Maybe he'd been a bit too enthusiastic on that whole looking front. There were at least twelve filing cabinets, each with four drawers and most stuffed to bursting with papers. Who knew how many papers were in each drawer. Wheatley had never been good with patience.

The third time he threw his papers away with an annoyed sigh, Doug asked if he wanted to take a break. Wheatley's objections were weak at best. "Step outside." He insisted. "See if there are any markings telling us which building this is."

Wheatley tried not to seem too eager as he stood. "What kind of markings? Signs? Numbers? Names?"

"The offices were noted with a letter and a number. The letter denotes the sector, the number is… the number. Most likely place to find it is the wall by the entrance, but sometimes people would label office equipment in case it was something often borrowed."

He nodded and carefully maneuvered around the art still shining on the floor towards the door. Anything to get out of the small space with sickening lighting and squinty little words and cramped little numbers. Wheatley pushed open the door and popped his head out into a series of small tight cubicles that lacked any of the windows he'd seen in the other office. The rooms were saved from water damage, but that didn't keep it free from the wear and tear of age. Dust and cobwebs covered almost every inch of the space, and the light had bleached the color from several objects.

"Okay, signs," he whispered as he walked, "signs, signs, letters and numbers…" Wheatley let his voice stave off the heebie-jeebies lurking in the darker spaces. He scanned over the walls first. They were the same soulless off white of the record room, and the light wasn't any less clinical. "Need a letter and a number." He turned to one of the desks.

Beyond the monitor and keyboard, it was hard to see what exactly this office's purpose was. Prying open the drawers, he only found generic office supplies. Stapler, rusted together pins, cracked and dried markers. Dust billowed up at him. "Ew-" An itch was the only warning he had before his entire body ricocheted forward with the force of whatever his nose was doing. His glasses slipped to the tip of his nose, and he blinked.

"Oh-Kay." He dabbed his fingers under his nose and curled his lip at the residue. "Ew. Ew." Wheatley used the sleeve tied around his waist to wipe his fingers. There weren't any numbers or letters here, so he nudged the drawer shut again and continued on. Every cubicle looked almost identical, with few personal effects to detail who had worked in each. One had a pot of soil with no plant. Another had the stapler pried open and the staples pulled apart. One, bizarrely, had several blank sticky notes all over the monitor. He left a trail of open drawers to follow back, not entirely trusting in his own sense of direction.

Something was painted on the wall up ahead. It was hard to miss when it was bright yellow compared to the white he'd been walking past the whole time. Wheatley trot up to stare down the foot tall lettering.

'E3'

He clapped his hands. "Brilliant! I found the-" a pause. "Oh. I left me- I left my core back there… so now I really am…talking to nothing again." Wheatley clicked his tongue. "Awkward." He considered the number once more before following the drawers back and finding the closet of records again. "Doug?"

He heard the man shuffle around inside. "Did you find it?"

Wheatley slipped in. "Yep!" He smiled. "Find anything on your end?"

Doug had spread out a few papers around him, far more than he had when he'd left. He had gotten through maybe a dozen files where in the same amount of time Wheatley would have barely struggled through one. "I have figured out this was part of the finance department." He spoke blithely, scanning the pages dryly. "Poor bastards."

"So this is just a room full of money reports?" He tugged over one of the papers. It was a bunch of numbers, though Wheatley still couldn't tell the context of even with the help.

"Essentially. A lot of red ink." Doug leaned back against his cube. "I don't think there will be any maps in here." He gathered the papers and stuffed them back into the manila folder. "What was it?"

"Hm- what was what?"

"The buildings code. It could still be helpful, map or no."

Wheatley stared up at him. It was on the tip of his tongue. Right there. But he couldn't…

"…I can't remember." He drew his shoulders up. "It's two letters, and I can't remember. Oh god," he fretted, "it's going quicker, these stupid brains can't hold anything! How long until I forget my own name, or yours, or where we are-"

"Wheatley." He'd learned that tone meant he was holding onto the handle with two fingers and Doug needed him to regrip. "Human memory sorts information completely differently. It's not an objective record that holds everything equally. Semantic memory is what contains facts, dates, times, numbers. You are not going to forget your name or my name or where you are; you use those pieces of information constantly. But your semantic memory always took a while to work." Doug picked up the orange paint can and offered it. "Write it down."

He held it in his hands. "Ah. Memory thing." Wheatley gave him a little salute. "Right-o. Write it down." He turned on his heels.

"Are you checking the drawers?" Doug called.

"Yes? It's just stationary."

"Keep looking. Sometimes they would give maps to new employees. And you wouldn't get another if you lost it. See if any survived."

Wheatley passed him another salute, then sprung off, chasing the open drawers back to the number on the wall. Of course, E3. That's what it had been. He dipped his finger into the paint and wrote across the back of his palm. "There. All remembered." He started on the drawers, most squealing angrily as the rust around the tracks ground into each other.

Only dust and office supplies. Dust and papers. Dust and more dust. Dust and… Wheatley scanned over the frame tucked in the bottom drawer of desk number four. The pane on the front was coated in enough dust to obscure the image, but as he placed down the paint can and scrubbed his palm over it, figures came into view.

Five, if his vision was correct. Wheatley kicked the chair back and set to blowing and swiping off the layers until the overexposed photograph came into view. His chest tightened. There was a smiling Cave Johnson right in the middle, standing with a woman close at arm, and three other guys. He didn't recognize the men, but his eye was drawn to the woman, a much younger version of the one that lived in his memory.

Caroline was smiling in the picture, sure, but her body was drawn rigid. Something teased under the surface of his thoughts, the same line that stretched under it all. Déjà vu and forgotten nostalgia. He could smell alcohol, hear the ruffling of papers, and feel cold dread shredding through his stomach.

"-learn quick-" – rosy cheeks, smudged cherry lipstick – anger. "How do you live with yourself?" – tears, the taste of a cigarette – "Never."

First, he wondered what Doug would do. It was almost absurd to think that, given his memory murals, but it was where he went first. He'd probably go into doing that little exercise, but that would draw those pictures out of the deep black well of his thoughts. Doug had already told him there was no going back, but there was still a choice. Wheatley could, if he so desired, tuck this thing away and forget about it. It would nag for a bit, but surely that would lessen as he gathered distance from it. If Caroline was anything like Her, then these memories wouldn't be as pleasant as his ones with Doug.

Of course, if She was anything like Caroline, maybe these would be useful. He drummed his fingers against the faux wood of the frame. Maybe Wheatley could do it himself this time.

He pressed his back flat against the chair and closed his eyes, holding the frame close. "I feel… paper, cold again." Wheatley mumbled. "Not the same room as the interview." He breathed out. "I see mechanical doors, a table, a.. person. I hear talking and typing."

He waited. And waited.

"Okay… didn't work. What else…" Wheatley focused on the images still swirling from temple to temple. If he described the moments he saw instead… "I am... I am walking up to a pair of doors. I am carrying paper, and I am nervous. Someone is talking to me, and I don't want her to see what I'm carrying because…" That did it. It hit just the right part of his brain and thrust the image from blurry shapes into something graspable.

Wheatley dove for it.

.

He almost completely passes by the lady outside the office and would have if she didn't clear her throat. Wheatley stops. "Yes?"

"Uhm… do you have an appointment with Miss Clark?" She's petite, practically swallowed under the desk and the bulky clothes she's wearing. Amber eyes flick to the side nervously, and her smile is clearly put on. The tiny piece of tape across her sweater politely suggests to onlookers that her name is Alice. She can't be older than 19.

"I was unaware I needed one." He holds up the forms. "I was just going to drop these off."

At the sight of them, the nervous twitch smooths. "Oh, I can take them!"

"No," Wheatley panics, the papers almost burning his hands despite how tightly he's clutching them, "as these contain sensitive information, these must only see Caroline's desk." He doesn't need the new assistant checking over his fabrications. Doesn't need her trying to peel back the layers of deception.

Alice falters. "Oh- u-uhm-"

"Just let me in, love."

She folds her hands on the desk and nods, sinking further into her clothing.

Wheatley makes sure to knock; he's not that impolite. At the fairly neutral "come in", he pulled open the door. "Got your paperwork all sorted out. I think I did a pretty bang-up job."

The office is different to the one he interviewed in. There are a few pieces of modern art, some vinyls and a rather lovingly cared for gramophone, and even more plants spilling all over the place. The fake windows are pouring in fake sunlight and displaying a cityscape he can't quite place. There's even a section that dips down and has a bunch of seating. Caroline is behind a desk that curves outward with paperwork piled up in neat stacks.

"You did?" She peers over a pair of readers, and her demeanor isn't teasing nor severe. She's apprehensive. Wheatley trots over and presents them like they're the FA cup. Caroline puts down what she'd been reading previous and takes them, eyebrows drawn together enough to form a crease. It's the same intense expression used on his resume.

With each sentence, she relaxes, until she's leaning back in her chair and staring down at his wobbly little signature. Her eyes find his.

"I told you, I can learn, Caroline."

There's pride there, tinged with understanding and something repentant. "You can." Caroline taps them together and opens a little folder. "In the future, Alice can handle the forms. It's okay." She produces a few new papers. "Now, we're behind on a few licenses that we need to reapply for, along with some mandated company training. It doesn't matter how engaging it is, as long as it meets requirements and everybody shows up, okay? I also need someone to run down and check on Remmings progress with the boiler since he hasn't reported back to me."

Wheatley takes what's offered and squints down at the small print. "Er… yes. Yes, I can hop right on this." He remembers what Doug said, and he sighs. "Do I at least get an office?"

"I'll see what I can find."

Laughter. The smell of alcohol. Cheap paper banners. Several bodies packed into the office. Caroline's as it's the safest space.

Doug is anchored by his side while Wheatley does his best to socialize. People keep giving him weird looks as he inches closer with each passing person. "I told you, I'm a social deterrent. You should have left me in my office."

"Nonsense. I wanted you here." He sees a deep grey scarf out of the corner of his eye and tips his plastic cup up to flag down its owner. "Caroline!"

The woman in question lifts her head, then smiles as she wades through the crowd. "This is a shame, Wheatley. Parties are a waste of company time." She speaks through a laugh. "No one gets any work done. All that research we could be doing."

"Exactly! No one's working, so no one's liable to get hurt on any sharp pointy bits." Wheatley notices her cheeks are rosy and her lipstick is smudged by the cheap cups he'd picked up. He giggles and the fact that he's giggling means he's also probably more than buzzed. "You seem to be enjoying yourself regardless."

"I said they're a waste of company time, not my time." Caroline lightly smacks his arm before her eyes track inevitably to Doug. There's a bit of surprise, but it isn't as much as the others, and it doesn't have any nasty add-ons like disgust or pity. She is just surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here, Doug."

"Wheatley said I had to." His head is almost angled straight down, staring at the gaps between their shoes. Doug looks like a kid addressing a teacher after getting caught sneaking out of class.

A light twinkles in her pupils. "That's very kind of you to indulge him." Caroline laughs as Wheatley lets out a weak cry of protest.

Doug limply lifts one shoulder. "I've learned it's a necessity."

"Hey, hey! The both of you!"

Caroline just laughs and shakes her head. Someone else calls for her in a gaggle of other girls. She motions to them, then glances back. "You two take good care of each other."

Blood.

Oh god.

There's blood everywhere.

Wheatley can feel it staining his soles, staining the floor, staining his hands. The guy was a goner when he ran in, probably too far gone the second there had been an explosion, but he'd really… he'd really tried…

It's so quiet. When someone dies, there should be noise. There should be yelling. There should be sobbing. There should be something to denote that a person has died. And yet the workers around him just stare, a mass of blurry faces lost in the equally blurry laboratory.

"What happened?" He didn't even realize he was the one that said it until he raises his head. "What happened?!"

"It was an energy pellet." Some guy, face lost to time but still visibly covered in blood, speaks with a warble. "We didn't mean for it to leave the designated area…"

"H- You-" Wheatley's pilot light has gone out. He blinks a few times just to restart himself from feeling a life slip between his fingers. "What do we do." It's not a question, it's a demand.

Another faceless person points to a phone hanging on the wall. "Report the death to Caroline."

No one moves to do it. No one moves as the blood they're all standing in loses its heat. Wheatley is the first to move, and his shoes leave a negative in the red. The blood trails him as he reaches for the phone, imprints on plastic as he grips the receiver and blots out the numbers as he dials them.

One ring. The man's eyes are still wide. Still surprised. He can make out every pore on his skin and every hair and every fiber.

Two rings. He's wearing a plain pressed white dress shirt and is missing a tooth. Wheatley can still see the smoke rising where the flesh and hair has been burnt away. Right in the shoulder, completely blew off his arm, almost up to the neck. The poor man didn't stand a chance.

Three rings. He thinks his name is Stanley. He thinks he has a wife and child. He thinks about what they're going to hear, what they're going to do when this arrives on their doorstep.

"Hello?"

"Alice. I need Caroline."

"Putting you through now."

She didn't even try to argue this time. Wheatley must sound wrecked.

"Yes, Wheatley?"

"There's been an accident, down in lab H2."

"Fatal?"

"Yes." His voice cracks. His eyes never leave the body. The person. Stanley.

She doesn't miss a beat. "Move his body to a cryo-bed."

It cuts through the numbness that's tried to settle. "What? But he's already-"

"Hose down the lab, sanitize everything." Her voice is commanding, but fairly placid. She is not shaken, and she is not stirred.

Wheatley, however, feels the ground spinning under him. He's using the wall as a crutch. "You want me t- why. Why? Don't we need to- this is an accident in the workplace, we need to notify his family-"

"No." The command has turned firm, a call for him to back down.

"No? What d'you mean 'no'?"

"I mean that we do not need another wrongful death suit on our hands. So you are going to take him to a cryo-bed, sanitize the lab, and tell Betty to meet me in my office."

It dawns, as slow and as red as the morning sun bleeding over the horizon, as slow as the blood congeals under his shoes. "….you're not going to tell them he died." Caroline sucks in a small breath over the phone, but it's more irked than anything. "That's sick! You can't- That's immoral, is what that is. How on earth can- how many times have you done this?"

Caroline's voice doesn't bother to contain how vexed she is. "Oh. So you have a better idea. One that won't bring the government in here for discovery or have the family asking for compensation that we cannot offer."

Wheatley's heart is thudding in his chest. All he can see is Stanley's glassy eyes. His throat is far too dry, his mind going to fast to properly come up with an idea that can fill those requirements while also being honest, while also not having those dozens and dozens of reports he's signed be brought into question.

"If you think you have something better, then by all means, I suggest you do that. But if you learn as easy as you say you do, then you will follow my instructions."

The line goes dead. Wheatley finally peels his eyes away from the body to see the rest of the scientists staring at him. They're waiting on him. His decision. He opens his mouth.

It's blank.

Caroline sets the glass down in front of him. "I'm sorry for putting you in that position."

Wheatley doesn't say anything, just picks up the alcohol and chucks it down as fast as he can. It's maybe the nicest thing he's gotten all day, but the burn does little to make him feel any better. She's watching him, but he doesn't feel like speaking.

"The first death is always the hardest."

It sends ripples through his shock, pulling him from the brink of numb he'd been operating in for the past few hours. "First, death, the hardest?" Each one of those notions is more outrageous than the last. She pours him another drink, and though he is angry, Wheatley takes it to stop his nerves from vibrating right through his skin. "I didn't sign up for this."

Her eyes are sad. Not sorry, but sad. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't ideal."

"Not ideal?" Wheatley grips the glass tight. She doesn't say anything, and he scoffs. "Why did you call me up here?"

Caroline clears her throat and finally pours herself a drink. "I understand that these sort of experiences are very traumatic. I wanted to ask if you wanted some counseling to help talk you through it. We offer it for all our employees."

He watches her as she takes her drink, a single small sip. Wheatley rubs his eyes, in disbelief and in anger. "….how do you live with yourself?" He asks. "How do you run a place like this and sleep through the night?"

The silence hardens. She considers her glass then, like him, throws it down. "I need to know what you're going to do, Wheatley." Wheatley's eyes feel like they've had a fog suddenly lift. She's still watching him closely, and he can finally see the claws waiting just out of sight, ready to tear him to ribbons should he really prove a threat. Should he decide to do something with what's just transpired. This drink isn't just to mollify. "Are you going to quit?"

And that is the question. He wants to. That's the reasonable thing to do. But he's finally learned enough to realize that trying to work through that process will have him buried under six feet of paperwork and probably watched for the rest of his life to make sure he didn't spill anything about what happens here. "Would you let me?"

"Yes. I can't promise that it will be easy, but I have no right to hold you here." Caroline isn't using her cold voice. She sounds tired. She sounds like she would rather not be having this conversation, and Wheatley agrees with this. He wishes she and him were sharing a drink in a bar, talking about their shitty home lives. Or anything besides acutely feeling the blood still caught in the lines of his hands and under his nails.

"What would I have to do?"

She shuffles, spreading out just a bit more on the couch. "You would need to return everything to us - any papers, any pencils, anything Aperture related - and you would need to either prove you have another offer or pay a fine that's… rather steep. You would need to sign an NDA and several, several packets of paperwork that I would suggest you read thoroughly, and it would take weeks to process." Caroline sighs. "And we'd need to do a psych evaluation. It wouldn't be kind. It would take you months. Over a year."

Wheatley buries his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Wheatley."

And the truly terrible thing is that he believes her.

"Hey, Care, I need… some…" There's no one there. Alice hadn't been outside, but Wheatley is sure he didn't misread her office hours. It's midday. Sure, Alice leaves all the time, but Caroline stays here. Wheatley scans the office. "Caroline?" Then he sees the shoe sticking out from behind the desk and his heart seizes.

Wheatley practically trips over himself running over to check, and only lets out a breath when he sees her chest rising and falling, and a distinct lack of blood. She's fine. There's a bottle that stunk of whiskey, and there are several more discarded bottles; her eyes are puffy and red, but she's fine. "Caroline?" She squints and flinches away. "Hey, hey. It's just me, it's just Wheatley."

She slurs something that sounds like "leme 'lone" but doesn't fight much as he drags her up and plops her in her chair. Caroline does fight when he tries to take the bottle though. "Caroline. Come on, hand me the bottle."

"No." She hisses.

"Caroline."

"Leave me alone!" She cradles the bottle.

Wheatley gives up fighting and starts cleaning up the ones on the floor. He doesn't know exactly what to do. Whenever he'd find his dad, the best avenue was to leave him alone. But this is his boss. He feels like he should maybe stick around and help a bit more.

"Loves a special kinda hate." She says, bringing him out of the silence.

Wheatley furrows his brow at himself in the reflection of the glass. "Isn't it the other way around?"

She shakes her head. "Mh-Mh, love, it makes you selfish. Makes you want to take that thing you love and slap a cage on it. Makes you strap yourself onto that thing and never consider letting go. Twists up e'rything in your chest 'til nothing's recognizable. Loving something makes you hate yourself. Makes you hate that thing when it stops being the thing you fell in love with." Caroline slurs and takes another long drink as they lapse back into silence.

There are a few bottles down in the seating area where he remembers them sharing a drink before. He wonders just how many different kinds of alcohol she keeps as not all the bottles are the same shape or color. Wheatley counts the number in hand. It has to be at least five, though half of them aren't entirely empty. It's like she got bored halfway through and moved to the next.

"I never wanted this, you know." She starts again at his lack of response and lets her wrist fall limp on the table. "This, this, this job. This company. Never wanted it. Even though I ran it. In his last year? He could barely lift a pencil without coughing up globs of blood. And before that, oh what the hell kind of running was he doing? Barking at scientists, do this, do that, doesn't work? You're fired! We'll find another use for it! I did all the running. Everything on the back end, I took care of it. But never 'cause I wanted to. It's 'cause it was what he wanted. Always what he wanted, but what about what I wanted?"

Wheatley spares a glance as he continues to clean. "And what did you want, Miss Caroline?" He picks up the few papers that have spilled across the floor and squints at the contents. It's a notice from a lawyer, and Wheatley decides to not read anything further. The less he knows, the better.

"I think…" Caroline hiccups, finishing the bottle and pulling another from a drawer. "I think I wanted to become a singer. But I can't remember anymore. But I betcha he thought giving me this place was an act of love. One big final declaration as he bit the big one. Giving me the legacy of Cave Johnson- this- this thing we built together. This thing we both love. He gave eeeverything to this place. His passion, his best years, his car, his house, his life, all cause he believed in it.

"D'you know what he said t' me?" She leans forward. "At his bedside, last breath he took. He looked at me, barely holdin' it together, and he said to me 'why aren't you are work, Care?'" Caroline laughs, a bellowing cry that sounds far more wounded than the humor she's trying to inject into her rambling. "God, what a stupid, stupid man. Couldn't see that I was there for him. I wanted him to believe in me as much as he believed in this. For a while I thought they were the same thing."

"Ma'am, you're sozzled right now, I really don't think-"

But it's like he doesn't even exist all of a sudden. Caroline's eyes gloss over as she cracks the seal, watching the city through her window like there isn't just a stone wall behind that glass. "I hate him. I hated him. He was terrible. Always expecting, always- always dismissive. And he knew how to get loud. That was before you brought in people he thought lesser of. He always thought he was the smartest person in the room, sucking up all the air and light like some- some- vacuum, thing."

Wheatley pauses as he's tucking the papers on her desk. "…a black hole." He says, mostly to himself.

Caroline claps. "Yes! Yes, a black hole. He was a black hole, sucking up everything and consuming it until there was nothing left. Once you got past all the pretty lights it was just black. Void. Hungry, never satisfied. He wanted, and he wanted, and I was left to make it all possible, left to pick up all the pieces. N' cause of that, he assumed I was as devoted to the job as he was." She spun slowly the chair, scanning over the office. "In a way, guess he was right. I loved science. I still do but… When we started, I looked up and saw the stars, same as he did when he promised them to me. Of course, he forgot to mention all that atmosphere and gravity before you make it there. Cave- he never learned to slow down or cut his losses. He always only saw the stars. I learned to see the sky.

"But he had this way of talking. He made you feel like the most important person in the room. He could draw you into the event horizon, turn you around and suddenly everything seemed so… possible. So worth it. You could ignore the black behind you and see the cosmos again. He could make you." Caroline takes a much longer sip from the bottle, and the tears are already starting to well in her eyes again. "I hated him, and I hated him and then he was gone. And I wanted him back more than anything."

He's picked through the bottles by now, and the only one left is the one she's holding and still drinking from. Caroline doesn't seem ready to give it up any time soon. Wheatley leans against the desk. "…why did you stay?" It's not a nice question, but it's one he's asked his mum before with a far more distressed present tense.

There's a small jolt through her as she looks up, and finally realizes he's there instead of a voice somewhere in the background. "I loved him, before I hated him. I loved him enough to take his last name. I trusted him. And I thought, because he asked so much, that he trusted me too. Even when I didn't love him, I always trusted him. Sometimes I wonder if he really loved me too or if marrying me was just a… just a business strategy. To show me off to investors. To prove to the board that he was a man. A reliable assistant and a wonderful woman, always the best for Cave Johnson. …and even when I hated him, I still… I still loved him. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

Another silence. He isn't sure he's supposed to respond or even how to. Love for him had never been that all-encompassing. "You aren't stupid." He responds lamely. Wheatley still can't get the bottle away from her, so he decides to start rounding up the full ones. Getting it wouldn't do much if she could just grab a fresh one again. "Can I ask you something?"

Whatever gurgle she makes must be a yes.

"Why did you hire me? This- you knew how bad this was. And you still offered it."

"I…" Caroline finally seems at a loss for words. "…i truly thought it would help. I never expected you to stay this long. A week here, working in the states, and it could give you time to find a place you really did want to work, but you just… stayed." She laughs. "F'r a time, I really thought you were like him. Cuttin ties with your family just to pursue your dreams. Lying to get a job. Seeing the stars. But I think you're like me instead. You see the sky, and you do what you have to. To survive."

There is a unique kind of horror as he listens to this. He sees everything wrong with the facility, and all the things she surely knows. And he balks. "I could never be you." Wheatley says, a bit harsher than intended, but the horror is crystalizing into pure dreadful indignity. "I could never do this. I could never sleep sound doing this."

"Couldn't you?" Her teeth are bared and the honeyed sorrow bleeds into lividity. "Don't you?" Caroline stands on wobbly legs as she starts towards the two sets of cabinets in the back of the room. Even if the atmosphere hadn't been jovial before, it's downright hostile now as her red rimmed eyes bore into him. "I put up with a lot. But I'm not going to let you glibly shirk your responsibility. You think you know me? Call me immoral? You think I sleep soundly? I don't! But I stay with it, with these deaths and these horrible conditions and these people waiting to stab me in the back. Because I still believe in the science. I know I can make it better. I know how to pull this dump out of the red. I just need time, and you know- you know what? We're still operating. We're still alive.

"You'll have to deal too," her voice is seeping poison as she reaches her cabinets and rips open one of the drawers, "each time you sign one of these little papers, you're signing away lives. You're as responsible as I am when I approve them. How will you live with that? You- you come in here, with this attitude that you're so much better than me because you're younger and you're naive, and you haven't made any decisions in this scenario, but you're wrong. I gave you that choice. You chose to take up that job. You chose to sign these documents. You chose to move that man's body. You chose to stay-"

"-You- you didn't give me much choice!-"

"-You make those decisions, and then you hate yourself for it, so you blame me! I'm the bitch, I'm the mean evil lady who forced you. Isn't that right?" The plants seem to wilt under the acidity of her laughter. "And I blame Cave, all the time! You're guided by the same hand that dragged me to this job, and you're just as capable. Just as monstrous. The only difference is that if you were forced into this, if you ran this place on your own, you'd kill it in your first week."

Wheatley's heart is slamming against his ears as he stares down the drawer. It contains every file he's ever signed; he can see the tab with his name on it. His palms itch with the stickiness of blood that's long since washed away. "Caroline…"

"You are me, but you could never be me. Make no mistake. We will meet each other in hell, Wheatley, I can assure you of that. All of us. Every person in these files, all the way up the chain. The blood reaches everyone eventually. We already warm ourselves with the fires from the houses we burn down. And when something cracks – and believe me, it will – then Cave Johnson's legacy will consume us all." Caroline flings her arm out to close the drawer and it's just enough for her to loosen grip on the bottle's neck. Wheatley watches it topple to the floor.

He sighs, smoothing his face to be as calm as possible, in and out, in and out. He stoops and picks up the bottle where it's rolled down past the desk. "Come on, you're soused. Let's dry you out."

"One wrong move, and Aperture snaps your neck, right?" She doesn't react as he sets the bottle aside and starts to approach. "One wrong move, the investors snap mine." Caroline becomes much more pliant under his hands as he pulls her back to her seat. "You asked how I deal with it, and I… I don't." She falls into the chair and ducks into her hands. "I don't." She sobs. "I can't. We won't."

"Miss Carol, are you-?"

Wheatley lifts his head to see Alice standing in the doorway, pale and holding two cups of coffee.

"Oh dear, not again…" Alice sets one of the cups down and rushes in. "I'm sorry. Usually she- I just stepped out for a moment. I'm sorry. I can handle it from here."

He steps back. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry." Alice whispers, not so subtly pushing him towards the door. He takes the hint and walks out as calmly as he can. He walks and walks until the door clicks shut behind him. And finally, the stale air he's been holding in his lungs rushes out, and he stops.

The grab for his cigarette carton is as controlled as he can make it when his hands refuse to stop trembling, and lighting the match is even harder. He drops three before it strikes and catches the paper. Wheatley takes a long slow drag, letting the soot really coat his lungs, then blows the smoke out. He covers his mouth to stifle any sobbing.

Water rushes cool and clear over his hands, and yet he continues to scrub. Soap doesn't help. The light from the tv highlights the redness of his fingers.

"Wheatley." Doug is watching him from over the couch, and though his expression is just about the same as it is every other time he sees it, there is unmistakable concern etched into the fine lines of his face. "This is the third time you've washed your hands in an hour."

He lets out some indignant noise and cuts the faucet off. They aren't in Aperture anymore, but the details of the space have blurred into a mash of wooden walls, velvet and blurry crosses. The newest thing in this room is the very tv set that's playing… something. It looks like static now. "So?" Doug watches him return to the cushion, then picks up his hand and scans over it. Wheatley lets him but frowns. "What?"

"What are you trying to wash off?" Fingertips brush the lines of his hands, and despite the sticky feeling still clinging to his palm, his chest flutters.

"You'll think I'm crazy." Wheatley says without thinking too much, and the look he gets in return is wholly deserved. "Sorry. It's just… I caught Caroline in her office, and she was…" admitting it feels wrong. Like what he saw was a secret he should keep between him and Alice.

Doug cuts through it, like he always does, as blunt as the ends of the pencils Wheatley keeps in his 'office'. "She only really drinks heavily when something terrible happens. The government is starting to take the volume of complaints seriously. We're running out of money to fend them off."

He curls his fingers one at a time, watching the way Doug's fingers slide against the skin of his palm. "Suppose that's another one of those open secrets." He sighed. "I keep… Every now and then, I still feel the blood on my hands."

The concern softens into understanding, and Wheatley hates that more than pity. "Did you speak to the councilor she offered?" He shakes his head. "Good, don't. While I'm sure he's qualified, I know Percy reports any 'doubts' to the higher ups."

Wheatley lays his head back on the couch and stares at the paneled ceiling. "…does it ever wash out?"

"No. Never."

Wheatley heard the frame creak with how tight he was holding it. That heavy feeling hadn't left his gut, resting deep down. He was missing something, but the more he focused, the more it slipped through his fingers. A conclusion, he's missing a conclusion. If what Doug said was true, then something happened to her when they made Her. "Come on." He whispered, stretching further, trying to drag through the black that offered up nothing no matter how much he poked. It had to do with her office. But not her specifically. "Come on, what is it? What's the ending?" He pushed harder, swirling it all together, the names, the office, the intense fear, and finally struck a vein.

There's a new guy at the reception desk. His nametag, an actual square of paper instead of a sad piece of tape, reads 'Grady'. Wheatley stares. "Did Alice get fired?" That would be a shame. He'd come to rather like Alice.

Benny looks up from where he's struggling to shut the drawer. "No, she's in there." He points to the office doors. A deep foreboding feeling closes around his throat.

"Right, thanks, chap." He creeps up to the door and pushes it open. The office is strangely dark, only lit by the single lamp at the desk. Even the fake windows are turned off. Alice sits alone at the desk, and her face, what he can see of it, is ruddy. "Alice?"

She startles, not an unusual response, but the pure terror that doesn't fade as easy strikes him as odd. "Oh!- Wheatley, thank god, it's just you." Alice relaxes, but the nervous tap of her fingers gives her away. "H-how can I help?"

"…safety reports." He held up the papers. "Since it wasn't you outside I… where is Caroline?"

At the mention of the name, the fragile demeanor cracks greatly, but she tries to salvage it. "It doesn't matter. Please don't- just- hand over the papers, Wheatley."

"Alice." He doesn't want to get mean, but when he gets scared, he tends to come off as mean. "Where. Is. Caroline."

Alice shatters. Breaks into a million little pieces as she sobs. "They- they finished their computer. They came up and told her it was ready. I think they told her something, but the door muffled it, but she said no really loudly. Like- like 'no!' and then it… it got really quiet, and then everyone started debating over what Mister Johnson said, and Caroline screamed that she didn't care, she'd done everything he'd ever wanted, but she refused to do 'that', but they- they-" She wails.

He steps hastily around the desk and lays his hand across her shoulder. "Alice, Alice, love, calm down. I'm sorry. Did they do something to her? Take her anywhere?" Wheatley doesn't know a lot about the computer, but he knows Caroline considers it to be the one thing that will get Aperture profitable again.

Alice's lip trembles as she tries to stifle herself. "D-down. Down below. And- and one guy came back up to my desk and told me that- that until she returned, I was to take a temp position."

"How long do they expect her to be gone?" That foreboding rose again, that whistle of danger, like an incoming bomb, and Wheatley isn't ducking for cover.

"I don't know!" Alice keens. "I don't know, they said a few weeks. Or- or until the investors elect someone…" She hiccups. "Wheatley, I don't know what to do. I can't run this company, not even for a few weeks. I know all the things she does to keep this place going, and I can't-"

Wheatley rubs a small circle into her shoulder. "I know, love, I know. It's okay. I'm going to go see if I can get Miss Caroline back, okay?"

"No!" Alice jerks back. "No, no, what if you disappear too? What if they try to do something to me and you're gone? You're- I don't know who else I can trust, but I know I can trust you and if you disappear, then- then who else?!"

"Doug." He doesn't even think about it, but it's a truth so engrained in his person it comes out his lips. If there was anyone in this company he could trust with his life, it would be Doug.

"Who?" She croaks.

"Doug Rattman. He works with the databases." Wheatley stands. "He doesn't trust anything to do with this company. If anyone does anything, asks anything that seems strange or unusual, talk to him or me." He clasps her hands. "It's going to be okay, Alice. I promise."

.

Wheatley startled as the frame clattered to the floor. He reached down with a trembling hand and pulled it back to his chest. While there was a layer between the emotions that rattled around his ribs, it still pierced through at the thinnest bits. He was scared for Alice, a girl he'd never known. He was terrified for her when the answer was that she was long dead by now, if not because of something Aperture did, then by simple age. The steady hatred he'd had for Her cracked and crumbled into spectrums and gradients under the purview of Caroline, despite having the same questions of identity that Wheatley had himself.

And maybe, despite the turbulence in the reflection, it stitched together a few ends of himself. It held up two transparencies of himself and overlapped them, finally letting him see where the bits matched up. It was as wonderful as it was horrible.

Wheatley peeled himself off the chair and stood, hobbling back the way he'd come once more, though now carrying what had to be several bodies worth of guilt with him. He tugged open the door. Doug had been busy in his absence. Even with the little optimism of finding a map, he'd gone through an entire cabinet at this point. He lifted his head as he entered. "We were worried you'd gotten lost."

"Guess I did." He mumbled, watching Doug's eyes fall to the frame and ask several question with a single raise of his brow. "I uh, found… this. It's not important. Or useful. Or anything, but…"

Doug stuck his hand out, and Wheatley quietly deposited the frame into it. He let him take in the image for a moment before clearing his throat. "Who're the other three?"

"They were Cave's circle of people; I think this one was an investor, this one did marketing, and this one…" something twitched through his eyes. "I'd rather not say." He shook his head. "I didn't know much about them. Most of them left after he died." Doug paused for a moment, eyes cutting to the cube, before lowering the frame. "…are you okay?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." Wheatley scratched at his palms, feeling some stickiness trapped between the folds. Doug's eyes tracked the motion, but he didn't comment. "I thought it would help."

"Did it?"

"I…think so." Wheatley cleared his throat. "I don't really want to talk about it." He blinked as Doug suddenly flipped over the frame and pried at the back. "What're you doing?"

"You don't want to talk about it, so we won't." He tapped the glass. "There's an orange boarder on the top that isn't on any other edge. Means there's something behind it." He dropped the backing to the side and pried at the paper. Two fell out onto the desk: one that was the photo paper, and another thicker folded paper with a few stray marks he couldn't discern. Wheatley stepped over his shoulder as Doug delicately undid the folds, spreading the document over the free space.

Several small boxes and connecting lines lay before him, marked with letters and numbers. In bold text along the top was the label 'Aperture Science' along with a small list labeled 'key'. Wheatley bent over the desk, looking closer. "Is that…"

"What's the number?"

He held up his hand, which Doug readily took to study. Wheatley used his other hand to smooth over the paper and marvel very slightly. "I… I found it." He whispered.

Doug tapped one of the boxes around the middle of the paper. E3. "That you did. We're here." He scoured the boxes again. "The computer we're looking for should be here," he tapped a larger box at the east upper corner, simply labeled 'main office', "and power would be around electrical engineering… here." He dragged his finger down to another one with a large H to the left.

"That is quite a distance." He murmured, though with the way the boxes were laid out, Wheatley didn't know just how far it really was. It was just a guess, but Doug nodded. He swallowed. "What happens if the computer doesn't turn on when we get there?"

He idled back and forth, lips pursing, and eyes turned downward. It faintly gave him the impression of sucking on a lemon. "We could…" he started, stalled, then ground his teeth to finish the thought. "We could split up.