you know," he says, but he accepts the help nonetheless, leading her along back the way they'd come from.
Chell acknowledges this as they walk. Truth be told, she really wouldn't like to be too far from him right now. She's worried, and this whole thing is just a mess.
As soon as they're back in his office, he kicks the door shut behind them, pushes up his sleeves, and collapses in his desk chair, his eyes half open and directed more towards the ceiling than her. "I imagine you'd probably be annoyed with me if I said I really want a shot right now."
Chell frowns severely and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She casts her gaze uncomfortably off to one side, and, at length, she raises one fist and twists it up and down; yes.
He glances away from her, moves his hand over his heart. Sorry. "Would you let me do it anyway?"
Chell draws in both her lips, still looking off to the side. She shifts her weight again and then nods, moving her head as she does from the side back to the front again, to look over at Wheatley.
I heard you aren't supposed to stop cold turkey. But I hate it. I hate meth. I hate what it's done to you. She ends this statement pointing at him as if holding the last word for several long moments.
Wheatley looks guilty. Not because of the meth— he still holds the same view on it —but because he dislikes upsetting his sister. Having that accusatory gesture held for so long makes him twist uncomfortably, and finally he is the first to turn away, going into the only locked drawer of his desk to retrieve a plastic-wrapped syringe and a vial and one of those sanitary wipes you get at hospitals. At least he's not reusing needles. A benefit of working in a lab, it seems.
Chell wants to look away and spare herself, but to do so would be to let it feel less real, and she can't have that. Besides, she is frozen to the spot, paralyzed with her gaze stuck to the vial, realizing they produce that stuff somewhere right here in Aperture. How it seems like something only made in the garages of the desperate, and yet here it is being produced in one of the finest facilities in America by men who surely have the resources to accomplish anything.
And there is the drug that is hurting her brother, being administered like a medical procedure right in front of her.
He rips open the wipe and cleans off a spot on his arm, and it makes it seem somehow even more clinical. As though this is something that's supposed to be happening instead of the nightmare that it is. The tracks on his arms, of course, reveal that this is far from the first time he's done this, but there's something awful about the practiced ease with which he opens the syringe and draws from the vial. Here he pauses, glancing at her. He does not actually ask if she's sure she wants to be watching for this, but the question is implied, and he's giving her an opportunity to turn away.
Chell purses her lips and lowers her head a little, maintaining her gaze. She is surprised to be able to move that much, but she is quick to find that it's all she can manage, trapped as if by a witch's curse. She does not take the opportunity given. Her mind is already made up.
Wheatley turns away from her again, and his eyes half-shut as they fall back to his arm, as if he too wants to look away but can't. Unlike Chell, however, there's no sense of dread, but instead of anticipation. When the needle slides into his skin, his eyes flutter, and he lets out a gentle groan in a sense of what sounds almost like euphoria.
Watching it seems somehow indecent. He's doing something horrible, but it brings him a visibly intense pleasure.
Chell is sickened by the spectacle, this amalgam of wretchedness and relief that she hasn't got the words to compare it with. She wants to run over there and stop him, but she doesn't. She's horrified, she's overcome. She agreed to let this happen because she knew she couldn't stop it, and yet now she just wishes that she could snatch the syringe away from him. This can't happen again. He cannot keep doing this.
He hisses softly as the needle comes back out again, and he tosses the thing in the trash, but the moment isn't ending, not really. He leans back, his curled fingers lightly rested on his arm where he injected himself, his eyes wide and his breathing quick between parted lips. He's shuddering, his face is flushed, his brow slightly furrowed; it's as if something impossibly intimate has taken place between that needle and his arm. It's impossible to say what he's thinking or feeling as that intimate transaction spreads its poison through his blood.
Chell watches unflinching, almost detached from what she's witnessing. It's something nobody is ever supposed to see, and she's standing there watching, lecherously, wishing she could be anywhere else, anyone else. Like that can't possibly be Wheatley over there in this strange state, surreal, remade. Like that couldn't possibly be anyone else.
He gasps, as if the feeling has snuck up on him, and he shudders again, gripping his arm a little. He closes his eyes, suddenly, like it's something he's just remembered to do. From the back of his throat he moans again, deep and low, almost dipping into a growl. She wouldn't have left if he'd asked, but he's clearly already stopped caring if he's being observed.
He will likely stay there without moving for awhile.
It is disgusting, viscerally, and Chell finally manages to shed her paralysis and move, slow and hesitant. It's a process, like starting up an old car in the cold. It seems to her like ages before she's suddenly crossed the room, no recollection of walking, and she's near her brother; not right next to him, but just a little to the side, horrified for him, and yet still watching.
It feels intimate, in a way almost sexual, but to describe it that way would make it sound natural. It's abhorrent, a thing that ought only be found in back alleys, in the most horrible dredges of the world. It shouldn't be here in this gleaming facility, here in her brother's body. He doesn't look up at her; he might not even realize she's approached him. His eyelashes flutter, and his throat moves with silent sound, each moan that does and does not make it past his lips.
What have Cave Johnson and his horrible laboratories done to Wheatley?
No wonder he would say this is harmless— besides the coffee rush he's claimed, and who knows what that bastard has told him. Lies, just like the one about testing the oxygen. All just lies.
Watching the process go underway has made things clearer, but it's given her a horror film vision that she can never forget, one which she can already predict will stay with her for years to come. She feels dirty for having seen it, as if having borne witness has made her complicit in the act.
Meth is such a big word for having only one syllable, heavier even than initiative and its unknowns. It feels like strung out junkies sleeping on cardboard, like men with guns snarling and trading in lives and briefcases full of cash. It's a curse word used to describe a devil.
Wheatley, Chell signs, vainly, hands only barely touching together before they spread out for the first part of his namesign. It's hesitant and shaky. She knows he doesn't see her.
His breaths are coming harder and shallower than before, the first kick of the drug giving way only to a second, rather than fading away. His pupils are dilated, his grip of his arm tightens and his shaking worsens, and he doesn't look at her. He looks like something is strangling him from the inside. He looks like a scene out of a movie.
When finally this cripplingly powerful high begins to taper off, after what feels like a small eternity, he's breathing as if he just ran a marathon race. He probably won't talk to her yet. Given the aggression he's displayed in the recent past, it might not be smart to talk to him for awhile.
Chell turns away from this atrocity, her shoulders weighed down; there's really nothing more to be gained from the nightmarish display. The motion gets her to notice the computer again, with its screen still dark, and she perks up a little, glances over at Wheatley.
He looks far too preoccupied (too far gone) to notice whatever she does now, and so she slowly, carefully slides herself in between him and the desk, and switches on the monitor.
The computer is still unlocked from where she left it before— thank goodness he hadn't needed it for anything in the meantime, honestly. Its owner sits behind her, his hand on his arm and his legs out in front of him, and he neither notices nor cares what she does.
Chell gets the feeling that it will be a while before that changes, but she is nervous, and knows she can't waste time. Quickly, she begins to investigate the computer's contents.