Wheatley paced outside of the meeting rooms, going through his notecards, mouthing along to his speech, and trying out different vocal inflections along the way. His invention felt heavier than its estimated weight in his Aperture branded duffel bag which he protectively held under his arm. It carried so much more than the cylinder of violet goo. It carried the result of countless sleepless nights in the lab. The proof that he was capable of critical thinking and ingenuity. The only good, fully realized idea he'd ever had. It carried what felt like his last hope to make something of himself at Aperture Science.
The weight of his career and self-worth was in that can of paint. All 5 kilograms of it.
A distinct cough caught his attention. He recognized the forceful expiration followed by a rough, mucous punctuation. That cough belonged to the deteriorating lungs of Cave Johnson.
The sound echoed off the walls, not making it any easier to find him in the expansive maze that was Aperture. Once he located the source, Wheatley collected his cards, tucked them into the side pocket of his bag, and chased after the CEO.
"Mr. Johnson! Sir!" Wheatley shouted as he stumbled his way across the catwalks, trying his best to bump into as few people as possible. "If I could just- oh pardon me- have a moment of your time!" His feet entangled themselves, causing him to trip and fall face-first onto the metal grate. Accompanied by the rattle and crash of his body hitting steel, there was a distinct sound of metal on metal. He unstuck his face from the floor to see his invention rolling across the catwalk, over the edge, and into the abyss.
His heart dropped in tandem with the can. His life's work, lost at the bottom of a pit among the piles of dilapidated machines and scrap accumulated from years of science. Helplessly, Wheatley lay on the cold floor, awaiting the distant thud that would fully cement his newest failure. Instead, he was met with a familiar Southern drawl from below.
"Think you dropped this!" Grady said from the lower catwalk, can in hand. One of the engineers had come to his rescue. Wheatley scrambled to his feet to jump for joy. Before he could thank him, the engineer switched the can to his prosthetic left arm and wound up. "Catch!" he yelled before lobbing the purple paint can into the air. The already frantic Brit outstretched his arms and by some miracle, grabbed it with a goalie-style body catch.
His skinny arms wrapped around the cold cylinder like a mother clutching her newborn. Shoving it back into his bag, he shouted a grateful, "Thanks, mate! I owe you one!" over the railing and took off running.
Meanwhile, Cave Johnson, his assistant, Caroline, and a couple of other employees snuck into the CEO's office. "I think we lost him," Johnson whispered. The group let out a sigh of relief.
"I swear that guy is a lawsuit waiting to happen," said Mr. Campbell, a curmudgeonly man in his mid-fifties. Or "one of the bean counters" as Cave would call him.
"I can't tell if he's more dangerous to himself or others," added Dr. Russo, a younger scientist with a special name tag, designating his role in the Test Chamber Design Department.
Caroline spoke up. "It wouldn't hurt to hear him out." The men turned to her, bewildered at her suggestion.
"Wouldn't hurt?" Campbell repeated incredulously. "Last time we 'heard him out' we ended up with that 'acceleration gel' and you remember how that turned out."
"So much blood…" Russo whispered, his eyes staring at nothing as he recalled the events of the infamous Aperture Office Christmas Party of 79' in vivid, grisly detail.
Cave sat in his executive chair where his assistant stood by his side. "Mr. Johnson, where would this company be if we didn't listen to the innovative minds of our scientists?"
"Yeah, 'innovative' is one way to put it," Campbell grumbled.
Caroline shot an annoyed glance at the man's comment and placed a hand on her boss's shoulder. "You never know where the next big idea will come from." She leaned down to Cave's level and lowered her voice. "And we could really use a big idea right now."
Cave looked up at her. Her intelligent brown eyes, worn with age, but still lively as ever. He sighed. "I hate when you're right." Caroline smiled proudly while Mr. Campbell rolled his eyes.
"Fine!" Campbell huffed. He grabbed his files and headed for the exit. "You can take a chance on the walking OSHA violation, but I don't want any part of it," he said as he opened the door only to be greeted by Wheatley falling through the doorway and onto the floor.
On the way down, he'd knocked into the accountant, sending his documents flying. The Englishman scrambled to his knees, trying desperately to collect the loose papers and spilled notecards scattered around him. "Sorry about that, mate! Was just having a lean, casual lean against the door. Not eavesdropping or anything like that. If that's what you're thinking." He trailed off awkwardly.
"Blimey, you've got a lot of paperwork. All these numbers and charts must be a hassle. Probably a lot of advanced maths and… complex algorithms involved. That's why they pay you the big bucks, eh?" His attempt at humor was met with the same, unmoving glare from Campbell. "Must be tough to keep all this organized. I mean, all it takes is one clumsy sod running into you and bam! That's your whole afternoon sorting through these all over again!" The accountant tapped his foot impatiently which Wheatley didn't react to.
"Oh! You know what you need? A binder! One of those big 3-ring binders with the little dividers inside? That way you can keep everything from falling out! Take it from someone who drops stuff a lot; those things are a lifesaver." In the midst of his rambling, a file labeled "CLASSIFIED" caught his eye. He picked it up, innocently sifting through the sensitive documents. "Ooh, this looks important!"
Campbell snatched the file from his hands. He took the loose pile of papers Wheatley had been collecting and straightened them out into a neat, albeit unorganized, stack. With an irritated huff, he left the room.
A few seconds of silence passed. Everyone was waiting for the boss to speak. Perhaps ask Dr. Russo to leave so he could speak with Wheatley privately. Or kick Wheatley out for making a fool of himself. Instead, he retrieved a bottle of whisky and a container of painkillers from behind his desk. He poured a shot, took two pills, and washed them down with scotch. "So, Winstead," Johnson began.
"Wheatley," he corrected.
"Right," he continued, "You wanted to speak with me?"
"Yes!" He retrieved his shuffled set of notes from the ground and got to his feet. "I know you're a busy man, so I won't take too much of your time, but I think you'll be impressed by this." Wheatley eagerly reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a large paint can with a purple ring around the cylinder and proudly presented it on the table. After straightening the deck of notecards, he turned to his boss with an expectant grin on his face, which still had a diamond-grid pattern imprinted on his cheek from his earlier fall on the catwalk. For once, he didn't speak.
Cave, Caroline, and Russo exchanged confused looks. The CEO looked at him quizzically. "What's this-"
"I'm glad you asked!" Wheatley immediately responded and jumped back into his animated, energetic self. "Recently at Aperture, there's been somewhat of a decline in funds. We need money to create and experiment, but we have no money."
Cave's jaw tightened. He didn't need a reminder of his failure to keep his business thriving. He knew he'd dug his own grave in more ways than one. Aperture spent $70 million on those moon rocks. Now both his profits and health were declining as a result.
Wheatley read from his cards. "The cutting-edge research performed here requires adequate resources and sustainable revenue streams." He sounded stilted and awkward. The frequent use of sophisticated vocabulary and syntax felt unnatural. He was so busy focusing on enunciating, projecting, not talking too fast, and avoiding fillers in his speech. Basically, get rid of every "Wheatleyism" that made up his personality. On any other day, he could talk your ear off, but he had one chance to get this right and he couldn't risk rambling or getting sidetracked or fumbling over his words. This had to be perfect.
When writing and practicing his pitch, he sought out the help of Ted Baker, their VP of sales, and Steve. He wasn't sure what Steve did, but his position was some sort of executive and he used big, fancy words, so Wheatley assumed he must be a professional. If one of them had presented this, it likely would've gone much smoother. But here he was, struggling and stammering like he was back in school during a group reading session.
"The time has come to break free from these limitations and return Aperture to its former glory." There was an uncomfortable pause while Wheatley flipped to his next card. "Don't let financial constraints and lack of sales hinder Aperture's potential any long- wait, that's not…" He closely inspected the notes. "Sorry, wrong card! Must've gotten it mixed up with Campell's!" he joked. Besides the brief twitch of a smile from Russo, the room didn't react. He awkwardly cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses.
He sifted through the deck, trying to pick up where he left off. He mumbled, "Cutting-edge research… decline in funds… former glory…. blah blah blah- Oh! Here we are! As I was saying, Aperture is borderline bankrupt. That's no secret. Now this could be for any number of reasons–" The sight of his boss's displeased look worsened Wheatley's nerves. "B-but I think one problem is our products' lack of utility for consumers."
"Lack of utility?" Mr. Johnson interrupted.
Unsure if his boss was offended or genuinely confused, Wheatley froze. That question never came up during practice. The last thing he wanted to do was wing it and screw everything up like usual. He thumbed through the deck which yielded no answers. His eyes landed on Caroline who gave him an encouraging nod.
"Well… the things we make at Aperture are brilliant advancements in technology, but they're not all that useful, are they? At least not to most demographics. I mean, what does a family of five in Michigan need a turret for?"
"He's got a point," Dr. Russo chimed in, "The CPSC deemed the Sentry Turret too dangerous for the average American household. Even the NRA called it 'overkill'."
The presenter looked over to the scientist, surprised by his support, but thankful nonetheless. "Exactly! And the Handheld Portal Device was groundbreaking in quantum mechanics, but it's not all that useful outside a test chamber! It needs moon rocks to work. And since no one has spare moon rocks lying about, we can't sell portal guns."
Cave pondered the man's words, setting his drink aside. They had been trying to sell the ASHPD to NASA for years to no avail.
"But worry not! I believe that my invention could be just what this company needs for both a source of revenue and practical use in the facility!" He sat the cards down. Now that he was past the business part of the pitch, he could speak freely. He didn't need a guide to show off his passion project. "Lady and gentlemen," he said, gesturing to Caroline and the others, "I give you…" He paused for dramatic effect. "Adhesion Gel!" Wheatley hoisted the can into the air, displaying his pride and joy.
The room didn't react.
"...So it's purple?" Johnson asked.
"Not just purple! This is a functioning prototype! It works!" Wheatley's voice cracked at the last sentence, overjoyed with the idea of his creation functioning as intended. He finally did something right! He had an idea and it actually worked!
Caroline spoke up. "So what does it do?"
Wheatley put the can back into his bag. "Follow me and I'd be happy to show you," he said in a smooth, charismatic tone before walking out the office door with confident strides. The group followed behind him, not seeing his smile of barely contained excitement as they headed for the nearest available test chamber.