Wheatley discovers that this whole therapy idea might be more difficult than he had planned.
After a hearty dinner and a few games of chess with Chell (why does she always win?), he's lying in the soft comfort of his own bed, drifting off under the warm blankets. He feels truly content for the first time since the procedure, and he's more than willing to drop off the world and plunge into the recharge state which humans so desperately require.
And it's then, just as he's balancing on the edge between consciousness and slumber, that he suddenly realizes that he hasn't a clue as to where and how he should begin her therapy.
Alarmed, he bolts upright in the darkness. His stomach performs anxious flops around the space between his ribs, his heart beats just a bit too fast for his liking, and the world seems to be racing past him, adrenaline surging through his veins and rushing between the chambers of his heart.
This, of course, ruins any potential prospect of achieving REM sleep. (He's proud he remembers the term for it, though.)
"This isn't good," he mutters, dabbing the sweat from his hairline. "This isn't good at all." Twisting his mouth in thought, he rubs his heavy eyelids and reaches over to the bedside table, groping for his glasses. When he feels the cool touch of the metal frames, he snatches them up and slides them onto his nose. "All right, Wheatley, calm down and think. Teaching a mute girl how to talk when she hasn't talked in ages shouldn't be too difficult. There has to be somewhere you can start. Music, music, music…"
He closes his eyes, kneads his temples, and tries to remember. Rhythms, beats, melodies, syllables—there must be a place where he can begin without making her too uncomfortable. Dredging up fragments of the learning process, he manages to soothe his nerves a little. Yes, simple things should work. Short phrases, easy songs, words that can easily be repeated. He had even said so himself, right? Humming and rhythms to start. Nothing to worry about. But there's something else—without a plan or proper preparation, nothing will work out the way he wants.
As he continues to rummage through his brain for more ideas, Wheatley absently moves his foot back and forth beneath the covers. The entire goal is to nudge her into the natural patterns of speech, and that might be a challenge without an instrument, musical or otherwise. And when he really thinks about it, he's not so sure if he would be very good at playing a musical instrument. Idle curiosity had once compelled him to look into the complexities of creating music as a personality core, and everything had seemed… well, complex.
Wheatley pulls back and stares at his hands, merely two dark, blotted shadows in front of his face. Do humans really make music with these? He wiggles his fingers, testing their flexibility. Fascinating things, hands, and capable of doing so many different things. If he only could pick up an instrument and play for Chell… that would make things so much easier. He could make the music himself and they wouldn't have to rely on recordings or anything of the like. Oh, such a grand idea. And it would work, too—if he knew how to play.
Wheatley sighs, pressing his chin into the heel of his palm. Learning is an option, but that would take far too long. Besides, he can't even imagine trying to teach both himself and Chell simultaneously. Human brains aren't nearly as efficient at multitasking. He knows; he's been able to draw the comparisons.
He eventually concludes that something needs to be done. There's no doubt about it. But since they're starting small, he decides that it doesn't have to be right away. He has some time yet before the more complicated stuff comes into play, and that's a good thing. Yes, he thinks; everything will be just fine. He'll come up with a solution somehow. He has to in order to help her, and damn if he's going to go back on his word.
In the meantime, he needs a rhythm.
Drumming his fingers along his thigh, he starts to wonder how he can accomplish that. Sure, hands and feet are great, but a constant, definite rhythm is hard to maintain. As a personality core, he could have simply accessed the metronome subroutine in his programming, able to create a sound and continue recreating the same exact sound in any tempo of his choosing. If only there were a way—
And then it hits him.
"A metronome!" he suddenly shouts, his spine jolting straight. "Oh, absolutely brilliant. Why didn't I think of that before? Oh, that should work perfectly. Rhythm troubles? Tada! Not anymore. Metronome, problem solved. Oh, Wheatley, you're a genius. We'll get her talking in no time at all!"
Now feeling quite thrilled with himself, he arches his back, stretches his arms, and promptly rolls out of bed. The floor is chilly against the bare soles of his feet, but he ignores the cold and meanders into the den, pumped too full of adrenaline and excitement for peaceful sleep.
Taking pause by the window, he lifts the blue curtain aside and peers out into the street. Thin lamps stand alone on the corners, flickering, fading beacons into midnight. He watches pinprick stars as they glitter between the light bodies of cirrus clouds, and feels his mood suddenly flop.
"… Where the bloody hell am I going to get a metronome?"
Wheatley's never been much of anywhere outside their flat. He's walked a couple blocks around here and there for some practice, maybe strolled about a few times with Chell to get used to the general area of where they lived, but he's never really searched for something by himself. He's also never imagined that finding that something would be so incredibly frustrating.
"All right, whose grand idea was it to pack all of these little buildings together like this, anyway? Doesn't seem very organized. Everything all jammed together." He snorts. "Bloody architects."
The air is brisk and chilled. Clad in thick jeans and flannel with a black knitted cap fitted snugly down to his ears, Wheatley huffs crossly as he plods down the streets. His breath unfurls from his mouth in ashen wisps and he's pretty sure his hands have begun to lose their feeling in spite of his warmer clothes. He's been combing the shops that line the streets for the past two hours, peering into windows at random, hoping that he'll stumble across what he's been looking for. The results thus far: no luck.
"You'd think they'd want you to get lost in this bloody place," he mutters, pressing his nose against the glass of another shop. It's cold and it makes him shiver. (He decides that he really, really dislikes low temperatures.) "I mean, at least Aperture had pictures and ramps and catwalks to get you where you're going. None of this oh we'll just wander around for ages and maybe by some pure miracle we'll have it materialize in front of us business. Absolutely ridiculous. I will never, ever understand—"
He stops short as he glances across the street, leaving his thought hanging stranded in mid-air. He peels himself away from the window and squints as he tries to make out the contents of the store from its display case. A small, ticking metronome sits there, dead in its center.
"… Oh. Well, then. Complaint withdrawn."
Wheatley awkwardly pushes through the door of the music shop, the bell chiming softly behind his head. As he steps onto the small rugged welcome carpet, his jaw slackens and he finds himself speechless in what he thinks is shock. Or surprise, at least. He's honestly not quite sure.
All sorts of colors of metals are fashioned into strange shapes. They're almost like the pipes back at the facility, but sleek and shimmering and much, much smaller. Some are twisted into neat designs while others are narrow, adorned with additional pieces of shining metal that look oddly like buttons. Wooden structures of varying sizes with stripes of strings also line the walls, eccentric and glossy and new. It's a bizarre scene, but it ropes him in by the collar.
"So these are instruments," he manages, twisting about to soak in the sight. Even though his glasses have fogged up a little from the rush of warmth from the shop, he can see everything perfectly, glinting at him under the sharp lights overhead. "Brilliant. All of them, just brilliant. Color me impressed!"
"Can I help you?" The clerk stares at him flatly with dark, sleepy eyes, clearly none too pleased at the sudden intrusion.
"Yes, actually," says Wheatley, strutting up to the front desk. He places his hands flat across the worn wooden surface and nods to the display window. "I was wondering if I could have a look at that metronome over there? It's kind of important. Real important, come to think of it. Very much important."
"That's for display purposes only," says the clerk, jowls swaying. He brushes some wisps of gray hair away from his brow and leans a bit closer, as if to get a better look at Wheatley. "If you're interested in purchase, you'll have to choose from those there." He then gestures to the back of the store with a wrinkled, dark-veined hand.
Wheatley cranes his neck and stretches on his toes to see where the man had pointed. "Oh, hell, there're more?"
The clerk purses his lips. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Getting back's going to be a bit of a problem, stupid buildings, but nothing I can't solve." Wheatley's too drawn into the merchandise, shifting through the various types of metronomes. Skimming over their labels and features, his eyes widen when he comes across one in particular. He tugs the box off the shelf and takes a moment to admire the picture printed on the front. "Ha! This is perfect. She'll absolutely love it."
"For a woman?" The clerk raises an eyebrow.
"It's a long story. A very, very long story." Wheatley grins, drawing back up to the desk. "So, uh, I'd like to make a, uh… transaction. How exactly would you go about doing that?"
The man plucks a pair of small circular-framed spectacles from his front pocket and slides them onto his nose. Examining Wheatley's find, he nods to himself. "That's a nice choice, there. Beautiful mahogany. That's going to cost you quite a penny."
"Really? Well, I've got plenty of those." Wheatley starts to reach into his jean pockets to fish for coins. Chell had taught him that much at least.
The clerk shakes his head, stopping him short. "Not literally, boy, not literally. This particular metronome is seventy-nine ninety-five, not including tax. You'll need several thousand pennies for this."
Wheatley frowns. "Several thousand? Are you sure? I don't think I have that many. Quite positive, actually. Pockets only hold so much."
"If you don't have the money, I'm afraid I won't be able to sell it to you." The clerk shrugs.
"Is there another way I could buy it, maybe? I mean, I'm not exactly—" He shifts, something catches his eye, and he immediately drops the thought. "Wait, wait, what's that over there?"
The man looks up from the metronome box, confused. "What's what?"
Wheatley points over to one of the backmost corners of the shop with a long, bony finger. A large black structure is set up there, shaped rather peculiarly and supported by three legs. A long row of white and black switches lines the front, and a small wooden bench sets just in front of it.
"Oh, that," says the clerk, regaining his previous nonchalance. "It's a piano. Why, haven't you ever seen one?"
But Wheatley's not listening. He approaches it with tentative steps, feeling something, something he just can't pin, and all he can think is that he's got to get closer and see it for himself. He stretches out a hand and presses it along the cool surface of the piano, sliding along as he circles the instrument, and there's a spark.
"I… think I remember," he says quietly, slumping onto the bench. "I think I remember this." Chewing on his lower lip, he cracks his knuckles and flexes the tendons in his hands, and then, hesitantly, sets his fingers over the long row of white and black. He applies gentle pressure, slowly, slowly, and they begin to sink under the weight.
Sounds chime from inside the piano, hammers knocking against resonance string, and Wheatley feels his body seize up. He knows this. God, he knows this. Why?
And then his mouth is parted in awe as he watches his hands skip across the switches, fingers bending and stretching across the cold sable and ivory, his feet instinctively going for the pedals below the bench. Simple notes at first, disconnected and disjointed and alone, but they soon weave into shaky melodies, smoother songs, things he swears he's heard before, and the swelling feeling in his chest is starting to make him short of breath because all of this is so different, so familiar, why can't he remember, what's going on—
"You're rather talented." The clerk emerges behind him, his hands crossed behind his back, his mouth a thin, thoughtful line. "I wouldn't have guessed."
Wheatley's eyes are wide and his shoulders are shaking. He can see the notes fly past, anticipating where his fingers press next. "Oh, man alive, I don't even know what I'm doing! I think I've gone mad or something. I—I can't stop."
The clerk clicks his tongue. "Interesting."
Wheatley glances over his shoulder, visibly distressed. "Interesting? I'm having some sort of creepy, inexplicable moment here, and all you can say is interesting?"
"To be fair," says the clerk, "this isn't something you see every day."
"Every day? I haven't seen one of these things in my life!" Wheatley takes a few short, uneven breaths, watching his hands and their melodies as they cross the keys, keys, and he then amends, "Well, I—I think so, at least. But I must have, right? Or this wouldn't be happening. Not unless I've really, really gone off it and I'm still dreaming out there somewhere but—no, wait, I wouldn't be dreaming in that case. This would all be simulated and I'd be shut down. Well, if this is a simulation, I quit." His gaze darts up to the ceiling, harsh and accusing, as though GLaDOS were watching him from somewhere along the woodwork. "You hear that? I quit!"
The man pockets his glasses and presses a thick hand over Wheatley's shoulder. "Calm down and stop spouting nonsense. Black Mesa and the Combine were put out generations ago."
Wheatley hasn't the faintest idea what he's talking about, but it's not helping.
"Besides, I'm quite real, and this is definitely not a dream. I can't vouch for your… mental soundness, however." A soft chuckle rumbles from the man's chest.
"Yeah, real funny. Keep laughing." Wheatley swallows, his hands finally coming to a slow. He can see the end of the song in his mind's eye, every stanza, every note. "This is incredible. It is, isn't it? Tremendous. Who would've thought…"
"Perhaps an arrangement can be made."
"What?"
The clerk folds his hands across his stomach, rubbing his thumbs together. "About the metronome."
"Really?" Delighted, Wheatley jumps up from his seat, everything forgotten. The bench is knocked backward onto the floor; a wincing crash. "Do you mean that? You're not just saying that, are you?"
"Thomas Key." Extending his hand, the man offers a wan smile. "And I'll consider it—if you can play like that again."