Least Said

"Okay," Johanna said, all-but-slamming Rick down on a bookshelf. "So what the hell just happened? It was your fault, wasn't it?" She pointed an accusatory finger at Wheatley.

"No, it wasn't!" the core said, his handles jittering. "It absolutely wasn't! She just – she went bonkers all of a sudden, but it wasn't me, I swear!"

"Then who was it?"

"Do we really need blame right now, Johanna?" Seeder laid a hand on the younger woman's shoulder.

"We need answers. The last place this little metal ball was, was with the Gamemaker. You were a Gamemaker until about five minutes ago."

"More like fifteen," Craig muttered.

Johanna went on, "Even if you somehow didn't cause this, you have to know something. Where's she going to target next? What does she know about us? Talk."

"Talking appears to be the only thing he can do successfully," Wiress said with cold indifference.

"What happens now to Peeta?" Katniss demanded.

Chell was the only one who noticed that Wheatley's optic had shrunk to a pinprick of blue. He'd only looked like that once before, right before he was plugged into GLaDOS' mainframe. "Stop," she said, interposing between him and the Victors.

"Chell, we need answers," Wiress said.

"And we'll get them. But not by all shouting at him." She pointed at a door in the far wall. "I think that might be a closet. I'll question him in there – by myself. Believe me," she said, supporting him as he disengaged from the light fixture, "We'll get answers."

She took Wheatley to the door, which Finnick opened for her, and shut behind her. As soon as it was shut Johanna said, "It was his fault. I know it."

"You've never even met him before," said Katniss.

"He's a Gamemaker. Or was, I don't really care. Even if he made a mistake, it is still his fault."

"Don't work on blame," Seeder said, her voice almost angry. "Work on something useful." She was pulling out a long sheet of paper covered with faint lines from a bottom shelf.

"Like what?" Johanna asked.

"I don't know. Look at Finnick and Wiress."

"What are you doing?" Katniss asked Seeder as the woman uncovered a box of pencils and blew the dirt off of them.

"This is graphing paper," she explained. "See the blue grids? And there's pencils on the desk – bring me the can of them, will you? I'm going to draw a map."

"Of the facility?"

"It won't be easy, but I'll try."

"You draw maps?"

"Sure. Cartography's my talent."

"Why did you pick that?" asked Katniss as she glanced around. Wiress was trying to coax the massive computer along one wall into life; Finnick was thumbing through the books on the wall, and Johanna was following his example, a bit reluctantly.

"I wanted to help my friends. By drawing maps of District Eleven, I could help everyone know where the tracker jacker hives, landmines, and other nasties might be."

"Oh." Katniss curled up around her knees. "That's really selfless of you."

Seeder looked askance at the term. "I did that for years, an' years, before I even thought about the Rebellion. As long as my folks were fine, I thought, I didn't care about Panem. Not exactly open-hearted, hm?"

"Yeah, but my talent should have been something like that – helping people, I mean."

"The Capitol doesn't always allow that. One Victor, I remember, wanted to open a hospital, and the Capitol refused, point-blank. She eventually had to settle for something decorative."

"What is your talent?" Johanna asked, in what Katniss took for an obnoxious tone.

"Fashion design," Katniss mumbled.

Finnick glanced up. "And let me guess – Cinna does all the designs for you?"

"You know Cinna?" She turned to him, surprised.

"Of course! He's a well-known guy – and a great friend of mine."

"I bet he is," Johanna murmured to the book she was holding, to which Finnick replied, "You shut up."

"He was in the rebellion, wasn't he?" Katniss asked, her voice catching no matter how hard she tried to steady it.

"No shit," Johanna said. "Making you into a giant mockingjay on Interview Night, pure coincidence."

"I wasn't asking you."

"Why do you say 'was'?" Finnick put down his book. Katniss told him about Cinna's abduction in the Launch Room. Finnick's face grew grave as he heard it. "We've lost a hero," he said, when she was finished.

"Don't truss him up like that," Johanna cut in. "He was just a man, a Capitol boy who saw a little better than the rest of them. The Girl on Fire is going to need a new talent now."

"And what was your talent?" asked the Girl Who Was On Fire But Was Currently Very, Very Annoyed.

Johanna turned away, apparently finding her volume extremely interesting. "It doesn't matter. I gave it up a long time ago."

Rick, who rested on an empty space in the bookshelf, started up, "Y'know, I've got a wide range of talents myself. Woodcarvin', shootin', bear wrestlin', tobacco chewin', judo, karate, taekwondo… bedroom… hoodoo, but not voodoo…"

While he went on, Katniss watched Seeder carefully dedicate each square of the growing map, her pencil strokes deft and sure. Abruptly, Katniss asked, "Wait, what was Haymitch Abernathy's talent?"

No one answered, until Wiress said, "Leather."

"Pffft!" Johanna snorted, and she attempted without success to hide a loud snort of laughter.

"Why is that – Oh." Finnick began, and then promptly got the giggles, too.

"Leather? Why is that so funny?" Katniss asked.

"Never you mind, dear," Seeder answered, though it looked like she was trying hard to keep a straight face of her own.

Wiress, quite unperturbed, went on, "He made me a belt. Gave it to me on my Victory Tour. I still have it."

Katniss hugged herself. "He never made me a belt."

Seeder glanced up. "Many of us abandon our talents as years go by. Otherwise we grow obsessed by them. Finnick? How's Annie doing?" Finnick looked up at once. "How's her talent coming?"

"Oh – she's doing very well… embroidered a beautiful tablecloth for… for Mags… she was doing very well, until the Quell was announced."

"Did you leave her at home?" Johanna asked.

"No. She insisted on coming to the Capitol."

Katniss didn't remember who 'Annie' was, but didn't want to ask out loud and risk looking stupid. She turned to Seeder and mouthed, "Annie?"

Without missing a beat, Seeder leaned forward and wrote in the corner of her map, the words "Victor 65th Game." When Katniss didn't understand, Seeder drew a little picture: a simple, anguished face; loops and loops of long hair all around; thin arms and legs kicking in every direction; dark waves swamping the swimming girl up to her neck. As if to complete the picture, the sound of running water came from the direction of the far wall.

"Oh." Katniss turned to glance at Finnick, who was staring at his book and clearly not seeing it. "You mean – all the girlfriends he's got, in the Capitol, and…"

Seeder put a finger to her lips. "Least said, soonest mended. It's not my place to say."

In the Bathroom –

"It wasn't my fault," was the first thing Wheatley said when the door was shut behind them.

Chell found a light switch and turned it on. A dim, flickering bulb came on and steadied itself. Its light reflected off of gleaming porcelain, rusted silver, a tall panel of frosted glass.

"It must have been that other Test Subject's fault – ask anyone, I was busy talking to Peeta at the time. I didn't know that Test Subject Five – I don't even know what his name is, the bloody maniac – was hatching trouble until it was too late."

Chell had been busy looking around the bathroom, but gave Wheatley a strange look at the word "maniac."

"Okay, maybe maniac is a bit of a strong word, there, but he merits it, in all probability. All of them merit it – have you seen the footage? Have you seen what they had to do to get in here?"

She put down the toilet cover and set Wheatley on top of it. She sat on the floor, so she would be on his eye level. "I haven't seen any footage. Please, tell me what happened."

And Wheatley, in a totally surprising move, fell silent.

Chell waited. People were talking outside—Wheatley's optic darted towards the door, nervously. When he continued to look at the door as if it was going to jump out and bite him, Chell got up and turned on the faucet. With a creak and a shudder, water poured out, obscuring the noise of talk.

"Oh, that was – um, a whatchacallit, a confidentiality measure? For me? Well, thanks, um. You really don't have to do that for me, Chell. You do too many nice things for me, and I can't repay you. I can't even… I can't even be a proper Intelligence Dampening Sphere, like I should be. I remember…" his optic tilted upwards, and his lower lid curved upwards in what bizarrely resembled a smile, "I remember it was such a big deal when they made me, there was such a lot of to-do and hip-hip-hooray. But when it came to actually doing anything – even being a part of Her chassis – I just bungled up, job after job. Even this job…"

He heaved a sigh. "First, She went into her own mind – deep into her own mind. She stayed there for a long time – then, suddenly she's out, and she's more intense and focused on things than ever. She… Chell, she forced me to watch the Games."

And soon it was all spilling out, he found himself telling Chell everything that had happened about his disconnect from the chassis, and the Games he had seen, and how GLaDOS had dismissed him, sending him to the Victors because he knew he'd have nowhere else to go. His optic flickered and threatened to nearly go out when he verbally remembered Peeta, and the test subjects of District Six, that he'd been looking after, in his scatterbrained way.

When he had finished, Chell nodded, but didn't say anything. She stood up.

"I wasn't always like this." In response to Chell's look, Wheatley again darted his optic back and forth, but he kept talking, "I just know there was a time before, when I wasn't so hopeless at everything. I just know it. I'm sorry. I wasn't always like this."

Chell nodded. "It's too late to worry now." She turned the water off, and stood a minute, staring at the faucet, until Wheatley asked, "Um… is everything all right?"

"Never mind." She picked him up, and opened the door back to the main room, turning off the light as she left.

The water got her thinking. The plumbing was still working, which meant that pipes had to be in place, which meant something was working its way from the surface, down here. If nothing else, the pipes were there as an escape route.

She might be looking too far afield, though. 'Look at this lavish chamber,' she thought. 'If this Cave Johnson was the big boss of Aperture, why wouldn't he have his own elevator? Answer, he would. It is around here. We just have to find it.'

"Set me down by the door, love, there's a dear… I'll, um, stand guard, sort of. Thanks."

After setting Wheatley in front of the shut door, Chell knelt beside Seeder, ostensibly to help her with the map of the facility. But Chell's mind was racing on another track entirely.

A part of her – a very large part – wanted the gang to cut their losses, find an elevator, and get the hell out of there. Surely, if they wanted to send a message to the Capitol like Katniss was so keen on, an alliance of five Victors escaping an arena was perfectly clear, and adding five – or was it four? How many were still left alive? – wouldn't make all that much of a difference.

And at the foundation of it all – the entire Game had been changed. Chell had no idea how the AI would act, now that she was apparently treating the Games like the spectacle it was. For all they knew GLaDOS had purposely cornered them here. Wheatley had said she wouldn't change this room, but – honestly, what did he know? He was an artificial intelligence of Aperture – and they should have known that, when GLaDOS put her mind to it, she would swat him away like an irritating bee. Not that Chell could remember clearly what bees were like, or what they were, or why they were so awful. But they could escape, should escape. Wouldn't District Thirteen help them, weren't they watching the arena even now?

Chell glared to think of them. If District Thirteen was going to help, they would have done so by now. Best to assume that once they were on the surface, being left entirely alone would be the best-case scenario. That's assuming they could make it to the surface, if the tangled alliance they had scraped together could bear to leave anyone behind.

A small popping noise sounded behind her, and Chell turned around. "No worry," Wiress said, sucking her thumb. "That means it's working." The computer in front of her began to come to life, humming, a few of its lights flickering on.

"Wiress," Chell said, trying hard to keep her voice calm, "Don't – if you connect to the mainframe, she'll find us –"

"She already knows we are here," Wiress said. "And, no mainframe here. Older than anything else found so far. Asleep for long time. We might search files, though. Find something interesting. You take one, I'll take one? Press power button, it should work."

She was already on her way to the computer monitor on the large desk, ignoring the portrait that nearly stared down at her as she went.

Chell sighed. Feeling she would do a better job at spotting GLaDOS in cyberspace than anyone else, she seated herself at the other desk. After hesitating, she pressed what she supposed to be the 'On' button. As she waited for the monitor to come to life, she spotted a mug she hadn't noticed before, a plain white thing with the words "World's Best Secretary" on it.

Both computers started with a slurred, croaking rendition of the Aperture Science jingle. Apparently Wiress' finished booting up faster, as the woman started typing on the rickety keys almost at once. After a time she called to Chell, "Do you think this has Solitaire?"

Concealing her surprise that Solitaire had apparently survived untold centuries and the wreck of civilization, Chell watched her screen come to life at last. At the top of the screen was a little folder with the label "COMPLETE EMPLOYEE DATABASE."

What kind of a secretary needed access to a database like that?

She was going to look for other files, maybe Technology Database or… something else vaguely important-sounding… but a thought struck her. A whim. She glanced up to be sure no one was paying attention to her, and then typed out, with two fingers, "C-H-E-L-L."

She pressed 'Enter,' irrationally afraid that she had misspelled it.

A tiny hourglass spun around on the screen.

From her side of the room, Wiress read aloud, "'Do not attempt to shut off the Genetic Lifeform and Disc Operating System. The mainframe will attempt to gas any who attempt so to death. With neurotoxin.'" She paused. "That sentence could have been constructed better."

"She can't use neurotoxin," Chell said. " Wheatley and I shut down the generator. Right?" She asked of the core, who had been uncharacteristically silent for a worrying amount of time.

"Could repair it. Orbits always correct themselves," Kevin murmured from his spot on the floor.

"What else does it say?" Finnick asked, putting his book down and moving to lean over Wiress' shoulder.

"Do not try, do not try… these scientists sure were frightened," Wiress observed.

Wheatley finally spoke up, curtly: "You have no idea."

On Chell's computer screen the hourglass vanished, to be replaced by three names: Rattmann, Doug; Serafin, Angela; Serafin, Roberto.

She clicked on the first name, scanning the file for her name. She found it under "Notes," where it read "Named Godfather for Chell Serafin, daughter of Roberto and Angela—" both of which provided links to the same. She looked at the picture of Doug Rattmann. Even in the still photograph, he looked like he was ready to jump out the window, combed hair and neat tie notwithstanding. Godfather? She clicked on the first name, remembering that GLaDOS had in fact spoken the truth at least once: Chell had never been, then, a proper Aperture Science employee.

It was a relieving thought.

Roberto Serafin ("Bob") had a square-shaped, dependable face, dark and homely. His occupation was listed as "Janitor," and a date, and a later date marked him as "HEAD Janitor," capitalized like that. Under the heading "Family" were two names, "Angela Serafin" (with a link) and "Chell Serafin" (no link.)

Chell clicked on Angela's name. The picture that came up showed a woman with a slightly uneven smile, and bright, alert eyes. Under "Occupation" it read "Cafeteria Chef," with dates following – and then the word "Quit."

Though Chell had no memory of this woman's name, nor face, she still felt a trace of pride at thinking that her – mother? Maybe? – had the sense to abandon this awful place.

But another date read – Chell squinted – "Core Transferal Volunteer." She clicked the link, a strange, apprehensive feeling growing in her.

The new page had a picture of Mimi on it, and the header "Personality Core 00032 – Opera." Chell read the information carefully. So Mimi was not an Intelligence Dampening Core – her header was a Culture and Humanities Core, which Chell figured might serve the same purpose, to GLaDOS. Under the sub-heading "Contributors," there was a list of names, but none of them were followed by degrees, like Chell would expect of a list of engineers. Instead they read,

"Pierangela Petrelli, (soprano-contralto), Singing and Musical Ability, 40%;

Elizabeth Warbeck, (mezzo-alto), Singing and Musical Ability, 30%;

Angela Serafin, Language Acquisition, 20%;

Artificial Intelligence, 10%."

Ten percent? But Mimi was a robot – how could a robot have anything other than complete artificial intelligence?

Following the "Contributors" list were notes: "First two contributors suffered no long-term ill effects. Third contributor has sustained brain damage." Chell knew she should have felt a rush of anger at this, but she didn't, exactly – she had no memory of this Angela Serafin, assuming she was her mother. But she did, intuitively, understand where humans might come in to making an "artificial" intelligence. So Mimi's mind – such as it was – was a patchwork made up of different women, assembled with apparently little care for if they were hurt along the way? That sat ill with her.

She clicked "Cultures and Humanities Cores."

Up popped a list. "Adventure" core was on the list, as was "Cake" core – she'd almost forgotten about that one – and "Fact," and about seven others, including Mimi. There was also a dead link next to "Ballet Core (cancelled)".The list itself was only one of maybe five on the page. She scrolled up and down – below were "Enthusiasm Cores," which included "Space," "Curiosity," and "Not Killing People."

So they had been trying to imbue GLaDOS with more human qualities? Why did none of them stick? The "(Incomplete)" next to "Not Killing People" was probably the answer. Below "Enthusiasm" she found "Emotion" cores, including Anger, Fear, and Mercy (labeled "on hold for philosophical reasons.") There was also a list under "Morality Cores," Mark 1, Mark 2, all the way up to eight, when presumably the engineers got the hang of it.

Speaking of morality, Wiress might well be discovering a way to shut GLaDOS down while Chell's curiosity cursed her to waste time. This was enough. Chell scrolled to the top of the page of Personality Cores – and stopped. Right at the top was a list of "Intelligence Dampening Cores," with only one name on it. "Core 00004 ('Wheatley')." She clicked it, wanting to get this last bit of exploring over and done with.

There were two photographs on the screen, one of Wheatley, the other of a man. The second photograph was in black and white, and a little grainy, but she could make out big eyeglasses and a slightly confused smile. Below the picture was the caption "Wheatley [REDACTED]." She read the text, scanning it more and more quickly as her understanding grew.

The first Personality Core initiative was to lower GLaDOS' intelligence with the help of a monumentally low IQ. After three attempts at artificially "stupid" minds, they chose an Aperture Science employee in Accounting, on a long stay work visa, with a history of monumentally bad ideas and an inability to shut up about them – and abducted him. His brain was scanned – edits were made – core a complete success – completely amnesiac – subject left in a vegetative, brain-dead state.

She pushed back from the computer screen. She looked at the blue-lit core beside the doorway, who was listening to Kevin talk about space, completely unaware that he was the product of a murder. Chell couldn't keep looking at him.

She turned to the screen instead, leaning to read, "G. L. & D. O. S. did not react positively to this core. DO NOT USE ON MAINFRAME."

So – it had been for nothing.

"Chell?"

Katniss' voice came from far away. "Chell, what are you looking at? You look – terrible."

Chell knew she should answer somehow, but her tongue felt weighed down, knotted, in a very familiar way.

"What did you read?" Finnick asked.

Chell couldn't look at any of them, staring at her, starting to press in on her like walls. She looked up, instead, at the oil painting over the fireplace. The arrogant man and the smug woman were staring down at her, surveying the room like it was – like it was a game board –

"Hey, love, what's wrong?" Wheatley said to her.

Before she knew it she had picked up the "World's Best Secretary" mug and threw it at the painting. It missed – the room was very big – and went to the right, smashing on the bookshelf and making everyone jump. Wiress gave a yelp. "What was that for?"

Chell couldn't talk. She gestured to the room, to the painting she'd tried to wreck. She wanted to say, "This Aperture Science place, whatever happened to them, to make them fall apart, they deserved it, and I will get out of here if it costs every drop of blood in my veins." But she couldn't bring herself to say it, and that was something else she couldn't explain – the way that in the face of a threat, in the face of true wickedness, her voice always failed her. She'd never said a word to GLaDOS – partially not to give the AI the satisfaction of a response, partially because in the face of such wrongness, Chell always gave herself completely to silence. She didn't know why.

'It's because you're a dangerous, unstable maniac who cares more about the fate of a stupid little robot than that of your own parents,' thought the part of her that had listened for far too long to the voice in the Facility, until it had begun to believe that voice and whatever it said.

She looked slowly at each of the Victors – none of them looked at her with fear, or disgust, but only concern, as though each of them had thrown a mug or two in their day. She felt, more closely than ever, the walls pressing in around them, and the smug smile of the woman in the painting.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. One hour, one moment at a time. She walked over to Wheatley – "What? Is it my fault? What did I do I'm sorry—" and laid a hand on his hull, which caused him to fall silent at once.

"Oh – Chell – um, does this mean we're all right, then?" He asked, his optic narrowed, as if he wanted to shrink away from her.

Chell finally found her voice. "Yes. We're all right."

Author's Note –

First of all, I have to announce that I am attempting NaNoWriMo, this year, for the first time ever! Consequently, I am putting this story on hiatus for the month of November. I will see about posting another chapter before the end of October, but that is not very hopeful. For now, let this long chapter with an indulgent, quiet final scene serve instead of a cliffhanger.

Second of all, a bit of cut material that I wanted to share with you – the "Enthusiasm: Not Killing People" Core would theoretically be concocted from the brains of a cheerleader at a local high school, Pope John Paul II, and the Dalai Llama. Aperture Science was aiming really high with its volunteers that time.

Thirdly, thank you for reading this far and sticking with this story even as the plot trips and lags and sallies around in unexpected ways. Thank you so much. I appreciate every favorite, every Story Follow – and of course, every review. Even when I'm on hiatus, feel free to review or ask me a question. I'll do my best to answer!

Thank you again, and happy reading!