Prompt 015: "How about Wheatley's first ride on public transport."
Wheatley draws a confident breath and boards the bus. There is a thick, stale heat that greets him on his next inhale: recycled air, exhaust, and body sweat. Hand sliding up the metal rail, keeping balance, he climbs the steep stairs and into the hull. As he crests the final step, he pauses and looks down the closed tunnel, seas of gray seats and spectrums of faces, and he realizes just how many people are crammed into this thing.
Usually, Wheatley is pretty comfortable when it comes to crowds. Other humans interest him. He finds himself watching when he's on his walks home from work; parents out with their children, couples holding hands down the sidewalk, gaggles of young girls flocking to various shops. Their interactions, their mannerisms, their conversations make something inside his chest swell with warmth. He's not sure if it's the human in him that's taking over or if it's because he truly does enjoy people-watching, but it feels very pleasant. It somehow gives him a feeling of connection, of togetherness; something he finds he's sorely missed.
Don't get him wrong: he delights in Chell's company. She is the strongest, cleverest person he's ever had the fortune of meeting. In fact, there is no person in the world he would rather spend time with than her. He doesn't find her muteness difficult or frustrating; he's come to learn her language, even if it isn't spoken.
But there's just something special about listening, watching, observing. It's fulfilling to see bits and pieces of life he's missed. Prior to his existence as a personality core, his memory is very blank. He's not sure what might have happened then (if anything happened at all), but a deeper part of him believes that there might have been another life there somewhere, even if he can't remember it.
"Hey, you're holding up the line!" says a voice behind him. "Move it or lose it!"
"Oh, um—sorry, mate," says Wheatley.
He hastily slips Chell's fare card into a compact electronic box by the portly driver ("You can't miss it," she writes; "It'll be right there as you get on"). It pops back out into the palm of his hand, and he promptly pockets it in the folds of his coat. Face hot, he pulls his knit cap further over his ears and stumbles to an empty seat about halfway down, tripping over legs and luggage.
To his left, an old lady is wrapped up in a faux fur-lined parka, hood cast over her face. As Wheatley scoots in and tries to adjust his legs, she grumbles something under her breath and buries herself against the window.
"Sorry, didn't mean to get you if I did," he says, hands holding his knees. "They don't really make these things for tall people, do they? Bit awkward to sit in. Not to be snobby or anything, but it's just not very good design. Doesn't seem like they put much thought into the whole thing."
She doesn't reply, but Wheatley takes comfort in the fact that he made it safely on the bus, which means he'll have more things to tell Chell about when he gets home.
The giant machine grunts beneath him, some sort of mechanical cough, and then the world outside starts to scroll.