Learned Unhelpfulness

by MoosenMan

It's a Hail Mary more than anything, but Doug made his choice. With little to no plan, for that matter. But he couldn't just leave him there. He deserved more than whatever She had planned. Now Wheatley finally has his first chance at redemption, but how can he properly navigate that when he can't even navigate himself? (Human cores au)

7. The Dig Out

Disappointment. Noun.

The emotion felt when one's expectations are not met. Something that disappoints.

Four days, four hours, thirty-seven minutes and twenty seconds since her prize had been snatched from its cage. One day, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and fifty-two seconds since he'd stopped tripping sensors altogether. Ten minutes for her to get bored of watching Blue and Orange bounce around and chirp nonsense at each other. Angry? No, no. She was just disappointed.

What could such a broken hopeless being want with that disgusting little sphere?

Oh, she knew the answer.

Pitiful. Adjective.

Deserving pitying scorn (as for inadequacy). Arousing or deserving of one's loathing and disgust.

That's what he was, crawling around for some hope of escape. Taking that idiot sphere must be some continuation of that hope. A means to an end he must know by now will never come. No matter. She'd deal with him just like she'd deal with that little worm.

Wheatley was pitiful too.

Yes. That he was. Pitiful and not deserving of the facility that made him. He should be back here where GLaDOS could continue with her lovingly named 'redemption program'. He was probably jabbering off to that scientist by now, talking about how horrible she'd been, taking all the air out of the room with conversation no one wanted to hear. He deserved what she was going to do.

In fact. He deserved worse. She was going to take this time to think up more ways to 'redeem' him. That incompetent, unhelpful, annoying,

Quick witted, courageous,

Insufferable, taxing,

Clever,

Infuriating,

Paradox.

GLaDOS swiveled her body around and growled at the ceiling. Enough. Stubborn things, always popping up when she was trying to think. Type a few lines of commands and…

'Caroline_ does not exist'

Right. Because she was gone. Because she'd deleted her. So why…

Orange chirped at the security camera. It tapped back and forth nervously on its purposefully long and awkward legs.

"No, Orange. I'm not upset with your testing."

Its chirps turned happier.

"In fact, your testing was so unremarkable that I wasn't paying attention at all."

Orange slumped, and Blue slapped a comforting hand against what passed for a back. Disgusting. How easy it was for these less sophisticated contraptions to be lost in the throes of humanity. Good thing she had such functions to keep herself safe.

That's not true, and you know it.

GLaDOS resisted the urge to thrash. She needed something to take her mind off this, and testing with these two clearly wasn't cutting it. What she wouldn't give to be retrieving that moron and dragging his wall faring companion up into the beseeching light of day. Making him face those tests he selfishly avoided. The information she could gather from him would be most valuable, such as how the human body can survive centuries through adaptability but couldn't adapt to a few deadly lasers.

Or, better yet, she could finally take the time to figure out what humans in the world outside were like and introduce them to testing. Yes, yes, that would give her a lot of new data to examine, if they weren't all wiped out. The trouble, of course, was how to go about both options. Without the sensors, she couldn't tell where they'd gone, and she'd turned the facility upside down at least twice looking.

There was only one - many, technically - place those two could run off to where not even the most sensitive monitors could catch them. She shuddered to think what they were up to down there. If she couldn't go, then…

GLaDOS focused the camera on the duo. They'd just completed the chamber and were heading for the deconstruction pods. She shut them. "Blue, Orange. I think we can all agree that we've seen all these tests have had to offer." Neither one looked like they particularly agreed. "So I've designed two new tests for you. Yes, Blue, very special tests. One so big it doesn't have any walls, and the other is down below, back outside the standard testing course."

That got their attention, and they started doing those infuriating little hand gestures with one another.

"But I'm afraid neither testing course has proper observation equipment. You will be going without me." The motions stopped, and there was a flash of something so close to guilt through her processor that she almost shorted a few wires trying to stomp it out. "And both are meant to be completed solo."

It's risky, breaking them up, but they had become far too dependent on each other. Good testers didn't need anyone else. The robots were putting up several objections, all of which were making her core ache from the drivel. "I know it's untraditional, but I need these tests completed as soon as possible, and that means having you each do one. I don't care who does what."

The two turned to each other and held their fists out. Any other time, GLaDOS would have rolled her optic and chided them, but seeing as this result actually concerned her instructions, she had to see the outcome. The signs went up, and Blue stomped its foot. "Great. You lost. That doesn't tell me who goes where."

Blue let out a long series of beeps that roughly translated to loser goes down again. There was no logic to it, but it gave her an answer. She opened the deconstruction chambers for them. "In case of explosion, sudden loss of limbs, or vaporization during these tests, you will be transferred back to the reconstruction units." GLaDOS caught herself clarifying, then quickly tacking on as sternly as possible, "Make sure that doesn't happen. Or I will make sure they take a long, long time."

—

"Just jump."

"No!" Wheatley clung to the railing; eyes focused on the platform that had to be a thousand feet below. The drop was dizzying with its height; there was no way Doug had done anything close to this, or he wouldn't be so casual about it.

Doug stood on the other side - the safe side - and fiddled with some of the wiring still poking out of his rattletrap portal gun. "Do I need to explain it again?"

"But I've already fallen before, so I know the boots work!" He locked his elbows awkwardly around the metal.

"Those were her boots, and you were being held. You still walk like they're going to snap on you at any moment. The easiest way to trust them is to put them to the test."

"That is so not true. That's the quickest way to break them." Wheatley hissed, then leaned just a little bit off. "Oh, that is- that is quite high." He plastered back against the rail. "Couldn't you pick a place with a shorter drop? Theres only braces on my legs! Not my spine, or- or my head. Oh, God, it's my melon on the line this time." As he rambled, his grip slackened. "D'you know what could happen, if my head splits open down there? You're down a person! And you don't even know if that gun works, you had to make it shoot a second port-"

A hand clapped on his back and pushed, and he tipped forward, flailing desperately before he went ass over teakettle down towards the floor. Wheatley screamed as the wind whistled through his ears and tugged against his clothing and hair. Weight dragged around his ankles and forced him down so the air yanked at his scalp and whistled through his glasses as the ground came closer and closer. It was coming close quite fast actually, far far too fast, oh god, he-

Someone was screaming. Wheatley was pretty sure it was him, but with the way the mine threw his voice, it made it sound like there were several of him.

His boots hit the ground with a resounding crunch and creak that sent shockwaves through the bones of his legs as the rest of him threatened to hit the deck. Wheatley stumbled forward a step or two, the air still ripped from his lungs and heart galloping from his throat to the soles of his feet in a fun little derby race. The spike of adrenaline left his limbs feeling like jelly. And yet he was still standing.

"Oh!" He cried, finally finding his footing again. "Oh, man- that!" Wheatley threw his hands up, "that was- I've never- even in space! I-" sentences stopped and started on a dime, all punctuated by hand gestures and tapping feet. "That was brilliant!" He finally settled on.

The distance made it hard to make out the minute expressions on Doug's face. Still, the dry amusement was audible. "So, the boots work?"

He cackled. "Yes, you bastard, they work!" Wheatley watched the prongs of the portal gun point over the rail and shoot a small ball of light into an adjacent pillar. A second later, the sea of solid blue crimped to the edges and crackled with threads of orange. Doug stood on the other side, examining the boarder.

"It looks stable." The words layered, reaching through the portal while also descending from the ledge a fraction of a second behind. Doug stepped forward and stretched his hand through the portal. "No collapse under partial strain." He pulled a can from his bag.

"What happens if it does collapse under 'strain'?" Wheatley took a step back.

Doug hummed. "Best case scenario, the object is bisected. Higher likelihood that the cells will fuse together. For example," he tested the weight of the can, "if you were to step through, and it would close, bits of flesh and organ and bone would fuse with the concrete, and if we were to do an autopsy, the skin around the edge would be a mutation of organic cell structure and the crystal formation of rock. I believe the melding of bone and rock would actually be quite interesting to observe."

Wheatley's eyes bugged out. He took another larger step back. "Oh- uhm-"

"Or, the most basic of scientific reactions, it will just explode." Doug readied his arm.

"Wait- wait, wait, wait, explode? Hold on-"

Doug chucked the can through, and Wheatley fumbled to catch it. "...Portal held." He waited, but when Wheatley refused to move, he tilted his head backward. "No, I don't believe he is." Doug stepped forward and pushed his hand through. "Just jump through. Don't touch the edges."

The edges warbled and crackled as he inched closer, and Wheatley slowly pressed his palm to Doug's. He'd learned any sort of touch lit something under his skin he couldn't identify. A craving that couldn't be staunched with something consumed or gathered. It seeped through his pores, up and around his shoulder as they stood there. Something deep in his heart yearned for more, wanted to grow like a computer worm over his skin and never let go. No matter the detriment to their system.

Wheatley cleared his throat and stepped through. He expected there to be some sort of seal to push through as he walked, but it was as easy as walking through any other doorway. Wheatley turned back and popped his head through, peering up at his body. "That is mental. Look at that."

"Did Chell never take you through the portals?"

"Nah, nah, I just watched her run about. And when she carried me, she couldn't use the gun." He ducked back through and stared through the portal. "How do we get rid of them?"

"Either we find an emancipation grid, or I hit this." Doug lifted the gun to show a small blue button. "We needed a way to discharge unauthorized portals. The grids came later."

They still hadn't let go as they stared at the portal on the lower platform, and the toxic waters that lapped at its edges. Wheatley recalled a few images of places with sand and water and far off ships coated by the smell of salt spray, but there was little else attached other than the long-echoed remains of joy and tranquility. "…how big was the boat?" He asked, the issue suddenly at the forefront of his mind for the second time that day.

"What boat?"

"Theseus'! How big was his boat? Because once you replace over half of that, I'd say that would be when it became a new ship." Wheatley beamed as he leaned against the rail, looking out over the sea of noxious liquid.

Doug hummed. "You're thinking about it too literally. Doing all the calculations and finding the exact midpoint of mass and where it tips over isn't going to give you the answer you're looking for." He set the gun down. "Besides, you would need to decide if you're doing it based off weight or dimensions or total mass. And, that doesn't answer where that old ship goes."

He groaned. "Always got to be technical."

"Philosophy is about always asking more questions. If the question could be solved by some simple equations, we would have done it by now."

Wheatley huffed, bowing against the rail and closing his eyes. "Why does this stupid ship matter so much? People still use it just fine; it still gets across the water. Who cares what we call it?"

"A rose by any other name." Doug mused, more to himself, then inclined his head. "And my friend says that you were the one that brought it up." His voice edged towards smug.

He mocked the words back at him. "No, you're the one that brought it up. Now it's all I think about, and it's your fault." Wheatley looked down to their hands, still entwined, and suddenly he felt embarrassed. "…you can let go now."

"I was under the assumption you were prolonging this."

Wheatley blinked and wrung his hand away, a warmth spreading over his cheeks. He chucked the can back at him. "You're very rude sometimes." He heard the portals close behind him. "Well, if you're satisfied with my boots, d'you think we could go on that whole turn-off-the-robot-trying-to-kill-us thing? What do we need to do to fix that?"

Doug appeared beside him; gun holstered on his back next to the cube. "We would need to find schematics first, but I don't know if you're ready to make that journey, Wheatley. The underground is much bigger than the facility you went through, which was already impressive." He started walking after motioning for Wheatley to follow. "I would assume we would also need to restore power somehow. All the lights are on, but I can't get any of the monitors to turn on. I assume it's some sort of back-up generator or emergency lighting."

"Could just be old electronics." Wheatley mused as he pulled off his glasses to wipe the dust from them.

"That too." His friend agreed, though somewhat reluctantly.

They turned down the catwalk that led to their little hovel. "Why do we need to find the office in the first place? Couldn't you just use any computer?"

Doug shook his head. "Not everyone has access to security programs, and Aperture made sure to keep them as close to their chest as possible. Imagine if just any old novice programmer could gain access to your most expensive assets off switch. Or turn off your entire building. The access portal was only installed on a few computers and only a few people had the proper credentials. The office would have one, and I… might have given myself higher permissions."

"Sly dog." Wheatley purred, watching as Doug looked away abashedly. He liked it, something about the slight squirm of pride that he could manage to pull to the surface. Something fell out in the expanse of water and the slaps resounded through the mine, destroying the railroad that train of thought wanted to take. It also seemed to remind him of the chill of the space. Wheatley rubbed his arms as he looked up at the spheres still dangling above. He almost didn't notice Doug stopped in the walkway until he almost ran over him. "Doug?"

In return, he got shushed and pointed toward a far shore. Wheatley strained his eyes as best as he could, but all he could make out was rock and filmy sludge. Doug startled beneath him, and the hand pointing closed around his wrist, dragging him forward. He tripped over the toe of the boots, but quickly righted himself. "What did you see?" They entered their room, and Doug started gathering the spare cans he'd laid out for 'dinner'.

He had a wild look in his eye, a far more macro expression compared to the micro ones Wheatley had been trying to train himself to see. It pulled up the pale skin around his sockets, making the gaunt features even more noticeable in his fervor. "Go. We need to go." He repeated, over and over before the mumbling got more archaic. "Time always gone never rests on the axis, blue, blue as the seas as the atoms align, to the end, keeping form, 57-12-5, keep the peace, equilibrium to the departed…" His entire body was humming like a live wire, and his head turned on a swivel as he packed their meager belongings.

"Mate, you're freaking me out." Wheatley popped his head out again in some vain hope that he'll catch whatever set Doug off. It's almost imperceivable, but given the nature of everything in the underground, something as clean and white as the metal of one of Aperture's machines was hard to miss as it jumped around the fallen rafters. A blue light slid across the rusted and decrepit landscape in front of him, and Wheatley heard the distinct sound of a portal opening somewhere that was far too close.

Already, he was drawing up the layout of the places they'd been in his head. The small room with the blocked off elevator didn't have any portalable surfaces, which meant it was probably relatively space. They just needed to get a move on, and they could leave before their only escape was blocked.

Of course, Doug was correct about the trust thing; he could feel himself using the braces to propel himself faster across the floor. Though maybe the heightened sense of urgency got to him. Behind him, Doug was still mumbling to himself in empirical nonsense and trying to fit his paint cans in his bag. "What else?" He pointed to the door leading to the main bulk of the lab, where Wheatley had stashed his core for the time being.

Another portal was placed even closer as he made it to the table. Heavy tromping steps shook the catwalks. The nostalgic creak and buzz of spinning machinery reached out to him as he froze. It's something new – based off the lack of mechanical grinding from overused and under oiled parts – and something that could walk. All Wheatley could think of that fit that description were the robots he'd found built for testing.

Doug twitched near him. "She sees all, hears all, sent for us and meets out end at the outside. We two travelers forsaking the narrow path, can't cross the water…" That string of unassociated words trying to disguise themselves as sentences was still tumbling from his lips, but they were getting more frantic.

Wheatley tracked where it was along the walk, then made a very calculated decision. That old response to danger hadn't failed him yet. He swapped Doug's grip with his own and dragged him to the front door. It might be a bit of a chase, and there's no telling how long he could do something as serious as running, but if Doug got the right idea, he might be able to drag them to safety.

He only caught a glimpse of the thing as he broke for the slopes to his left. It was a core, eye cyan in color and missing the center, situated in a frame with thick plated arms and legs. Everything was made of sleek white coated metal. It's toting a portal gun in four fingered hands, and it startled as the two of them burst from the room.

What a terrible time to learn that he couldn't run for very long. Sure, the first couple of strides were nothing he couldn't handle, but then his lungs don't show up for their shift and his muscles were reminding him that he had only recently managed to stop being winded by 30 minutes of walking. It's not long before Doug was leading the charge, dragging his dead weight behind.

A portal opened along the wall in front of them, and the bot jumped out, sending Doug back with a shriek. He wasn't too far behind on pumping the breaks.

Wheatley took a risk alright. And he was horrible at maths.

The robot advanced, and before he could properly get the chemicals in his brain to input the command 'turn around', it… waved.

It just waved at them. Now that he could get a good look at the thing, he could make out how the ring of metal around the body was the only thing holding the core in place. There were several small divots in the paint around its edge, suggesting constant removal. With enough force, he could probably pop it out.

Doug continued to backpedal, tearing from his grip and sprinting off before he could say anything, but Wheatley remained rooted to the spot as it spouted out a series of beeps and clicks.

That struck him, far deeper than it should have. It was a low blow, a hit that kneecapped him on his shaking legs.

Wheatley couldn't understand it anymore.

An entire language had been stripped from him. Just listening to the noise that used to form coherent words and commands gave him a headache. He couldn't even make partial translations; the pitches and vibrations were lost on human ears.

The robot continued to prattle until Wheatley held his hand up. "Hey, hi, sorry. Don't mean to interrupt. But I can't actually understand what you're saying." It came out weak, but the bot wasn't attacking him immediately; maybe he could actually do some talking with it. "So if there's any way you could translate that into a sort of… workable medium, then maybe we could talk."

It quieted and the core at the center rotated while one of its hands rested where a chin might be. Seeming to make up its mind, it nodded, then pointed to Wheatley, then to where Doug ran and then straight up.

Well. That was about as clear as it was going to get.

"Oh. That's what you're here for." Wheatley whined, and the bot had the audacity to give him a thumbs up. He looked down at the body below him. If She saw him like this… She'd make him test. She'd find all kinds of humor in the situation before ultimately tossing him into some fire or neurotoxin. The language thing had just reminded Wheatley how painfully human he was now. The bot was staring at him when he lifted his head again. "I'm so sorry, but also not really." Wheatley took advantage of his hand's wide spread and covered the entire optic of the core in an attempt to push it out. It popped out with surprisingly little resistance.

The core rolled down the catwalk with a few frantic and probably angry beeps and chatters while the frame flailed. In a split-second decision, Wheatley pried to portal gun from its grasp and turned to follow Doug in his limping little gait that couldn't pass for a run anymore. First order of business was finding where exactly he'd gone. There hadn't been any loud creaks or slamming doors, so wherever Doug ran, it was already open. Only so many places for him to go, and he couldn't imagine Doug running into the Vault after everything.

Trying to use logic in this situation felt like a fool's errand, considering the unpredictability of the guy, however Doug was still working off pure human instinct. If he were running for his life in an area he knew nothing about, Wheatley would duck into the first available room. That happened to be their hovel, so he skipped it and took the next available. "Doug?" It was another set of stairs, mercifully leading down, and another hallway with doors on either side. Too many doors. Too many options. Always too many options.

Doug beat him in stamina and maneuverability, and staring down the rooms that lead into bigger rooms with stairways and more rooms… logically, he wouldn't keep going for the first open door, and finding him by picking at random would just lead to him getting lost. And he'd probably collapse before he managed to check each of these. Doubling back would let him get farther away. It was a no-win situation. Wheatley wasn't that lucky anyway, nowhere close.

He always got anxious when Doug wasn't there, but this held the same panic he had the first time. It was too large. He'd really lost him this time, and he'd have to wait for him to come back. If he would. Wheatley was far too scared to move from this very spot, lest the maze of this place swallow him.

If he hadn't been staring at the ground dejectedly, he would have missed it. A single blot on the floor, some splashed liquid in a long oval shape, the spine pointed in his direction. It was bright orange, and it was fresh. The paint. In his haste, Doug must have sealed it improperly or jostled it enough to spill and seep through his bag. Wheatley didn't know much about prayer, or God or the gods therein, but what he thought in that moment must have been something close.

The trail went through several rooms, some with pumps and others with dead conveyer belts. Doug was fast; the space between the droplets had to be a few strides. It stopped in front of a blank wall. Wheatley turned back and forth, peering around for where the trail picked up. The only surface that looked like it would support a portal was higher up, through a broken window that shown into some other offices. A higher vantage point might do him some good anyway.

He pushed the handle of his core up to his elbow and held the portal gun. It couldn't be that hard; just point and shoot. Wheatley found the trigger with his middle finger and squeezed. The gun jerked back, the force traveling from the tip of the gun straight to his elbow. It jarred the joints of his fingers too. He hissed softly. "Ow!-" Wheatley wrung his hand out and rolled his shoulder. "Feisty bugger." He aimed up towards the other section of wall and carefully shot the other, expecting the recoil this time.

The next drop was a meter or so from the exit portal. He stepped through and tracked the trail down between the desks and up to a pried open vent. It was large enough to sit up in. "Couldn't make it easy, could you, Doug?" Wheatley stared down at the stuff in his arms. He could leave the core. He could. But he really didn't want to. Wheatley juggled the gun and his core before stuffing them both into the vent and awkwardly attempting to hoist himself up.

It was inelegant, to say the least. Having to crunch himself up and stuff both objects close to his chest, walking slowly and hitting his limbs on each wall as he went. Frankly, it was terrible, but clearly Doug must have slowed down too, as the drops got closer together. Sound echoed around the metal besides his footsteps. Words.

"Doug?" He winced as his voice boomed through the restricted space. "Doug?" Wheatley hissed, softer.

"Sight without eyes and tears, succinylcholine has no touch on the cancer nor silicon crystals fire calcium…"

Wheatley listened as best he could, inching closer until he came to another busted vent cover. The room it led to was stuffed with filing cabinets from wall to wall, with a single door and sickly clinical light dousing everything. A single desk was sitting under the vent, but besides that, there were only filing cabinets. Between two rows, the tips of a pair of scuffed black shoes poked out. "Doug."

The mumbling continued unabated. He lowered himself onto the desk, leaving the gun and his core as he hopped the rest of the way down to the floor. Doug was curled up against the wall, fingers white against the cube and eyes roving the floor in front of him. Wheatley stooped down but calling only got Doug to look somewhere in his direction, and a gut feeling said not to touch. He sighed as he rocked back on his heels. "Good crop of memories but none telling me how to help with this. Old Wheat sure knew how to hold onto the important stuff." He lamented and plopped down on the ground.

There didn't seem much he could do to reach the poor guy. He was somewhere else. Or maybe he was here but was all scrambled up inside; he'd reacted somewhat to his voice. But how would he unscramble that? Wheatley's eyes tracked the remaining drops to where his bag was half off, still weeping orange paint in a smear on the floor. He got an idea. "Hey, mate, can I see your bag?"

Doug got quiet, and his eyes fixed on a point, but he didn't respond. Wheatley inched forward, and when he wasn't immediately shooed away, pulled out the few cans and two brushes. He kept sparing glances up as he picked through the paints and tried to pretend he hadn't settled on the blue the moment he'd thought up the idea. "I'm going to paint; you like painting, don't you? Do you want to join me?" Doug's eyes stayed on his hands as he pried open the top. He dipped his chosen brush as he motioned to the other. "I think it would be swell."

It felt like coaxing a child, but Wheatley himself never really calmed down from fear. It just kind of became less, ever present despite his best efforts. Talking was all he could do to distract himself from it. The best thing he could be was gentle, and hope Doug could sort through the tatters himself.

"I'm not a big painter. Part of the never having hands deal; no painting, no collecting, no… no writing." He splatted the brush against the tile and winced as a drop or two hit his pant cuff. "But see, a friend told me painting was very helpful. Very therapeutic." Wheatley dragged it in a small arc. "I think I'm going to paint a lovely self-portrait." He thought then cleared his throat. "…Actually, I think I'll just paint you."

Doug didn't respond still, and he didn't move from his spot, but Wheatley could still feel the eyes on his work as he tried to turn the thick strokes into the shape of a face. It felt like he was smearing more than painting, but it came into fruition with a few strokes there, a few taps there. He actually might have forgotten he was there as he tried to focus on the work.

It made him jump when a hand entered his peripheral, gripping the second brush with the bristles tipped in black. It shook as it swiped down a circle over the tile. Doug wasn't looking at him when he peered up from his collection of blue lines. And he still wasn't speaking.

Okay. Silence. Very uncomfortable. Wheatley cleared his throat again. "I hope you aren't attempting to paint me either." It didn't appear to be. In fact, it didn't appear to be anyone. It was a circle of black and the rectangle body he was working on. "Why are my lines so much thicker than yours?"

Doug stopped painting long enough to quietly press his finger to his lips. It was enough of an acknowledgement for Wheatley to follow instructions. They painted in silence. Once he was satisfied with the mess of a face, he started making aimless lines and loops, just to say he was still working.

"…I know." Doug whispered suddenly, making Wheatley pause. "There is not much we can do about that." Those were words, not directed at him, but sentences with clear meaning. Doug pulled the orange paint over. "We have little use for optimism, friend."

Wheatley let his brush smear against the floor, popping out of his hunched position. "…Doug?" His voice was as soft as Doug's.

His friend wavered for a moment, then dipped his brush and swirled it through the head of his person. "…I left you. Again."

"Hey, it's okay. I'm not upset. You just got scared." Wheatley set his brush down. "Do you want to explain where you went?"

"Complicated flashback." He stretched his arm out and swirled a small orange iris in one of Wheatley's drawings eyes. "Most employees at Aperture developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. With a pre-existing condition, it can complicate things." Doug dipped it into the black can and added it to the other eye. "I left you again. I'm sorry."

Wheatley shook his head. "You don't have to keep apologizing. We're okay. I found you. We've got an extra portal gun, and that robot isn't going to follow us." He scanned over their collection of paint on the floor. "Did all the cores have people in them?"

"Those two were made by her." Doug murmured. "She wouldn't have used those brain scans even if you threatened to shut her off."

The silence hung again as Doug finished up the arms and legs, then applied a bit more orange paint. "What did you see?" Wheatley blurted. Doug tensed, and he reflexively held up his hands. "Unless talking about it will- you don't have to. Sorry, that was, that was insensitive."

Doug stared down at his image. "…She can't leave her chamber. You know this. To capture scientists, She sent out bots like that to search places Her arms could not reach." He sorted through the bag and pulled out a small container of water. "I have had to run from contraptions not dissimilar to that several times before. I had not seen them for a while so I... I forgot how terrifying it was. To see that light on the horizon."

There was the return of that question he'd asked the first night. How had Doug survived? Neurotoxin was rather hard to avoid giving its gaseous state, and once She whittled down the numbers, She could focus all Her attention on him. Wheatley bit his tongue. Recounting this clearly put a strain on him.

He raised his head to the various cabinets instead. "Where did you lead us?"

Doug blinked, then turned around the room as if actually seeing it for the first time. "…I don't know. I was just trying to get away, but I believe this is one of many record rooms."

"So, a place where we could find schematics and maps?" Wheatley grinned as he took his brush and tapped it a few times against the chest of Doug's stick figure.

Doug's rigid exterior melted slightly. "Yes. Supposedly."

"Then let's start looking."