Testing is... not quite what Chell imagined.
Having it explained to her, it had sounded like it basically boiled down to standard product testing. Use the provided item, answer questions, watch the white coats take notes. In practice, it's easy to see why nobody here wants to do it.
First, it's hard to imagine that all this problem-solving is really necessary. Second, there's a lot of physical work involved, running around the testing chambers and using the portal device not only to move herself (which worked, amazingly well), but also to gain momentum and to mount otherwise inaccessible platforms. For some reason, a lot of it involves moving large cubes onto buttons, as if she were a rat in a maze.
She's outfitted with these boots- they're almost more incredible than the portal gun itself. As far as she might fall or be thrown, they somehow always hit the ground, making it feel like she's landing on something gentle and springy like moss. They're pretty incredible, but they don't answer a lot of the questions she has. GLaDOS hangs around, observing her from test to test.
The amazement at these incredible inventions, much like her awe at seeing GLaDOS, are short-lived as they are obliged to take a backseat to her anxiety and to those unanswered questions. There is no telling what will happen next, or how it will happen. She can't possibly know what GLaDOS is planning to do or what part she is to play in it. All she knows is the fact that the impossibly beautiful woman is her best bet at escaping with Wheatley, and the movements of her own body as she fires portals and throws herself through them.
It's intimidating, downright sinister even, not knowing what GLaDOS's "ulterior motives" are. But as long as it somehow involves getting Wheatley out, does it really matter? It's a question with a fine line for an answer. This place feels more and more like a horror movie the longer Chell spends here.
It's all so alien and intimidating to Chell. It's like being in another world, and knowing none of the customs. She's subject to the will and the whims of the denizens of this world of science and progress, and yet all she wants is to leave with her brother. Right now, this very moment, she is using portals to move herself around rooms. There's nothing about this that feels like the life she's left behind on a phone call and a bike ride. There's nothing about this that even feels real right now.
Least real of all are GLaDOS and Cave. The latter does not seem like the kind of man to be duped, and yet she is here. The former is giving her a polite round of applause as she finishes another test. It seems she's come to the end of this track. How long has she been at this?
"Seems you're getting the hang of it."
Chell nods and smiles, gives GLaDOS a thumbs up. Through the surreality, there is the odd feeling like she has accomplished something. It's probably the most positive feeling she's had down here, aside of that short-lived excitement from being reunited with Wheatley. God, she misses him all over again.
However long she's been at this, it's been too long.
GLaDOS gives a slight, curious smile in return. She does not often smile- has she at all, actually? In all this unrealistically long day? -and it softens the cold inhumanity of her white face. Perhaps it isn't genuine. "Fortunately, between the portal device, the gel project, and... other things, there's never a shortage of need for eager subjects."
Chell shudders inwardly at the idea of keeping this up for any extended period of time, despite the feeling of having accomplished something and of having earned something of a smile from GLaDOS. Maybe this would have been something she would have elected to do had Aperture not held Wheatley against his will and instilled such fear in her and in the scientists who'd been kind to her. Were the company not so intimidating, so utterly wicked to its very head, she might have been able to see a future in testing wild advancements such as the portal device and whatever the gel project was.
But, of course, this was not the case.
Maybe that's part of why Wheatley so pointedly kept her away from this place- maybe he knew she'd find it thrilling, in a way, or that she would have before all this went down. Just as well. Other things is pretty ominous.
Of course, there is a lot at play here; more than Chell even knows. Even as she carries on to the next test, her head is swimming, swirling, sinking in the tangle of it all, dazzling projects of the future somehow tracing their way back to the dark and sinister project which would turn a human woman into a creature straight out of science fiction. How can it all fit together?
Chamber after chamber progresses in much this way, interrupted only by the commentary of GLaDOS and the scientists, sometimes in person but mostly over a speaker system. In addition to Dr. Arachne, there's others that come and go, but Chell does not encounter Rick, Neil, or Paris. They said they're on this project, didn't they? The test chambers are extensive; perhaps they've simply missed each other.
Between two of the tests- rather abruptly, and without an indication that they are already done for the day -she is called into the observation chamber above.
Chell doesn't know what to make of this unexpected interruption, which seems as much like just a part of the way Aperture does things as not. She takes a moment to steady herself before she goes to answer the call, a part of her hoping that it might be one of the scientists she's befriended— and all of her knowing that she will have no such luck.
Of course, it's no friend of Wheatley's that has brought testing to a pause, that commands the scientists' anxious attention- and GLaDOS's apparent cold indifference. Rather, her entrance is greeted by someone far more important, and far more dangerous. Cave Johnson turns to glance at Chell as if she has interrupted something he was saying, but his grace betrays no falter.
"If it isn't our latest test subject."
Chell feels her heart twist in her chest and drop into her belly. She hadn't expected to see Cave Johnson again, and even less to be called personally to his side. Her sweat-shiny skin is tight and her hands can form no words— not that they would be understood if they could. She approaches slowly and nods in greeting, yes, that is who she is.
What an identity to have. They should have both stayed away from this place, not that she had any say in the matter.
"How are you liking the portal device?" Cave asks, proud, rhetorical. He doesn't need her answers. He has his own. "Easily the third most impressive marvel of the modern world, after the GLaDOS project and myself."
Of course he'd name himself the most impressive marvel of the modern world. If he weren't so egotistical, Chell wouldn't be here now— and not just because he fell so easily for her sweet-talking.
The young woman presses her lips together and nods in agreement. Yes, of course it's impressive. It's a marvel. It's magnificent. Not that it does anyone any good.
Cave smiles at her. He has a practiced smile, but not an insincere one- he is unconcerned by judgement, least of all judgement as insignificant as hers. "Glad you think so. You know, I'm also glad Caroline recommended you for the testing initiative- she has a good eye for these things."
GLaDOS makes a soft sound, but it doesn't actually make it as far as becoming a word.
Chell offers a smile of her own, but it's weak compared to his, ironically actually insincere. She despises this man for what he's done to Wheatley.
He's a cruel, wicked man, who has hurt her brother and her as well, and the scientists who were kind to her, and GLaDOS, as cold as she is. Chell can't blame her the way she did when they'd first spoken; she could easily have become just as cold after being through what GLaDOS has. Even now, there is little that stands between them but the fact of someone counting on her.
Yet, Chell forces herself to be charming just as before, and steps clover to him, listening, attentive.
"Incidentally, I need to have a word with Caroline about her good eye," Cave continues, turning away from Chell to look at GLaDOS, who has no smile at all, of any degree of sincerity. As seamlessly as he bought into Chell's flattery before, he gives the impression that there is nothing at all he doesn't know. "But I think that can wait for the moment. Now that I've run into you, I would like to clarify a couple of things."
His smile does not falter, but he steps closer to her, and his proximity is as unnerving as the shadow he casts over her.
"Starting with the fact that we have no record at all of you working here," he continues. "Or interviewing. Or even submitting your resume to the company."
It is with a jolt that Chell realizes she no longer has her phone, which means that she can't respond unless he can read her signs— and she is certain that if he does know everything, that's still something he cannot do. She shivers, trying to cling to her resolve as the smile escapes her, and takes a step back from the man so intimidating her.
As she steps back, he steps forward in time, his greater stride bringing him even closer to her. Though not as tall as Wheatley, his presence fills the whole room, and he towers over her, all of Aperture at his back. He folds his hands behind himself, almost in a sense of disappointment in her. "Have you ever heard of Black Mesa, young lady?"
The young woman shakes her head at once, anxiously, truthfully. She has no idea what that is. Does he think there's some kind of a connection between her appearance and this name? It strikes her that perhaps this is the codename for whatever has kept Wheatley here all this time, something connected somehow to the GLaDOS Project or the oxygen removals from the Long-Term Relaxation Chambers, or both. She can feel her brown skin paling.
"Are you sure? It's not a smart move to lie to me," he says, looking down at her. There's a dark, dark expression in his eyes, although his face is set in mild disapproval. "If you're spying for them, it's a much better idea for you to tell me now."
GLaDOS has her gaze cast to the wall beside Chell, as if she'd rather not be in the room right now.
Chell swallows and shakes her head again, her heart constricting in her chest. Who the hell are they? What does Black Mesa mean, what do they want from Aperture that she could possibly give them?
I don't know what you're talking about, she signs, almost desperately, knowing that she won't be understood but trying all the same in a distressed effort to claim her innocence.
Seconds stretch out as he assesses her, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. Will he decide to believe her? What will he do to her if he doesn't? Does he know of her relation to Wheatley, has GLaDOS told him- and if he does, will Chell's own deception come back on her twin as well?
Finally, Cave lifts his chin. "Frankly, I don't see a lot of really good reasons I should believe you, outside of the fact that you don't talk much."
Has he understood? That can't be the case; she's sure he didn't understand sign language— although remembering is difficult under this much pressure, all come on so unexpectedly. She gestures to himself, and then to him.
Didn't I tell you how much I admire you? I don't even know Black Mesa.
He does not clear up whether he understands her or not- either way, he doesn't care enough what she's saying to clarify. "You're on pretty thin ice, whoever you are. I want to know why you wanted so badly to come down here, if you're not working for them."
Backed like a rat into a corner, Chell has only to lay her cards down and hope that he can even see them, or else risk being kicked out or worse. Well, not all of her cards, but enough to protect herself from these cryptic accusations.
I wanted to work with my brother. Here, in Aperture.
Finally, GLaDOS spares her, if in a sharp-edged way. "Neither of us knows sign language. That's why I keep telling you to use your words."
"I don't need to know sign language- I have people who know that kind of thing for me," Cave says at once, seemingly even more annoyed now that he's had this called out. "Where's her phone?"
Oh. Well, that makes sense then, doesn't it? Chell feels a heat rush into her cheeks, but the relief that floods her is far stronger than any embarrassment. Cave has no choice but to acknowledge her muteness now, and return her power of communication to her. It's honestly strangely rewarding.
"It was confiscated at the beginning of the testing tracks, of course. I'm not sure where it is now," GLaDOS says coolly. It seems unlike her to not know anything, let alone to admit it. Is this the truth? Or does she have some reason to want to keep Chell from talking?
"Then I'm going to have to assume she's guilty of something until she gets that back," Cave says firmly. "Pretty convenient that it's lost now, isn't it?"
Chell shakes her head yet again and indicates GLaDOS, and then the portal device on her own arm. Of course it's not a matter of convenience, it was simply a matter of Aperture protocol, as enforced by GLaDOS, at the (perhaps indirect) behest of Cave Johnson himself.
"That just leaves the question of what to do with you," he says, maybe understanding her, maybe not. It doesn't seem to matter, given the way he guides the conversation.
"Let's not jump to decisions," GLaDOS says flatly. "We do have a shortage of capable test subjects, after all."
Chell quickly nods as if she knows what GLaDOS is talking about. Right, of course, don't you know you need me here?
"We don't need an extra pair of hands if they're Black Mesa hands," Cave retorts, turning to GLaDOS with a stern expression, arms folded.
"Her hands are brown," GLaDOS observes. "Besides, I doubt if she's working for them in the first place."
Chell draws her lower lip under her teeth. She fidgets now that Cave is no longer looking at her, stomach in knots.
Here her fate is to be once again decided without her, and she can only watch.
"What makes you so sure of that?" Cave asks. He's talking like Chell isn't even in the room. "You're the one who was so skeptical of her in the first place. "
"She's nowhere near smart enough," GLaDOS says with a totally straight face. "I think it would be sufficient to keep a close eye on her."
Chell chews her lip a little bit. Tests aside, they both know she was smart enough to get into Aperture in the first place; the question is rather whether Cave will believe a claim to the contrary.
He may be vain, easily appealed to and seemingly a bit careless at times, but clearly he is not stupid. Indeed, Chell could almost believe that he knows as much as he gives the air of knowing, possesses the sheer control that he appears to, and certainly, she knows beyond a doubt that he holds her future and Wheatley's in his hands. They are as insignificant to him as the seeds of a dandelion, and just as easily tossed and blown away.
Cave's eyes are sharp and inscrutable as he assesses the object of his suspicion. It was foolish to assume that she could coast under this man's radar long enough to get Wheatley out, and now she is confronted with the reality of that foolishness face to face. He's weighing her, this powerful man, and the question is not whether she will be found wanting, because she already has been.
"We've got too much going on around here to have to worry about you," he says at last. "Do you have an employee ID? You must have a door badge if youre getting around this place. Give it to me."
Chell shrinks back, startled to have him looking at her again, terrified by his demand. She knows she can't hold out but she makes an appealing gesture anyway, as if it would do her any good now.
His expression hardens, and he holds out his hand and snaps his fingers. The command does not even beg further words.
She fishes out the card and hands it over. It feels like locking the door of her own prison cell, leaving her completely trapped— and that much more helpless.
Cave takes the badge with a formal flick of the wrist, and his gaze lingers on her for several moments before turning to the proffered card. Wheatley Rattmann reads the front of it, and he takes that in, the employee number beneath, the picture of Wheatley's face. He flips it over, briefly, to look at the sticker with the second number on the back. "Mr. Rattmann. Funny coincidence."
Chell nods. There's nothing funny about it. It's like the punchline of a joke at the expense of everything she has ever known or cared about. Everything is laid bare before Cave Johnson's wicked, wicked eyes.
"You look like you could be related," he observes, and he slides the badge under the lapel of his jacket, into some hidden breast pocket. It's impossible to tell what he is thinking, what he is planning, how much he has divined.
GLaDOS says nothing.
Chell trains her expression to the best of her ability and gives no response. She feels as if every part of her body is shutting down in sequence, and she's only still standing because anything else would be in defiance of this man who would destroy her.
His hand lingers at his lapel, giving him a distinguished air. The air feels cold. Finally he passes his judgement. "She can keep testing. Minimum security clearance. Below minimum. I don't want her sneezing without me knowing about it. Until I get this cleared up, she's not allowed near the residential wing. Change the master combination, too. And I want to move up my meeting with Mr. Rattmann."
"I'm afraid moving that any sooner might cause... conflicts," GLaDOS says tactfully.
Chell reacts with alarm, moving slightly towards the man before she can stop herself. There's still nothing she can do, nothing she can say. Even if he could understand her, it isn't as if she'd listen. Her plans are crumbling all around her, her hopes falling apart, can she even think of getting back to Wheatley now? She shakes her head in piteous protest.
"I didn't ask for your permission," Cave says harshly to Chell, the strength of his voice filling up the room and causing the few scientists misfortunate enough to still be there to cringe. "Frankly, you're lucky circumstances are what they are."
Chell shrinks back, brows knitted, and she nods rapidly but she doesn't feel lucky in the least. Being allowed to continue testing isn't enough, regardless of the fact that she'll still be in the facility. She might as well actually be in a cell down here.
"Goddamn right," Mr. Johnson says sternly. "You stay put right here. I need to have a private word with Caroline, and you better still be here when she gets back."
GLaDOS takes the cue and moves towards the door, watching her superior without so much as glancing back at Chell.
Chell's face is beet red, and she feels as if to breathe too hard would break open a dam holding back an ocean's worth of tears. Her entire body is shaking and she almost doesn't realize that her hands are balled into fists.
With this, Mr. Johnson turns and makes his exit, with GLaDOS following just behind. The door shuts behind them, a physical barrier between the most recent subject of his cruelty, and the next.
The sound of nice shoes clicking on the floor at a quick, steady pace heralds the arrival of another to a different scene. The nice shoes belong to a flustered man, furious and determined, his strides long and even. He is full of purpose, like his steps, but he is also anxious in the face of what he must now do.
"Mr. Johnson?" he calls as he knocks on the door, almost too urgently for what he needs to do, but not nearly urgently enough for the gravity of what he has discovered.
Mr. Johnson has only just returned to his office when he receives this knock, and he remains standing on account of it, one hand on his desk. "Come in."
It's Virgil who steps inside at this, his worry in his eyes and in the tightness of his lips. His back is straighter even than usual, but his hair is still distinctly ruffled.
"Mr. Johnson, I need to speak with you, it's of the utmost importance," he begins as soon as he's closed the door behind himself. "It concerns the GLaDOS Project."
"There haven't been any more setbacks, have there?" Mr. Johnson asks, drawing himself up with a slight frown. "I want the next trial to be sooner, if possible. I'm not authorizing it to be delayed."
"No, no, that's not it," Virgil's voice is thick with the horror of what it is, and carries uncomfortably the barely discernible sound of the anger he can barely contain at having discovered it. "It's about the transfer. It's about the scans." The word is stressed with the knowledge that Mr. Johnson should know exactly what this is about.
With a considerate hum, Mr. Johnson lowers himself into his chair, and he leans back, and folds his hands in front of himself. If Virgil is expecting any kind of true acknowledgement of the subject at hand, he is to be disappointed. "You're going to have to be more specific."
Virgil comes right up to the desk, just short of touching it. He can't be bothered now with a prelude, and instead launches straight into it. "The scans are fatal to live subjects. Sir, if we proceed to perform the next run as planned, we are going to kill our subject."
"Working as you do on the project, I would think you already know that the subjects live on in their new forms," Mr. Johnson says with an air of unconcerned patience, almost totally dismissive of the heady implications laid before him. "Our subjects know what they're getting into when they volunteer. Just look at Caroline! She's not just happy, she's thriving."
"Of course, but sir, I wasn't aware that the scans were going to cause irreparable brain damage!" Virgil protests. He feels stupid even letting the words leave his mouth. He should have known, he thinks, but he didn't. He worked on the computers for the project, and this was out of his jurisdiction, but he still feels like he should have known what he was helping to create and that just makes it all the worse.
His blood goes cold at the mention of Caroline. He wasn't expecting his suspicions to be confirmed so obviously, so blithely. "And Caroline, she was supposed to have been in an accident, how can she be held up as an example of doing better under the GLaDOS project? You were aware of this already. You knew this was an issue, why haven't we fixed it?"
"Because it's not an issue," Mr. Johnson says, now frowning slightly, gesturing with one hand to underscore the point. "There is a reason it's called a transfer process. Nothing about it needs to be fixed- the project accomplishes exactly what it set out to accomplish."
"With the death of the host?" Virgil sputters, rage and horror bubbling over. He slams his hands down on the desk. "You didn't tell us that this was what we were doing! What you told us was that we were creating artificial intelligence from human intelligence! You told us that Caroline died in an accident!"
"Obviously she was alive enough for you to work with." Quiet aggression has seeped into Mr. Johnson's voice, a warning undertone. Virgil is meant to drop the subject. "We are not duplicating humans as robots, we are recreating those humans as the GLaDOS hardware. The subjects are not a mere blueprint."
"That's, that's inhumane!" Virgil cries, refusing to back down, his ruddy face reddened and hot. "The second subject is young and healthy, you can't just turn him into a robot! Mr. Johnson, this project needs to be shut down! This is insanity! This is cruel!"
"First of all, the GLaDOS hardware is so much more than just a robot," Mr. Johnson asserts, his voice rising slightly in volume. He doesn't stand up. "I would expect a man of your caliber to understand that. Second of all, I can do whatever I want in this facility. Don't try to tell me otherwise."
"In this facility, certainly," Virgil growls. "But this is the real world, Mr. Johnson. I'm not about to stand idly by while you send healthy young subjects to the chopping block. I would bet anything this next subject has no idea what he's in for and neither did Caroline. Why, it's no wonder she is so sullen all the time! She used to be so cheerful, such a good friend. I'm not going to let somebody else end up like she did. That is a promise."
With a heavy sigh, Mr. Johnson leans back in his chair. "I'm sorry to hear you feel that way. It's always disappointing when a trusted employee loses sight of what's really important. And by that, of course, I mean science."
"Mr. Johnson, nobody believed in the GLaDOS project like I do," Virgil corrects him, a snarl to his nose and lips, and a light in his eyes. "Nobody. I still feel that the project could be set right, if the scans were fixed, and the subjects were terminal patience, but clearly you have your heart set on continuing on the course you've set, and that worries me, that sickens me. I have trusted you and Aperture, put my faith in you, put everything I have into this company! You can't possibly think that I have just lost sight of something when you have been lying and manipulating me this entire time!"
"The subjects are not chosen at random; there are very specific reasons for my decisions. I'm not casting a net blindly, here. I almost feel like you don't have a proper appreciation for what we're achieving, here. To change the scans would be to change the entire transfer process, which is something that is neither necessary nor budgeted." He jabs a finger down with the last word. "And I don't mean in terms of money. Redoing that much work would be an enormous waste of time."
"How can it be a waste of time if it would allow us to both accomplish our goals and preserve the original life? We could make so many more robots if we can copy the same intelligence repeatedly, or use more subjects! And besides that, to kill the subjects is not only scientifically unethical, it's illegal!" Virgil's voice raises at the end, almost birdlike, high with exasperation and rough with passion.
"As I just said, the GLaDOS hardware is so much more than just a robot. Look at Caroline! You can't just make multiple Carolines. In every aspect, that is very much the same person she has always been, but better," Mr. Johnson argues proudly. "Frankly, Virgil, I don't give a damn about your ethics, or your laws. We've already been over the fact that science is dangerous. That's just a fact. That's what we have waivers for."
"What the hell are you looking to achieve?" Virgil snaps. "Go on, enlighten me. What are we doing that's worth human lives? Do you think we can just replace people with robots? Is that what you're thinking?"
"It isn't a replacement for a human, man, pay attention! It's a human reborn, made into something better!" Mr. Johnson is visibly taken by a force of passion, such that he actually smacks the flat of his hand against his desk. "And by God, we are not reworking the whole project just to keep those people humans!"
Virgil does not let this quell his own fervor, however much it shakes him. That only makes him more determined, more set in his righteousness. "Are you hearing yourself?" he demands. "You're talking about murder, and banking a person's entire being on software! And you think a waiver can protect Aperture from that, when the project deliberately kills the brain it's mapping? Are you deranged? Mr. Johnson, this is unbelievable! I will not be parcel to this any longer!"
"I'm not going to argue with you about this anymore. Why are you bringing this to me? Is it that you want off the project?" There's something indiscernibly heavy about the question.
"I came to you because I trusted you and I thought that you could put a stop to this," Virgil answers fiercely, which is only a half-truth and yet still it rings with what truth it does possess. Of course he trusted Mr. Johnson. He believed in him. He still would if only Mr. Johnson had told him anything but what he has. "Now I personally give you my resignation. I'm leaving Aperture!"
"Hate to hear that. You were one of the best, Virgil. One of the best." Mr. Johnson sighs with that same heaviness, and sets his hands palm down on the desk. "Give me your badge. I'll call a security escort to help you gather your belongings."
Virgil sighs as well, roughly, his anger coming to a simmer. "I can't believe it's come to this, Mr. Johnson. I believed so much in the GLaDOS project and in Aperture. This is... just beyond words to me. I can't believe you would have us do something so immoral and illegal. I can't believe you would lie to us this way." He takes his badge out with a shaky hand as he finishes this. He knows exactly where he is going after he leaves, and that's straight to the authorities.
Mr. Johnson does not interrupt, and when Virgil is done speaking, takes the badge from the desk with a slow, deliberate manner. Without looking away from Virgil, he reaches out with his other hand, and he pushes the red button on his intercom. "Greg? Send Aeshawn in here."
Aeshawn? Isn't that Aegis's actual name? It seems almost disproportionate to send Aegis personally just to escort out someone who is quitting. Why would Mr. Johnson name names instead of just pushing the call button he no doubt has somewhere in his office? Why would he want someone specific? Does he need to send the director over this? Virgil frowns. It makes him feel suddenly incredibly vulnerable.
"Why send Aegis?" he asks, the question leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm only leaving."
"Because I take security seriously," Mr. Johnson says, flicking the security badge into the trash can beside his desk. "Something wrong with that?"
The gesture doesn't escape Virgil. Not only contradictory to his statement, leaving a badge to the trash, but more to the point, a show of complete disdain towards the man whose face it bears. A show of utter disregard toward Virgil.
"Was that really necessary?"
"Everything I do is necessary because I'm the one that did it," the man behind the desk replies, proud and heedless. As if he doesn't know how blatantly he's disrespecting his ex-subordinate with the gesture of the badge, and perhaps even threatening him by calling in Aegis. Just a power move on Mr. Johnson's part? A tactic to frighten and intimidate?
"You don't have to hate me because I disagree with your vision," Virgil tells him, full of resolve not to allow this to sway him. He won't be intimidated and bullied. To say he 'disagrees' is a woeful understatement; he's going to see this whole damn thing shut down before somebody else can be 'reborn' under Cave Johnson's insane vision.
"That's something I think some folks don't understand about me, and I'd like to make it clear to you before you leave. I want you to know this." Mr. Johnson leans forward over the desk. "I don't hate you at all. Don't have the time. It's just business."
Before Virgil has the time to really answer, the door opens, and Aegis steps in, all dark colors and frightening presence.
Virgil looks back at Aegis, his heart rate picking up as if he's some prey animal setting eyes on a predator. Ah, but Aegis is not the predator, is he? He is only the means to an end, the dog of the hunter.
The hunter is sitting behind the desk, dismissing Virgil's life's work, as if nothing he has done for this farce of a company has ever mattered. None of it.
"What are you saying, Mr. Johnson?" the scientist asks, fear creeping into his voice.
Mr. Johnson doesn't answer, but speaks instead to Aegis. "Virgil here is sadly parting ways with the company. I wanted you to give him a personal escort out."
The larger man glances briefly at Virgil, his expression as cold and unreadable as if he, not GLaDOS, were the living machine.
"Oh, and Virgil," Mr. Johnson continues, looking back to the headstrong scientist. "Before you go, I hope you don't mind if I ask a quick work-related question. Does your team still have the Genetic Life test model hooked up?"
"Yes, of course it is," Virgil answers, furrowing his brow. He feels almost offended by the question, especially after the outpouring of emotion he has given, the hatred and betrayal he's expressed toward the project's true nature. "The damn thing hasn't been moved."
He doesn't pay Aeshawn much mind of yet.
"Good," Mr. Johnson says with a nod, and then he gestures dismissively. "You know what to do, Aeshawn."
Aegis narrows his eyes, and finally turns to Virgil. He is rarely a man of words, and now is no exception; he merely jerks his head for the other to follow, and moves towards the door.
"I wish it hadn't come to this," Virgil says unhappily, shaking his head as he turns to leave with Aegis.
"Goodbye, Virgil," Mr. Johnson says, as if he is bidding farewell to a friend, and the door shuts to his office, with the soft sound of finality.
Wheatley wakes up. He isn't sure when he fell asleep; he did quite a lot of work while angry and fucked up, and doesn't actually remember coming back to his office at the end of it. His feet are propped up on the desk, and his computer is unlocked. He doesn't remember if he left it unlocked, or if Chell did- there are other gaps in today, actually. Part and parcel of his boost.
He is left with a strangely hollow, buzzing feeling in his chest. Glancing around, he sees that he never actually cleaned up the mug he'd thrown against the door, which now lays in shards amidst the wide stain of that morning's coffee. He is simultaneously pitifully remorseful and righteously unrepentant for his temper.
For a long few minutes, he doesn't move, sitting there at his desk. However long this nap has been, it's apparently the first sleep he's gotten in days. His whole body is sore from the sleeping arrangements, but he's more comfortable than he's been since he first came in for this shift. Which is saying something, and not something positive.
He feels like he's forgetting something important. Not something that has already happened, but something he should be doing.
It's quieter than it was before; like the grave it is, still like a bustling facility housing thousands should never be. It's like this room is insulated from all else, a bit dark and utterly miserable.
Where's his phone? Didn't he have that at some point? No, Chell did. Or she didn't. It's so hard to sort this all out.
He rubs a hand through his charcoal hair, trying to make sense of the mess of his brain. With effort, he sits up, feeling hungover from his high. Anxiety forms in the pit of his throat, from seemingly no source. He needs to get the hell out of this office.
Without bothering to look for his phone, he hauls himself to his feet, pushing his chair away. Once he's out of this room, maybe he'll remember what he has to do. Or maybe he won't. At this point, he doesn't especially care which. He staggers out, unsteady and shaky both from sleep and from the drugs, heedless of the ceramic crunch under his shoes as he steps through the residue of his mug on the way. It's too dark in here, too quiet, too oppressive.
Since when has Aperture been so cavernous? His office is like a hole in the wall of the bowels of the Earth, small and cloistered, the air cool and thick. The space outside is so large and empty that it feels like no life has ever existed here but him, despite all of it being so carved by human hands. It's like visiting the ruins of an ancient civilization, but it's all too clean for that, too fresh. Maybe more like the day after the apocalypse.
Far from feeling comforted by the harsh, unnaturally white lights, Wheatley feels even more sick at the sight of them. But they do click with something in his memory- he was expected to come see the god of this hell today, wasn't he? Is that what day it is? What day is it? Alarmed, he reaches for his phone, but of course, there have been no new developments that would cause it to suddenly and miraculously be back in his pocket where it belongs.
And what was it that would necessitate him to see Mr. Johnson in the first place? Is it the meeting regarding the relaxation vault trials, is he just thinking ahead, worrying about something that isn't supposed to happen yet? It wouldn't be the first time. Or is there something he should be doing up there, something else pertaining to his work?
He feels lost in this place that has so long been so familiar to him, as out of place and cornered as an animal in the city, doomed to wander until he either finds his way out or ends up as roadkill. ...God, when did he start thinking so morbidly?
Could there just be one sign of life? There doesn't seem to be anybody in the residential wing, at least not awake and in Wheatley's path. Maybe it's because everybody is up working, or maybe it's just the timing. Maybe it really is that he's alone in this facility... that's the drugs talking.
Wheatley shudders at the prospect. He suddenly wishes he would run into someone, anyone that would make him feel less paranoid and alone. At this point, he can't even tell if he's on a comedown or just a bad high. It's somewhere in between.
He walks with purpose he doesn't have, away from his office and the residential wing. Without a particular commitment to the destination, he has angled himself towards Mr. Johnson's office.
There comes at last a broad figure in a lab coat with back turned to Wheatley, leaning against the wall with chestnut hair bound in a loose, messy ponytail that's begun to come loose. A figure that looks burdened by the centuries, carrying on the motif of the ancient civilization, the last survivor of his kind, the desperate and alone in a world that he does not belong to any longer.
Wheatley feels a sharp twinge of relief, but at the same time it somehow makes him more afraid, as if this phantom is only a figment of his mind, a hallucination built of the dust and bones of whatever used to live here. His mind is getting out of hand, and on some level he knows he's freaking out, but he can't quite bring it under control. Without words, he reaches out and touches the other man's shoulder, and is almost physically shaken with relief to have his hand meet a solid, very much real surface to touch.
The living phantom gasps, and his shoulders jerk reflexively. He turns to look at Wheatley, and his handsome features pale slightly at the sight of him. Those features were tanned once, a ruddiness to those cheeks existed once that has been long drained by the lack of sunlight and warmth that Aperture has forced upon it.
Yet, nothing could take the will or the brightness out of those green eyes, green like the fields of grass that surely still exist somewhere far above here. There is so much in those eyes, so much emotion, so much life, that widen at the sight of Wheatley.
"Oh," the survivor breathes. "Wheats."
Heat rushes to Wheatley's face. He could not say if color accompanies it, for suddenly he feels as though he is the phantom, and the survivor before him is the one who is living and breathing. His heart is pounding in his chest, but that's not actually proof that he's alive.
"Rick," he says. The word is an enormous effort, so loud that it echoes down the whole hall, yet so quiet he can barely hear it as it falls from his mouth.
"Are you... how're you feeling?" Rick asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He looks afraid— no, wary, cautious. He looks like he doesn't know who he's speaking to, even though his eyes brighten for him, his hands clench and unclench, he shifts his weight off of the wall.
Wheatley doesn't know how to answer that question. He doesn't know how to talk, let alone how he's feeling- he presses his lips together, in a thin line, and wonders briefly if he looks as desperately alone as he feels. Probably not, he thinks foolishly. In answer, he shrugs, and he signs instead of speaks. Same as ever, I suppose.
Rick glances at Wheatley's hands. He takes a deep breath and releases it very slowly, shaking his head from side to side. He looks so tense, like one loud sound would be all it would take to trigger his fight or flight response, sending him running or furiously swinging punches.
"You're all done relaxin'?" he asks, rubbing lightly at his temple, where brown hair and sweat have come to mingle and stick to the skin.
Funny, Wheatley feels the same way. Is it smart for him and Rick to even be in proximity, as high strung as they are? He doesn't know. When was the last time he did something smart, anyway? He feels a bitter sort of humor. But the humor dries up quickly at Rick's question.
You're all done being a prick? He signs, frowning harshly in accompaniment with the words. It doesn't occur to him that the other man probably doesn't know that sign, just like he didn't know what the X meant.
"Done being... what?" Rick asks, his voice a little thinner, not so much soft now as quiet and strained. He doesn't look particularly moved by the question, although his fingers on his face have stopped moving as if frozen. He looks like he's just run a marathon in a lab coat.
Forget it. Annoyed, Wheatley makes a dismissive wave of his hand. He feels like it would only take the slightest infraction to send him over the edge, into another fury. Maybe now isn't the time isn't for that. Where's Chell?
Rick lowers his hand. A change comes over him, the tension pouring out onto the ground around him as shame and heaviness overtake his features and rewrite his expression. His shoulders slope, his brows knit, his green, green eyes find something else to look at.
This alarms Wheatley, to the point that speech is frightened back into him. His voice is rough. "Rick? Where is Chell?"
Rick looks so tired as he lowers his head, turning it just so. "She's workin'. I can't see her right now."
"Working." The word is flat, heavy with implications. She wouldn't be off-limits to Rick if she was just doing caretaking work. "Where is she working at?"
Rick licks his lips, which look a little chapped. He shakes his head. "Look, it's not a good idea to talk about this right now, a'right? You're still not feeling your best, by th' look of things."
"Did she get picked for the testing initiative?" He asks bluntly, not at all dissuaded by Rick's attempt at sidestepping the question. "What's she testing?"
Rick shifts his weight again and runs a hand through his hair. Does he ever stop fidgeting or what? Is this just something Wheatley hasn't noticed before, or has he simply never seen him this anxious before?
"Th' AHPD." he confesses with a heaviness that makes the initials land with a thud.
"Goddamn it all." Wheatley's voice is low and dangerous, and Rick's fidgeting is honestly only making him angrier. At least she hasn't been picked for the gel testing, or, God forbid, the GLaDOS project, but he can't find it in him to be grateful. "Of course it would be your team's work, wouldn't it? Why aren't you allowed to see her? Who's with her? Where is she?"
"Yeah, it figures, yeah..." Rick replies reluctantly. His voice still sounds thin, and carries on avoiding Wheatley's gaze. "GLaDOS is with her, I think Arachne is too, they were on one of the new tracks but they're finishing up and they're insisting that th' team don't interfere with the test subject. Something about tampering with th' results. I've never heard that shit before." He wrinkles his nose with distaste, a little more energy to him as he imparts this.
"GLaDOS? GLaDOS is with her personally?" Wheatley's eyes are absolutely lit up by this point, sharp blue and full of violence. He looks like he could punch Rick. He feels like it, too. He has never felt less like himself, but there is one familiar impulse in there- the need to protect his twin sister. "And where were you for this? You can come harass me but you can't make sure Chell doesn't get made into Aperture's next plaything by the second most powerful person in this place?"
Rick swallows, which can't be heard but it's apparent from the way his Adam's apple bobs. His nostrils flare briefly, and he clenches both his hands into fists. "There was nothing I could do. Time I got back she'd already left Paris, and she must've gotten picked up from there. I've tried to intervene, but it's like I told you, they're not lettin' us near 'er all the sudden. I know I shoulda been with 'er. I know I've messed up. I know..."
"You shouldn't have left her in the first place!" Wheatley says, taking a step closer to Rick. He wants to run off and find her, but with hundreds of testing tracks in the facility, and easily two dozen dedicated to the Aperture Handheld Portal Device alone, he'd have no prayer to be able to find her- and that's not even mentioning the fact that his clearance wouldn't get him anywhere near somebody that GLaDOS had decreed off-limits. "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinkin' that Neil and Paris had it covered and I needed to check on somethin' else," Rick confesses, lifting his eyes to meet Wheatley's at last. He sounds deflated. Where is that ego of his?
It makes Wheatley all the angrier that Rick should be so bold as to look him in the eye, yet it also made him angry that he avoided his gaze. Rick's passiveness makes Wheatley angry, but if he rose to the challenge that's been offered, it would no doubt push the caretaker to violence. His very presence is making things worse, but so would trying to leave. The air is sharp with the determined contradiction that is Wheatley's rising temper.
"What made you think those two could cover anything?" Wheatley demands. "Especially anything as important as this?"
"I don't know as anything could've kept Chell from meetin' up with GLaDOS again," Rick answers lamely. "But I guess I didn't think she'd run off on 'em. But I should've known, she's stubborn like... she's stubborn."
Wheatley narrows his eyes, but doesn't contest the extremely weak save- he has more important things on his mind. "How are we going to find her, then?"
"I'll work it out," Rick answers, more firmly than anything he's said during this conversation. There's almost a spark in his eyes, a renewal of the life initially seen in them. "They can't keep me out of my own test chambers forever. And if I have to, I'll go and talk t' GLaDOS myself. I'm gonna fix this."
"Wrong. You mean we," Wheatley says, lifting his chin. "I've got to find her before she ends up hurt, like every other poor bastard that ends up testing in this facility."
Rick looks worriedly up at him. "Wheatley, your security clearance isn't high enough, you won't be able to come with me. 'Sides that, you still gotta recover. Please, I gotta make this right for you two. I have a promise I need to uphold."
He reaches towards him. It almost looks like he will touch him.
Wheatley recoils from the touch, suddenly almost afraid of the contact. He doesn't know what reaction it will spark in him. "Recover from what? I'm perfectly fine, and as long as I stay with you, my clearance doesn't matter because we can just use yours. I'm not just going to sit around while Chell is in danger!"
Rick draws back his hand and shoves both of his hands into his pockets. His cheeks take on a bit of colour (their original?), and he coughs. "She's not in any... immediate danger. But she can't leave, and that's a problem. I really don't know if you'll be able to come with me, what'll you do if they tell you to stay behind?"
"I..." Wheatley feels his own face grow similarly hot. "I don't know. But I do know that it is my responsibility to take care of her, not yours. It's my job to keep her safe, that's all there is to it."
Rick's breath can be heard as he inhales heavily, the sound of that life circulating and continuing in his sturdy body. He's frowning slightly, and his presence makes him look even bigger than he is, so that he seems, in the moment, taller even than Wheatley.
"You can't go off if I take you with me and they tell you that you can't go through," he tells him firmly. "The way that you're feelin' right now, with the meth, you're pretty volatile. I don't want you put at risk because of it. You or her."
Wheatley snarls, bares his teeth like an animal about to attack- no longer the prey in the desolate hallways of this horrible place, but the predator, for a single moment just as much a killer as Aperture around him.
But he doesn't raise a hand, merely looks away, body tense as he turns over Rick's words and his own answer. "And what if you screw it up and get her killed? What then?"
"That's not going to happen," Rick says, his voice snapping to its normal volume so suddenly that at first it almost sounds like yelling. "I'll die before I let anything else happen to either of you."
Somehow, it really hurts to hear Rick say that, and Wheatley flinches in response. "Don't- stop worrying about me. Only Chell is important now."
Rick shakes his head. "I'm not leaving either of you, I've already made up my mind. Come Hell or high water."
"Stop it!" Wheatley demands, almost shaken by the force of emotion that follows. Rick's pledge shakes him, takes him back from fight to flight. So many people are being dragged down by him. "Just knock it off! Alright? I don't need you trying to look out for me! I want you to leave me alone!"
This is met by the most solemn expression that must have ever graced Rick's face, accentuated by the sweat and the hair that clings to it in strands. He looks like he is taking a chivalrous vow. "I can't leave you alone. I'm not gonna try."
"Of course, right, because you've taken it upon yourself to be my babysitter for whatever reason," Wheatley hisses venomously. "Go find Chell, then. If you think I can't take care of myself, you can go by yourself, and come find me when you get back."
The scientist is taken aback. "I... That's not what I'm saying at all! Don't you get that? I want to help you two escape! I messed up, you told me that yourself, and all I want is to set it right. Just, please, let me do that. Let me fix it."
"Nobody around here listens to anything I say, do they?" Wheatley says, throwing his arms wide. It would be melodramatic if it wasn't for the sheer, horrible emotion behind it. "You said you're going to go help Chell, right? That is the only thing you can do that will be of any use to me!"
There is a crack that can almost be heard, which starts in Rick's chest and runs all throughout his body. Its effects can be seen when it moves over his face, and he can't hold the emotions in that seep out through it. And the next thing Wheatley knows that stupid cowboy of a scientist is shaking, his hands falling from his pockets to hang limply by his sides. His eyes are wide, and they are so bright. They are so wet.
Wheatley stalls. He has never, as long as he has known Rick, seen him cry. Or even the promise, the possibility of crying within Rick. The anger within him stalls, too, leaving him uncertain how he should even be feeling. His mind is thick, wrong, not his own, but he shouldn't have said that, should he have?
...Should he?
He clenches his fists, looks away, hot all over with emotion. "Just go on, why don't you?"
"You got it," Rick says, quickly turning his back on him. Wheatley doesn't get to see the tears but he can hear them, thick in the other man's voice. Rick doesn't give any indication that they're there, his hands not wiping at his face but remaining at his sides.
He hesitates, but ultimately, Wheatley turns away from Rick, the anxiety in his throat thicker than ever, and now coupled with all the loathing he can muster- and he doesn't even know if it is directed at the other man or at himself.
With every step he takes away, Rick picks up speed, until he is nearly at a run. The sound of his shoes can be heard getting faster, heavier, and further away, until at last it is gone— and the survivor has vanished just like every other trace of his kind.
Aperture is so big, and so, so empty. Yes, that's because anybody who is in the residential sector has bedded down for the night, and thick walls insulate the nearby testing tracks, but it still feels like the whole facility has made itself empty for Rick, clearing out in respect for his pain and grief. Just like Wheatley before him, he is almost totally directionless, except the singular notion of a person he needs to reach, and he is moving for what feels like quite some time before he meets someone.
Rick curses softly under his breath and pauses to wipe off his face with his palms. He had wandered so thoughtlessly in his distress that he almost hadn't realized he'd left the residential sector already and crossed over into the testing shaft.
The individual ahead of him is a young woman, and through tear-blurred eyes she might have been Chell, but that would have been too easy. This young woman is wearing more casual clothes, giving the appearance of having visited the testing tracks on her downtime for whatever reason. She lifts her head as she hears Rick coming closer, visibly interested.
"Virgil?" She asks, moving towards him. "That you, darlin'?"
He swallows down the tears, broken pieces of his pride, the love that has been choking him since he left the residential sector and nods back his head like nothing is wrong.
"Sorry, darlin', not Virgil. Hope Rick'll do," he answers, giving her a cheeky wink and a smile amid stained cheeks and smeared skin.
"Oh," Mel says, and for a moment her face falls just a bit. Then she smiles anyway, and she comes closer, only for her expression to transform yet again as she sees what state he's in. "Rick, my goodness, what happened? Are you alright?"
Rick shrugs to keep from wincing. He didn't realize that it was so obvious, but he didn't think to look for a bathroom between there and here. He might have decided, on getting anywhere near GLaDOS, that he ought to make himself look presentable, but as proud as he always has been, he's been slipping today.
"Oh, yeah, I'm right as rain!" he tells Mel brightly. "Right as rain." And as beat down as a wet stray.
Mel comes still a few steps nearer to him, and her brow furrows in clear concern as she comes within arm's reach. Her makeup is done, despite the lateness of the evening; she has not been crying. "I'd say you look like a kicked dog, but I think the dog would look less pitiful. What happened?"
Rick shakes his head. "Nothing happened, I'm fine," he answers gruffly. "I've just been workin' too hard, that's all."
"You're a bad liar, Rick Venture," she says, not harshly. "Just let me know if there's somethin' I can do, alright?"
"You could get me a coffee or a bear to wrestle," he answers her with another shrug, noncommittal and even. A drop of something clear falls off of his beard. "Or, failin' that, you could tell me where I might find GLaDOS?"
"I can definitely help with the coffee. But GLaDOS?" She asks, a bit taken aback by the question. "I mean, I think so, but why do you need to find her?"
Rick draws on her reaction to fuel himself, remind himself that he is strong and he does things that surprise others. He has to remember who he is, what he is, and push out his broad chest accordingly. "Need to talk to her about somethin'. Nothing to worry about."
Mel purses her lips, considering this. She looks like she wants to press the issue, but she doesn't, at least not now. "She's holed up in one of the testing tracks right now, but I can take you there. Let's stop and grab that coffee first, though, sound alright?"
"Sounds like a plan. Lead the way, pretty lady," Rick answers, gesturing with a sweep outward.
At this, she smiles, seemingly relieved to see a little more of his usual spunk. She gives his shoulder a friendly swat and falls in step with him, her voice taking on a teasing tone. "Why, Rick, I am a happily committed woman."
"Nobody said you weren't!" Rick answers, forcing energy into the answer, like he's putting on a show where he plays the role of Rick Venture.
His performance must be convincing, for she laughs lightly. "Speaking of which, have you run into Virgil this evening?"
"I'm afraid I haven't," Rick tells her as they walk, relieved by her easy acceptance. "But I'm sure your missing man can't be far. Knowing him, he's probably back on his floor pulling voluntary overtime."
"He better not be," she says, shaking her head in affectionate exasperation. She moves easily to the new subject- though knowing Mel, this does not necessarily mean she's forgotten the old one. "We had a special dinner planned. I have somethin' important to tell him. I kind of figured he got held up by something; that happens so often in this place."
"Oho, news to share? Care to let me in on the secret?" Rick asks smoothly, leaning towards her.
Mel smiles at him conspiratorially. "You never met a secret you didn't want in on, did you?"
Rick's grin widens until it shows teeth. It feels more like him, looks more like him. He loves a good story; always has. One might go so far as to accuse him of being a gossip, if one didn't know any better. "Nope, can't say as I have."
"You almost make me want to tell you," she says, pushing open the door to the break room for their coffee stop. "Maybe if I did, it'd cheer you up a little. I know you like being in on things."
Rick takes the door and pushes it open further over her head, gesturing for her to go on ahead. "You kiddin' me? I love bein' in on the loop."
Mel dips in thanks and steps in ahead of him. "Tell you what- you tell me why you're lookin' for GLaDOS, and I'll tell you what the secret is."
"Well... guess you could say I needed to see her about a test." Rick says as he follows her in, letting the door close behind him.
"A test?" Mel presses, looking over her shoulder at him rather than at what she's doing as she pours out the cold remains in the staff room coffee pot, and puts on some fresh.
"Yeah, a test," he answers, reaching back and pulling the band out of his hair before shaking it out and fluffing it with his hands. It leaves his hair looking bushy, like a lion's mane. "That's why she's in a test shaft, right?"
With a shift of his thumb, the hairband rolls naturally down his palm, and ends up around his wrist like a thin, woven green bracelet.
"Course. But what kind of test do you need to ask her about?" She leans her hip against the counter as the coffee brews. "Personally, I kinda avoid her."
"Yeah, I don't know... she's a cold one, that's for sure," Rick brushes his fingers through his hair a few times. It doesn't help much. "I don't let it bother me none, though."
Mel pulls her purse down from her shoulder and rifles in it for a moment, before withdrawing a comb, which she offers to him. "You're avoiding my question. Do you plan on being straightforward with me at all?"
He accepts the comb with a nod and murmured thanks, setting it to work at once attempting to tame that mane of his. "There's only so much I can say about it, really," he replies as he carries on this battle with his hair, "I need to see GLaDOS about a test."
"So that's a no," she says, raising her eyebrows. "Startin' to feel like I'm not the only one keeping a secret here."
"This'd be goin' better if I weren't so damn sweaty," Rick comments evasivey.
"Uh-huh." For a minute she doesn't say anything else, as she gets two styrofoam cups and fills them, outfits each with a lid and a spoon, and almost overfills her own with creamer. "Can't help you with the hair, but a makeup towel will fix your face right up, if you want it."
"I'd appreciate it," the scientist answers, the words almost a sigh. "I've been runnin' all over creation today. Been a helluvan afternoon, I tell you what."
"Sounds like it," Mel says sympathetically, withdrawing a packet of makeup wipes from her purse. Luckily enough, she keeps almost everything in there. "Here you go."
Rick gives his hair a few more strokes with the comb, working out a small tangle (with some wincing) before he hands it back in exchange for the wipe. He gives a huff as he quickly, roughly wipes his face with it, finding himself hanging his hopes on it as if it could remove all the sweat and tear stains on his skin— as if this little piece of cotton could cleanse him until he is no longer tainted by desires deemed dirty and unsavory by the very person who instilled them in him.
After some long moments, she touches his arm. Maybe he's betrayed too much with his movements, or his expression, but she rubs his shoulder in a comforting gesture, and doesn't say a word until he's done.
When she does, it's only, "drink some coffee- it'll help."
It's embarrassing, thinking she's read his mind. He doesn't address it, though, only throws out the towelette and takes the coffee she's prepared for him. The heat and bitterness of the fresh staff room coffee helps to center him a little bit, although he's still left with the sting of Mel knowing maybe too much.
He downs it pretty fast.
Mel takes a slow sip of hers, thoughtful in comparison, watching him as if she's reading him. It's hard to tell how much she's picking up, which makes it worse. But she knows, plainly, that something very bad has affected him.
"It's not right, seeing you so worked up," she says finally. "I hope GLaDOS can fix it, whatever's wrong."
"I hope so, too," Rick says, his voice a little thick from the coffee. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb and wonders how much she has figured out.
"Come on, hon. Maybe we'll run into Virgil along the way," Mel says, gently steering him back towards the door. Clearly hoping to help put a little energy back into him, she adds, "and I think I promised to tell you my news, too, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did." The reminder does help liven him up a little, or at the very least it distracts him from worrying about what Mel's thinking about him. He holds the door for her again, and then as soon as they're out of the staff room again he pulls the hairband from around his wrist and starts to gather his hair back into its ponytail. "So what's the news? Is there a big scandal?"
"Is that really the first place your mind goes? Scandal?" She laughs fondly. "That would be fun, wouldn't it? Sure, why don't you take a guess?"
If only there were just some scandal afoot, some miscalculation, somebody getting fired or some unfortunate romantic affair that could be the most pressing thing going on down here in Aperture. Rick would love to be distracted by something so meaningless as a scandal. "How 'bout... somebody got overheard praising Black Mesa?"
"Oh my!" Mel looks properly aghast, though she wants to laugh so much that it's clearly a little difficult to maintain. Then she develops a mischievous, conspiratory look, glancing back and forth before leaning closer. "You know, they aren't that bad."
Rick gasps with affected shock and touches his chest. "Mel! You better watch yerself with that kinda talk."
"I'm not sorry! I'm a rebel," she says proudly, puffing out her chest and thumping it with the flat of her hand.
Rick gives Mel a little push on the arm and a bark of laughter. Cleaning off has done him some good, at least. It's left him feeling a little bit livelier, a little more genuine in the role of himself. "Right! A rebel, that's my kinda gal!"
"That's right! I never met a rule I couldn't break," she confirms, eyes sparkling. "But lemme tell you what's going on really. And you gotta keep this between just us, right? I know you sometimes have a hard time keeping things private."
The scientist straightens up, holds up his left hand and traces a quick, sloppy cross over himself with his right. It's something he picked up in his schoolboy days. Some things never wear off no matter how many years go by and how many rains they bring. "I swear, I won't tell a soul."
"Good," she says, and she tells him.