Things might be amping up a bit! I struggled to get this one out hence the 10 day wait…
Bit of blood and violence in this one, and ho boy a lot happens– much more GLaDOS action too, we love to see it
Tapping away at the keyboard, Chell sits outside with her battered laptop on her thighs, scanning the internet for traces, any evidence of these people Wheatley mentioned: Penelope Schroders and Alistair Parker. She doesn't dare conduct her research inside the house for Her to spy on, if she notices any foul play, who knows what kind of free kick she might take in retaliation. She looks up from her laptop at where Wheatley disappeared off to after their discussion under the tree. He seemed a bit withdrawn afterwards, dragging his feet through the grass like it was getting a little harder to put one in front of the other. Maybe he needs a bit of space and motivation, he'll be back in no time, she thinks to herself, both physically and emotionally he'll bounce back. She feels a bit guilty for starting the day so aggressive to him, but he's going to get used to it, after all it's how she approaches serious matters. This is a deadly plan, there's no time or room to tend to hurt feelings the further in they dive, so she takes a deep breath, and returns to her research.
Alistair Parker as a search term yields a few candidates to contact, although what's worrying for her is how international this search has become. There's the few living in the states, but she never anticipated possibly needing to contact and talk to someone now living in New Zealand or Wales really. She needed to do a process of elimination on these possible men, figure out which of them lived the closest to Michigan at some point in the last few decades. She doesn't particularly feel like reaching out to all of them anyway despite it being easiest for her, it's not ideal for her to draw suspicion to herself or get her account reported for sending creepy messages to random unrelated people. She's going to need to do some digging, that means. Dare she say it, Chell is no stranger to cyber stalking, though not for nefarious purposes! She knows she must find a lead that links one or a few of these Alistair's back to Michigan to be a real candidate.
Some are too young (surprisingly with a name like that), some have virtually untraceable digital footprints, but from the few she can track down information on, she's certainly counting her lucky stars for how promising one in particular has been. Alistair Wallace-Parker, 76, used to work as a professional butcher back in the 90s in a neighbouring town to where Chell now lives. If that's just a coincidence she might just let him professionally butcher her fingers off at that point. It's too convenient, and not only that but he lives close to the tri state border. That's one victim down, and too easy.
She uses her newfound stalking method, just web archives and linkedin in tandem, to hunt down the next individual– Penelope Schroders. A bit more of a modern name, surely she's easier to find? Turns out for Chell, yes and no depending on what you mean by find. Top result is both promising and harrowing, being a news article and obituary on the young lady. Her leg starts to shake, but she forces herself to inhale, exhale, and click the link titled 'Michigan young woman's descent down the rabbit hole'.
She grimaced at the fantasy tone of the article, as if this woman's torment were solely for entertainment and clicks, as if anyone believes her story anyway. Penelope Schroders was a single mother of two, living in a decrepit mansion in the outskirts of her city, and Chell couldn't continue reading the poor taste and theatrics, skipping to the obituary linked at the end of the article. A healthy looking lady, not too much older than Chell herself, she notes, exudes an ingénue air in the picture accompanying her obituary. She smiles sweetly, sandwiched between her two young daughters, and if she reads any more of this page Chell might just lose her composure. Tears already prickle the corners of her eyes at the thought of Penelope and how very overlooked her very real trauma must have been. Turns out, to Chell's relief but also pain regardless, that Penelope didn't pass within her house, but after being admitted to numerous psych wards following her confessions to the police on living with a 'hyperactive ghost' and 'taunting demon' in her previous family home. She was apparently a very religious individual, and Chell could only imagine how much her world was thrown into turmoil at having to live with a ghost and a demon, with young children to protect at that.
Chell thinks it's best to quit searching further, even though it's very possible she could get into contact with Penelope's daughters or family, she would hate to dig back up family traumas from just under twenty years ago. Not to mention, it's not even guaranteed her family ever believed her or witnessed the things she had, not even her daughters. She closes the tabs before she reads another insensitive comment from that article. She settles with just contacting Alistair, who seems to still hold an online presence, and so she enters her house again, shooting him a message on his FaceBook page and setting her laptop aside on the couch while she gets herself some tea.
She prepares the water in the kettle, and takes a couple of minutes to choose and fish out which of the tea bags she's managed to buy already. She swirls the ginger clove tea bag with a dash of honey into the steaming mug, and makes her way back to the living room couch. Chell sits and browses through local workplaces hiring to get prepared for when she starts university, and some footsteps in the hallway behind her has her perk up at the knowledge that Wheatley's back. It's strange that she didn't hear the door creak open, but sometimes he doesn't like to disturb her with a lot of noise so he carefully opens and closes doors nowadays. She whips her head around and over her shoulder, expecting to see the gigantic ghost twiddling his thumbs behind her, but when she spots nothing out of the ordinary her heart stutters. Maybe I shouldn't be inside without him here…
She turns her head around and gingerly exits the house, or that's what she would have done at least. "You and I have some catching up to do, don't we?"
The demon shoves her back down to the couch roughly, expelling the air from her lungs, spilling the hot tea on her face and neck, and sending Chell into a coughing fit. "It's been a long time since I've had an inhabitant all to myself when they're not asleep. Whatever you did with that idiot you should keep doing because then we get more of these little bonding sessions."
Chell's not stupid; she would be running for the hills right now. GLaDOS is standing with a bit of distance between them, but the only problem is the unstoppable and unseen force pinning her to the cushions. Her heart lurches at the thought that she truly is all alone, unguarded in this house, and at Her mercy. As if she has any of that. She takes another step closer to the girl who would be writhing to break the demon's hold if she weren't fully paralysed. "What I think we're going to do first is a bit of testing. All for the sake of science, of course, and don't worry I do know the scientific method. We'll change around each variable at a time to gather some insightful data for detailed results. But first, I hope you'll be delighted to know I've organised a party for you, so please assume the party escort position." Grabbing Chell's ankles, She drags her back through the house. As she scratches the floorboards in desperation, Chell realises she knows the path the demon's taking her, specifically because she avoids it at every opportunity. The basement staircase. Why can't She just leave me be?
Hitting her head every step on the long way down, she incoherently whimpers, hiccuping in pain as she is dragged to the back wall. GLaDOS strokes a cold and dainty hand through Chell's hair, stopping abruptly, roping it around her index finger and yanks a chunk straight from her skull. "Of course, I'll need a couple of samples before we truly get started, but why not have fun with it while we can? I really only need a single strand from the root, but I'm not that easily satisfied. What if I lose it or the moron finds it?"
The demon pockets the wad of hair she snatched from the girl, who at this point is quaking in the corner, flinching at her every move. "I know you're a bit of a quiet one, but not even a yelp at the hair tug? Hmm, I see, maybe let's have a safeword going here, just in case it's too much for you– let's choose a simple word, now shall we?"
Her sinister smile sweeps across her face, and Chell is torn between breaking her vow of silence before she loses more hair or her life, but also knowing that it's a clear sign of weakness. She won't let her go anytime soon from a measly word, it just acts as one more bit of ammunition to use against Chell. "Just a simple word, just say… apple."
He's pacing back and forth in the park just down the road, not intending to stay too long, but needing some time to reevaluate his situation. "So she likes me but wants to control me, trusts me but doesn't believe my word– What-is-is there something wrong with me? Did I do something maybe, because blimey, she's awfully temperamental."
Tracing circles with his feet under the tree in the field, he speaks to himself, devising a game plan from here on out, something that's not going to end with him getting hurt again. Knowing him though, he's going to revert to old habits when the opportunity presents itself, he's just a bit impulsive like that. He's never been too good at curbing temptation or regulating his behaviour, but if he doesn't start now he can easily see himself getting really hurt in the long run. He's been there for a while, staring at the grass and not coming up with much of anything, but on his way back to the house he decides to just change a bit slowly first. He's a creature of habit, he knows he can't make a dramatic change in his after life and keep it for too long. "Alright, so I'll just start out small, it should be easy. I'll just mirror whatever attitude she gives me! Saves me from not matching her energy, and maybe she'll notice something's wrong, I hope."
He picks up on a distinct lack of Chell outside the manor where he left her previously, but surely she… wouldn't just go inside without him, would she? His ears catch a sharp and pained inhale, then a growl muffled by the walls between its source and himself. "Any moment now and that one's going to be back, any last words while I'm at it? You're not very verbose, but anything you want me to tell your family?"
He bursts through the unlocked door, scanning the house for Her unfortunate victim. He picks up on a sign of struggle in the living room, a broken and spilled mug of tea, and scraping marks from the couch to the basement stairs. The relief washes over Chell instantly as he stumbles down the staircase in a panic, while he's at it tripping over his feet at the last step. He throws himself in between the two and pries Her sharp claws out of Chell's neck. Wheatley frantically reaches over Chell's back as she's pressed to the corner, and locks his hands to his forearms again protectively, a perfect replica of their first day in the house together. Her ominous smile hasn't faltered at his appearance. She reaches into Her white dress' front pocket and retrieves the lock of her hair, holding it in front of Her face with her blood stained fingers– mocking them. "I've already got what I need, let the science begin."
Wheatley's eyes dart between Chell and the lock of hair in her firm grasp, just inches away from him. If he's quick enough, he could definitely snatch it back, his arms are long enough to reach Her throat even. So he goes for it. The wad of hair drops to the floor in their standoff, and GLaDOS backs away, flickering out of view for Chell, but Wheatley watches her inch Her way around him, waiting for him to let go of her for even just a second, then creep back up the stairs.
She's still quivering in his arms, staring vacantly and shrinking into the corner opposite the exit as he stays crouched over her. He rests his chin on her bloodsoaked hair, and all she can think in the moment apart from the searing pain is how suspiciously convenient his timing ended up being. This was the closest She's come to getting what She wants, whether she was planning on killing her off right now or not, it was too close for comfort. She finally stops holding back her tears as Wheatley's grip on her pummeled upper body relaxes. Tears mix and intermingle with drying blood and scratches on her cheeks, and she refuses to lift her arms from her sides even though they're no longer pinned down. She wants to hold him as well, but she just stares. He holds her for a moment longer.
He unfolds his arms and retreats to the kitchen, breaking her one and only rule but it's not on his mind right now, he's sure she's not even mentally participating in this world at this point. He grabs the first aid kit stored in the top end shelf, fills a bowl with water, and grabs a clean tea towel, quickly returning to the distraught woman. He poorly balances everything, spilling a bit of water on the way down. Wheatley shakily kneels in front of the shattered girl, and for once she's the one that can't meet his gaze. What he sees isn't the hardened and calculating woman he thought he lived with, but a battered husk of herself. It's not that she wanted to control him, or didn't ever believe a word he said, she's just dealing with a dangerous situation she finds herself submerged neck deep in. Who cares if he gets hurt emotionally, her life's at stake if he messes up again.
He tries to block out her soft whimpering, and begins by dipping the cloth in the bowl and cleansing her skin of the mixed tears and dried blood. He has no idea what She had done or said to send the poor girl spiralling this badly, he can only infer. He gently picks out the sewing pins lodged in her hands and upper arms, tenderly swiping over each area with antiseptic and tissues. He surveys her wounds: gashes, scratches, burns from her spilt tea, a lost nail or two and a dislocated shoulder— it's really just swollen from blunt trauma but he's no medical professional, so his prognosis is dislocation. Wheatley grimaces in pain for her, sympathetic but not empathetic to her condition. She never really tormented him or even the others quite like this, he literally can't be empathetic because he never went through this. He's still a bit squeamish with blood even as a ghost, but he bottles it up and pushes it aside, making sure to carefully bandage her deeper cuts and create a makeshift sling for her arm with the nearby throw rug. Her dejected eyes drift down to meet his, and her staggered breathing halts. "Thank you."
He stands back up to his full height, bringing her with him, and places a hand on her back and one on her head, stroking her drying hair. "Let's get you to urgent care to check out that arm of yours."
"Alright ma'am, you're all set to go, that must have been a rough day at work– you should contact a lawyer for workplace safety disputes because your employer won't do anything unless you take legal action."
Chell nods at the nurse who's dispatching her several hours after being admitted to the hospital, thankful that he bought it without any further question. They tried discussing what would be a plausible excuse on the walk over (No, Wheatley, a rafting accident is not a convincing alibi, nor is a wild bird attack), and luckily Chell thought up a workplace hazard in time before they got scrutinised for having conflicting accounts. Just say there was a rusty and broken railing and that's all you'll need to explain.
They walk out and into the waiting room again, ready to fix up the payment and leave, but Wheatley's one step ahead of her already. "You're one lucky girl, he's been waiting here the whole time. Been asking non stop how you're doing," the desk lady smiles at her, but in a customer service-y I've-been-awake-since-5-and-I-don't-have-the-energy-anymore kind of way. Being the oblivious Brit he is, Wheatley simply can't pick up on her exasperated tone, but it's not like he needs another reason to get out of there as fast as possible anyway. He nudges Chell's wallet back into her hand and brings out his worn leather one he snatched just before leaving the house.
She fruitlessly tries to outpace the walking lamp post, in a hurry to go about her day once more as if she wasn't almost dragged down to the sixth circle of hell that morning. If she lets herself think about it for even a second more, she just might lose any sense of normality in her spiralling situation. Maybe if she goes back home and makes herself another tea, or slouches into that couch again with her laptop for a take two, or just unwrap her bandages and take a hot shower, scrubbing the scabs from her scalp then she might just convince herself it was all a daydream. That's it, just a sick vision implanted by that infestation in the house. She kicks every moderately sized stone in her path, skimming it along the pavement and consequently making Wheatley flinch at each strike. When she really thinks about it, that's exactly her situation: She's infesting the manor, and Wheatley's just the symptom– a tumor growing in both their sides.
"Love? You seem quite… well I guess you'd be aware already, but I'm no expression aficionado, you look just a smidge irritated. Is-is it something I've said? I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know, not sure if we're on speaking terms after this morning or anything, but if not, you know– do me a favour and cough or something. Just uh– just a sign, maybe two coughs for 'I'm fine', one cough for 'I'm livid, absolutely fuming', and yeah, just let me know, I'll be awaiting one of those signals, when they do finally arrive."
She digs her jagged and bandaged nails into her palms, pressing onwards, just begging for the reserved Wheatley from that morning to make another appearance for once. If she ever absolutely needed complete silence in her life, this infuriating moment would be an awfully good contender for first place. Every inane word tumbling out of his mouth at light speed pushes her close to the breaking point. She doesn't care if he seems to mean well, she's frankly sick of his comfort now. Every day's the same, she loses nothing, she gains nothing. She messes with her around the house, he swoops in to lull her into a sense of security. She has her wrapped right around her finger, and Wheatley's addition to this insane dynamic makes it somehow less in Chell's control. It's all one sick zero-sum game, and even if Wheatley's not on the opposing team, he's going to be the ball that gets punted straight into her nose at the climax of said twisted game.
"Or… or you can just, do nothing. That works too. Oh! Is-did She mess with your hearing at all? Is that why you're not responding? Give me no coughs if you're deaf and I'm just chatting into the abyss at the present moment–"
He waves his hand in front of her eyes as he matches her stride, and that's the final straw. She flails in his direction in blind rage, grabs a fistful of his white shirt, and holds back with all of her restraint and strength the loudest scream she can conjure, one originating straight from the diaphragm. Instead, as he stumbles back and lands in a heavy heap of limbs on the ground, she's perched over him and heavily breathing to keep the tears at bay. "Don't. Talk."
He goes quiet immediately at the odd request, and the very realistic and sincere look of pain on his face makes this all the more complicated for her. She grunts in frustration, withdrawing from her gargoyle-esque stance over his cowering frame. "Whatever I did or said, I swear I won't do it again, just tell me what I did, love."
She scrunches her eyes shut to avoid his pleading eyes, his shaking voice already enough to make her back down. She can't though, once she realised how much of a liability he really is for their plans, there's no chance for a do over. "I'm going back, do not follow me," she punctuates every second bitter word with a heavy stomp away from him. "Wha-h-hold on, you really are brain damaged, aren't you? Is there a dent in your head under those bandages or something, or did you really say you were going back There alone? Look, it seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot now. I understand you're mad, not sure why exactly but you have had a rough day and all so I'm willing to give you some space. But… love, just go and stay with those friends of yours for a bit or something, do you really have to put yourself in danger and evict me from my own home simultaneously? Practically Macchiavellian stuff right there."
A pause. He stands with his head bowed. "Oh, you're still going, alright then. Um, well I guess I'll be following you anyway, don't really have anywhere else to go anyway. And honestly, I know you said 'don't talk' but we need to address the pretty big skeleton in the room (Whoops that's not the right phrase!), She's only just beginning!"
She knows that. She already knows all of this, and for once his plans and observations are making sense, but she's already placed her trust in him and just look at how complicated this situation is with his involvement. She needs to take this more seriously, and if his presence is going to distract her from her goal, she needs to remove the variable. She hasn't killed her yet, and whilst the 'it's for science' facade has really run its course to Chell, she still suspects that there's data of her own she needs to gather too.
He's ruined all her chances to learn more about this demon, so maybe if he stays out of her way for once then she can learn a bit from experience. "I'm doing this alone this time around; leave me be."
He stands frozen on the sidewalk, processing as quickly as his brain can the past few hours they've been together for. What could he have done this time? He hangs his head, completely defeated in that moment. He made several promises to himself in the past, but he holds one above all the rest. It's a tough decision and as much as it sits wrong with him, he would rather have his only friend alive and hate him than dead… and frankly probably still hate him. I guess it's not that hard of a decision then, is it? Alright then, onwards, she's probably lost an arm already for all I know.
Chell had not lost an arm yet, in fact she's not even at the house. Making a quick detour to a nearby supermarket, she had an idea for her first plan of action! Already leaps and bounds ahead of where she was before, because now at least She's not the only one scheming around these parts. How much of what he said was a full on lie? She pays for the small jar of table salt at the register, and on her way back to the manor is grinning smugly at her online order. A talisman! It's genius, She will need all the help she can get if she's going to go ahead with trying to rid this house of Her presence, and a protector that is neither sentient nor a noise box would be preferred. So she orders just a few more talismans, and maybe a crucifix– if that'll do anything at all.
Feeling somewhat independent for the first time in a few weeks, she saunters through the front door, feeling quite unstoppable with this little experiment she's preparing. She slams the door with an air of aggression, sending a message to the demon that she's home and not here to fuck around. Before she wastes any more time, Chell cracks open the salt jar and gets to work marking off a circle below the hatch to the attic and door to the basement. Whichever place that freak lives. I know that if I don't see Her, his ghostly head is on a pike next.
As she finishes her circle around the basement door, a jingling and shuffling is amplified through her hallway, coming straight from the front door. It's gentle at first, growing more desperate in a few seconds at most, and is followed by immediate silence. Whoever (or whatever) tried to break in was clearly banking on the door being unlocked for some reason, as if she's dumb enough to leave it unlatched. She makes her way to the front door and marks the floor in front of it for good measure too. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. In theory, it should be as if she doesn't have two unlikely housemates she never asked for.
She goes about her evening routine as usual, keeping in mind to search for finger or handprints, noises from other rooms, possible hallucinations. Anything out of the ordinary. She sees nothing, she does get a response from Alistair though, and that's all she needs to don that smug smile again.
A few days pass, and Wheatley's left on her porch, listening in for any noise beyond the threshold that he's anticipating any second now. She has to have struck already at some point, she just doesn't realise it yet. Surely, right? He gave up on the front and back doors long ago after she barricaded them with table salt. He can't even so much as touch the door without a pained yelp escaping his throat. One time she heard him try, and threw the front curtains closed, well and truly blocking the poor ghost out. He waits around as if he can help out when She attacks, like he can just swoop in again and keep his promise and maybe it'll all go back to normal. In reality he's never been more hopeless in his afterlife, he can only hypothesise as to why She hasn't painted the walls with Chell's organs yet.
He feels like a failure sitting outside on the steps, facing towards their gate like the last time they sat there together. The remaining rays of sunlight scatter and bounce around the yard, illuminating his porcelain skin, but he quickly hides his face in his left hand to block out the light, letting a small sigh escape his thin lips. His leg starts to bounce, Wheatley's well and truly restless and useless and evicted, just how he imagined his week to be going so far, but a screech at the iron gates down the path captures his attention. It hits him immediately, this time next week they said.
He stumbles away from her doorstep, erratically jogging like a newborn giraffe to the gates where the two familiar figures stand. He's visibly disheveled– tousled hair, creased shirt, and his warm smile only a distant memory at this point. He's out of breath as he reaches the gate, but Fynn already picks up on his wordless cry for help. "Wheatley, you look terrible man, what happened? Is Chell okay?"
He doesn't even wait for Wheatley's exhausted shake of the head before making demands to the spirit. "Open the gates right now, Wheatley." Aiza, instead, takes no time to start scaling the shorter iron fence to the side while Fynn rattles the gates in impatience. "I don't have the– and she's locked all the– uh I really don't know why– I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID. She hasn't left the house in days!"
They push past his panicked, shrieking, and gasping form after they jump the spiked fence with Fynn following close behind, catching his skin on the top but nothing falters his momentum. "Listen, I don't trust you at all, but if you find a way inside and get her out of there in one piece I might reconsider my stance," Fynn growls at the taller man. "Feelings mutual, mate… so what exactly is the game plan?"
Chell's starting to get the impression that every second word that fell out of his mouth was a complete lie. She's planning on meeting up with Alistair in the next few days, although avoiding the sulking Wheatley at her doorstep will be a bit of a problem to push past at this point. He's been at her front door non stop, occasionally forgetting about the salt barrier and trying the doorknob. He's stopped knocking, pacing, and calling out for some time now, clearly his hope and patience running dry. It's a lot easier to ignore the mounting guilt when he isn't constantly reminding her of how out of the loop she's left him, so the peace and quiet is surprisingly more welcome.
No dreams, or noises, or taps on the shoulder. Even with no protection charms or anything she bought online having arrived yet, the salt seems to be working wonders. She does know better than to fully let her guard down though, so just a few more days and she'll try the next trial when it arrives in the mail. It's certainly been tough to adjust to the new living situation, and it strikes her as quite concerning just how easily and quickly she welcomed him into her life. Just a few weeks was enough time for her to make up her mind and try kissing said ghost, it's unfathomable to her that she was so comfortable with him just only a few days ago. She needed to put her foot down though, and she still stands by that decision.
So it's a worry when she hears the front door creak open, and slam shut. There's no way he would just… let someone else break him inside, right? The unwanted guest is exceptionally quiet, aside from the occasional knock on the roof trailing her around the house as she drags her baseball bat through the house. It's taunting her, she's sure of it. Someone's darting from room to room, luring her throughout the house– Maybe even Wheatley himself, come to think of it. A knock in her own bedroom makes her break the pattern, she's not following his orders anymore, so she instead creeps to the room at the back of the house, just below the bolted attic entrance. The only way he can get her to listen is to trap her in some obscure corner of her house, and whipping her head around, her heart sinks. She was right all along. He's leaning against the doorframe of the only exit to the room, a cocky smile drawn across his face, arms crossed over his chest.