AN: Sorry for the length of time between updates. Between writer's block and my grandmother passing away, CDaSH-related ideas weren't very forthcoming. The follows/favorites/reviews REALLY kept me going when my motivation was zilch. Thanks much! Insert Kermit YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY here! Barring any other deaths in the family or a Thermal Discouragement Beam aimed at my head, I hope to have Chapter Six up soon, too.
CHAPTER FIVE:
THE REBOOT
Orange leapt down from the platform and slammed its hand on the button; the row of dots on the floor changed from aqua to yellow, and the exit opened. Blue, waiting below, wasted no time scurrying into the chamber beyond.
Orange followed but then hesitated before stepping into the lift that would take them to the next testing track. Both bots had been testing for hours, but something felt...off.
Eager to continue earning more Science Points, Blue squawked to get Orange's attention, breaking the silence that had fallen. Instantly, Orange recognized what was amiss: the lack of commentary from Her. It was too quiet, and had been for some time now. From the start of their missions, Her voice had been an ever-present entity above them, all-seeing and all-knowing.
Why had She disappeared? the bot wondered. Was something wrong?
No sooner had these questions entered Orange's mind, She snapped back into existence.
"Orange, you are demonstrating a heightened sense of empathy and concern for others. Impressive."
The bot exploded.
"However," the voice continued, "the study of touchy-freely ninnies does not make for useful Science. Neither is it remotely entertaining. If these most recent tests were a spectator sport, I would be bored out of my mind. Which I am…by the way."
Blue was promptly demolished as well, just for spite.
"And for future reference, Orange: Mind your own damn business."
Pain was not an unfamiliar concept to Wheatley. Personality cores were programmed with the full gamut of human senses (why this was the case, he never understood – sadism on the part of the designers, no doubt), and he had experienced more than his fair share of these various sensations over his lifetime. But of all the human traits he possessed, the one with which he'd been blessed in spades was curiosity.
Curiosity killed the cat. And the core. Always the core, at least in any instances involving him. Like with the incident with the bird.
He'd always liked to watch the birds, especially around the time of year when it was nest-building time. The straw-and-feather-and-electrical wire contraptions looked so cozy, balanced in random corners throughout the more overgrown parts of the facility. True, nests weren't on the top recommended list of materials for a complex piece of machinery like himself to come into contact with, but they seemed much nicer than his stodgy standby unit, which often short-circuited his optic when it felt he was talking too much.
Longing for greener pastures, one afternoon Wheatley tricked his management rail into depositing him onto a nest that had been recently built in the Relaxation Center. It was fun for awhile, sitting there, pretending to be a bird and thinking bird-like thoughts and debating whether worms really might be worth a go. But then he began to take notice of the smell, and the alarming amounts of droppings, and, well, it's not as if he had a mouth to try worms with anyway, and if he did have a mouth he certainly wouldn't be using it to eat slimy wriggling creatures. He'd want to try something far more appetizing: canapés.
(He didn't have a clue what a canapé was, but he knew they were a type of food, and they sounded scrumptious. And really, once the issue of canapé vs. worm was decided, what was the point of waffling about in a nest?)
Just as he was reactivating his rail, something large and feathered swooped towards him. Wheatley froze, stuck in his Man-Alive-That-Was-A-Brilliant-Plan-Oh-Bugger-Neve r-Mind mode, and grew increasingly panicked as the creature came nearer and nearer. He'd been mistaken for an egg, and was about to spend the next three days stuck under the arse of a well-intentioned mother bird, which later began pecking him mercilessly when he had the audacity to not hatch.
All in all, a very traumatic experience, and one that was due entirely to terrible decision-making on his part. But unlike the nest, or Wheatley Science, or trying to invent a Thermal Encouragement beam, and all his other well-intentioned ideas that ultimately landed him in hot water, this latest catastrophe was not his fault.
No. Not his fault at all, thank you. How was he supposed to know what 'REUPLOAD TO SOURCE; Y/N?' meant, along with all the other queries and codes that started flitting his way the moment his friend had plugged him into the bloody bed?
He'd picked 'Y,' assuming that it stood for 'Yes,' because, yes, he wanted to be re-uploaded to the central memory bank where all personality core data were stored while they were undergoing major overhaul. He'd followed exactly the same protocol when She'd squashed him like a bug, and certainly hadn't woken up in such dire straits as this.
And yet, here he was. Lying in a tank and re-uploaded into a smelly, aching human body that apparently had been his all along, at least according to the memories that were coming back to him, none of which he wanted to believe.
"…Wheatley, think of this as a really shrewd career move – a way to show them you're serious…"
No! Don't remember. Don't remember don't remember don't remember don't remember…!
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force the thoughts from his mind. He couldn't think about it, let alone put words to this horrible new reality. It was too overwhelming, too frightening – too everything.
When he opened his eyes again, he hoped that maybe, just maybe, that the scenery might be different. That he'd be back in his core, looking out at the world through a cracked optic as he watched his friend sleep. But the scenery was identical: Same black ceiling, same fetid scent of stasis goo clinging to him, and if he tilted his head just a little, he could see the same blurry pair of eyes boring holes into his skull from the foot of the cryobed.
She'd said nothing, of course. Just scowled at him for a really long time – funny facial expression, the scowl, he mused. One that he could never really master as an identity core. Hard to scowl with just one optic and two lids – he needed the rest of the kit to go along with, the muscles and the cheeks and the eyebrows and such. So maybe that was one bright spot, being able to scowl again.
Wheatley tried to hang on to this scrap of optimism, but then he made the mistake of sneaking another glance at his partner, who somehow looked even angrier than before.
"Did – did you know that your face is, um…melting?" he inquired, for some reason operating under the belief that 'melting' was a more positive way of informing his partner that her entire form seemed to have developed hazy edges. Not wanting to offend her, he added, "Um…good look for you, in case you were wondering. Melting."
Chell had no idea what Wheatley meant by this remark and did not particularly care. She was too busy trying to figure out how to orchestrate an escape accompanied by someone with no long-fall boots, no clothes, and no instinct for anything but piss-poor judgment. A mercy killing seemed like her best option.
Seething, she came alongside the cryobed to get a closer look at him.
He appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with bulgy blue eyes and thinning hair of an indeterminate shade. His features weren't unpleasant, and the several days' worth of beard covering his cheeks suited him in a scruffy, absent-minded professor sort of way. In another lifetime, Chell mused, she might have even found him attractive.
She went to turn away, but Wheatley protested, saying, "N-no, wait!"
Two long, gangly arms reached out for her; Chell tensed but stayed put as his placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing her forward.
"A bit more," he was muttering, still guiding her down towards him.
Chell gritted her teeth, trying to remind herself that Wheatley probably had no grasp on the concept of personal space, and all the ways in which he was currently violating it.
When they were almost nose-to-nose, the look of intense concentration on his face disappeared and was replaced with a delighted Mad-Hatter smile.
"Aaand – there! You're not melting anymore!" Sounding triumphant, Wheatley continued, "Easy fix, too, curing the whole melting business – just stay within five-to-eight inches of me at all times. Brilliant!"
He was nearsighted, Chell realized. No long-fall boots, no clothes, and he was nearsighted. This was like the Enrichment Center all over again. No, this was worse than the Enrichment Center – at least there the only liability she'd been responsible for was her own self. With him in tow, she might as well write 'DISPENSE PRODUCT HERE' on her shirt and throw herself in front of a turret.
She twisted out of his grip and stomped away. She didn't know where she was going, but felt it was best to not remain within strangling distance.
"Wait!" he cried again, struggling to sit up. "Are – hello? Are you coming back?"
She whirled around and pointed to him, and then the bed.
"Um…I should stay here?" he guessed, squinting.
She nodded.
"Okay," he agreed readily, head bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. "Staying here. Not budging a muscle – ha! 'Cause I've got them, now, see? Muscles…?" His voice faltered as he attempted to flex a bicep, but ended up catching his elbow on the perimeter of the bed.
"Ow!" he yelped. "What the – how did that happen?!"
Chell spun on her heel and walked to the exit. When she reached the lobby, she paused and glanced around, spotting a door at the far end of the hallway. On the wall adjacent to the door was a square plastic panel that she recognized as a card reader, similar to the ones that she remembered seeing in the facility on days she went to work with her father.
Hoping that luck was on her side, Chell went to the desk that stood nearby and opened the top desk drawer. Sure enough, a battered ID card lay amidst an assortment of pencils and paperclips.
She grabbed it and strode over to the security panel, waving the card before the wireless reader; there was a beep, and the door clicked. Resuming her two-handed grip on the ASHPD, Chell pushed the door open with her hip and walked through. She entered a short hallway, and then crossed the threshold of another door. Light flooded the room, temporarily blinding her.
When Chell's eyes adjusted, she found herself a locker room. The walls were lined with black metal lockers, and off to the side she could see a bank of showers. Dreary cement benches stood in the center, and signs were posted throughout, stating,
SMOOTH JAZZ HAS BEEN FOUND TO REDUCE 99% OF ALL PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMAS.
PLEASE ENJOY THE MUSIC WHILE YOU WAIT AND REST ASSURED THAT YOUR PSYCHE IS IN GOOD HANDS.
She took a step forward but went no further when a familiar, upbeat voice began speaking:
"Good morning/afternoon/evening! If you are hearing this message, then the apocalypse is imminent and the facility may already be operating under new management. However, thanks to Emergency ID Core Protocols, the Aperture Science Personality Construct Transfer Program can continue, even under the despotic rule of a sentient cloud-being. Please note that Aperture Science is not responsible for memories or personal items that may be lost during your tenure in the Program. All will be returned to you in due time, or when the apocalypse is over and civilization has been rebuilt."
Jazz began to play.
Baffled, Chell started walking the perimeter. The fluorescent lights and background music made it hard to shake the impression of wandering the aisles in an abandoned grocery store, and she had to remind herself to not let her guard down, even for a moment.
When she was satisfied that there was no immediate danger, she set about investigating the lockers. None were secured with an actual lock, but on each was a glowing, brightly-colored circle, similar to the color system on the cryobeds in the Relaxation Annex. She opened them at random; most were empty, but a few contained the rotting remains of clothing.
From the lockers, Chell moved on to the showers. These, she found, worked perfectly, and it took concerted effort on her part not to jump under the stream right then and there, especially when she noticed the bottles of shampoo and soap.
Feeling filthier than usual, Chell was about to return to the lobby when a familiar shade of turquoise caught her attention. She walked over to the locker, staring up at the turquoise medallion embedded on its front. Setting her jaw, she loosened one hand from the ASHPD to reach out and toggle the locker handle.
The door swung open, revealing a tidily-folded stack of men's clothes, and an enormous pair of size fourteen runners. Resting on top of the pile was a pair of glasses.
With mounting dread, Chell reached out and brushed her fingertips against the clothes. They looked brand new and felt fresh out of the laundry. She glanced at the shoes, noting the unworn soles, the gleaming white laces.
Someone had put these here. Recently.
Chell raised her gaze to the ceiling, searching for ruby-lensed cameras, but there were none.
She let her eyes drop back down to the pile of clothing, fixing it with a hard look. Something was seriously amiss, and yet her razor-sharp instincts weren't going off in fits or screaming at her to get the hell out of Dodge – which meant she was either losing her touch, or that she had an unknown ally.
Her first thought was the Rat Man, but the lack of madly-scribbled drawings or messages told her it wasn't. So then who, or what, was the explanation for it all?
At a loss, Chell shut the locker door and left. She would puzzle through these recent developments later.
Guiding Wheatley to the locker room proved to be a greater undertaking than either he or Chell anticipated. To both of their surprise, he did remember how to walk, but was wobbly-kneed and fell frequently, usually taking Chell down with him as he tumbled to the floor.
"Sorry! Sorry!" he moaned when she hauled him up for the eighth time. Lost on his own momentum, he stumbled forward and made a wild grab for her, regaining his balance at the last minute.
It was all Chell could do not to backhand him. She had not been touched by another person in more years than she cared to count, and being manhandled by a naked, gawky male who stank to high heaven was not endearing her to the experience.
Somehow they made it through the lobby and into to the locker room without him breaking a limb, but alas, bloodshed was imminent. Chell turned on the faucet to one of the showers, not knowing that the sight of water appearing out of nowhere would startle Wheatley so badly that he tried to make a mad dash for it, only to fall face-first into the wall. He lay there, bloody-nosed and temporarily stunned, as Chell dragged him under the stream.
He submitted to her ministrations in silence, saying nothing as she doused him in soap from stem-to-stern. Standards of modesty meant little to Chell's very practical mind, and Wheatley was too traumatized by his current predicament to care about being in his birthday suit.
She had just started shampooing his hair when reality hit. Still entrenched in his very recent existence of being a non-waterproof piece of machinery, Wheatley realized he was wet, and reacted in the most logical way possible: He went berserk.
He began to thrash, all the while alternately trying to curl up into his default spherical panic position as he shouted:
"Oh God! God! Augh! Stoppit stoppit stoppit, what are you doing, you mad woman! I know I tried to kill you but I never tried to drown you and I said I was sorry – "
His protests were silenced in due course, not because he'd acclimated to his situation, but because he didn't have enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Water streamed down his throat, and he went into a coughing fit that lasted so long that Chell yanked him out from under the shower.
"Are you okay?" she blurted out, afraid that something was seriously wrong with him.
Wheatley just stared up at her in shock, still wheezing. It took a second or two for Chell to realize what she'd done, and she abruptly stepped under the shower to regain her composure.
It felt like heaven. She closed her eyes, permitting herself a few moments to luxuriate in the sensation of the water, of years' worth of muck and grime being cleansed away. The repulsion gel seemed to leave rashy spots wherever it landed on her, and it was a relief to feel it washing off and leaving nothing but clean skin in its wake.
Okay, Chell thought to herself. So you talked. No point in overanalyzing it.
"Are you all right?" Wheatley asked hoarsely, interrupting her abstraction. "This isn't some sort of suicidal gesture, is it? You try to kill me and then off yourself as well?"
Chell opened an eye; Wheatley sat hunched over his knees, wearing a mournful expression on his face that was reminiscent of a sulky wet rabbit. At least his nose had stopped bleeding.
Turning her back on him, she undid her hair from its ponytail, giving it a good scrub with the shampoo. Then, not caring that she had an audience, she took off her jumpsuit and gave it a thorough washing as well.
Chell hopped out of the shower a few minutes later, satisfied that she was clean once again, and turned off the faucet. Freshly-laundered towels that she was damn sure she hadn't seen earlier sat waiting on a nearby bench. Trying not to think about this very convenient coincidence, she picked one up, dried herself off, and then handed the other to Wheatley.
He made a stalwart attempt to utilize it but somehow just ended up tangling himself in the terrycloth. Rather than watch the pathetic performance, Chell knelt down to assist.
"I'm fine," he insisted, toppling onto his side in his attempt to prove his independence. "I'll get the hang of it – I mean, it's just a great big handkerchief, can't be that tricky… "
His voice was growing increasingly strangled, and Chell helped him unwind the towel from the garrote it had formed around his neck.
"Grk – ah! Whew! Bloody – thing..." Wheatley took a few unconstructed breaths and squinted up at Chell, nervously twisting the towel in his lap. "Thanks. So, um…What's next?"
He watched as she strode to one of the lockers and returned carrying an armful. Something came into view, and he saw she was offering him a black-rimmed pair of glasses.
Confused why the glasses were necessary – but not about to argue – Wheatley reached for them, and clumsily managed to put on by himself, albeit upside down.
Instantly, the world became clear.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, stunned, looking around. "Oh! It – my optic! I-I mean, my eyes. Don't have an optic anymore – anyway, what I mean is, the blur – it's gone!" He stared up at her in amazement and added, "Your face isn't melty at all anymore! Oh! And neither is the rest of you! Ha!"
Chell just raised an eyebrow and re-adjusted his glasses so they were right-side up. Then she set about helping him dress.
He was all elbows and knees, and tried in earnest to assist with the process but failed every time. She would raise her arms to indicate he needed to the do the same, he would obligingly mimic her, and then promptly drop his arms as soon as she went to reach for his shirt. It was a little like working with the Frankenturrets all over again – she'd maneuver one onto a button and the next thing she knew, the pathetic creature was getting itself caught in an Excursion Funnel.
"I forgot about going through this hassle every day," Wheatley remarked as Chell wrestled on his socks. "Not keen on that, thank you. When we get to the surface – and notice I said when, by the way, demonstration of my total confidence in you – suicidal gestures and attempted drowning aside, of course – anyway, when we get to the surface, d'you think I might get some kind of, oh I don't know – a free pass to skip on all the nonsense with clothes? Much more efficient to –"
His voice became muffled; she was yanking a sweater over his head.
"—I mean, what's the point, honestly, of dressing all the time, when you just have to take the things off again? Unless you do what you did back there, jump into the bath with all your clothes on."
Panting from exertion, Chell stepped back to survey her handiwork.
Clad in jeans, sneakers, and a black sweater with the Aperture logo embroidered on the breast, Wheatley could probably pass muster anywhere – so long as he didn't open his mouth. Or attempt anything more complicated than, say, walking.
…They were doomed.
