Incoming long chapter, look out! Probably should have just made this two chapters in all honesty, but I feel you don't want to wait around on any cliffhangers if I have it all written in my own document already. It had to be a rounded off chapter conclusion too, so maybe I really did go overboard, roast me in the comments all you like! I had to lowkey search up some oracle turret quotes for this fanfic because I don't interact with it enough to remember them off by heart. Also, tw for some parts of this, there's some creepy behaviour in this one, it's written to be uncomfortable but you can always just skip on past :) nothing non consensual except a bit of torture and maybe some contact but we love that for her. Also x2, a bit of distinguishing between 'him' and 'Him', but it's not too complex it's just Chell's mental note like she does with Her !
Chell takes a step back at the borderline predatorial look he directs towards her. He's not actually moving from the doorway, but very well knows that even with the three meters of space between them, she's never felt so invaded and scrutinised, like a bug being ogled at in a terrarium. "Long time no see, love. Don't know why you bothered with that lock, this is my house after all so of course I have the keys too." He jingles the small silver keychain in his spindly, cephalopod-esque hand. "The salt was a nice touch too, but… I thought that was more for your food than anything. Anyway, while I'm here, may as well pick up where we left off now, shall we?"
So he was a liar the whole time, and Chell fixes him with the most poisonous glare she can, and stands up a little straighter, although against his towering figure she really is visually fitting the bug analogy. For once he doesn't even flinch at her clenched fists, or furrowed brows, or narrowed eyes. She's not a big fan of this new dynamic by any means, and even though he's not technically taller than he was, he seems so much more monstrous now, and the hungry glint in his eye isn't helping his case. Chell shakes off the uneasy feeling crawling up her back, tiny little goosebumps wash over her skin, and not from his proximity this time. A confrontation with him is definitely her next plan of action, but she'd rather not be cornered by an immortal being, especially not when he's looking at her like that.
She goes to push past him, and he makes no effort to give her space, forcing her to bend around his intimidating frame. He eyes her up and down as Chell brushes against his thin arms, but she refuses to even shiver at his ice cold skin– the soft contact she would have actually craved only just a few days prior. Refusing to give him even the inkling that this whole act is scary to her, she powers through the hallway with heavy footsteps. In reality though, she really does know this is no act, not anymore at least. She knew she was still waiting for the reveal, even after all this time and essentially letting all her guard down (although she refuses to acknowledge this to be an accident). Now though, she never even realised how much it would hurt when the other shoe finally did drop. "We're no longer on speaking terms, now are we? Well I wonder who's fault that would be."
She mentally scolds herself. She knew he was going to go Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde on her eventually, so why does it hurt so bad to know she was always right? Not able to stand another moment with him, she makes her way to the front door to just get away. "Oh, trying to lure me back outside again? Listen, how about I just stay… Right. Here. I can keep you company whenever you feel like returning, love."
She slams the door on his arrogant smile, just to delay approaching him– approaching him means talking to him, and doing that already means he wins. The worst part is that every second sentence of his is technically neutral, aside from the mocking tone he's suddenly adopted. It's a bizarrely conflicting feeling, because on one hand she wants to believe that he isn't outright hostile yet, but the other insists on focusing on that 'yet' aspect of the former train of thought.
After all this time she really did let her guard down around him, that's what hit her the hardest. It sits as a lump in the back of her throat. It's impossible to swallow away. She blinks away the tears quickly, letting her feet carry her somewhere. Just hopefully away from the house and away from Him.
Because that's really all He ever was, a betrayal just laying dormant. Sitting around, waiting for a time to strike and hit straight to bone. She keeps up her extraordinary pace, thankful that He at least didn't follow her out of the house, but also simultaneously knowing full well that even without the constant reminder manifested beside her, He occupies her mind far too comfortably even from afar. It was something about His sweet and surprised smile the first few times she actually came back to the house, or His little habits He kept from once being a human. Whether it be how He still cleared his throat to get the attention He already had, or the nervous ruffle of His hair when He's panicking, or how He could never keep His damn gaze settled in one place, let alone locked to her own for more than a few seconds.
He was so unmistakably authentic, as transparent as a newly cleaned glass window. He was kind, a little overprotective but in a sweet way, sort of like her ex in a sense– but no, she's not taking her subconscious' bait this time. The point was, that's hard to fake. Whatever He was as a human is no more. So is he also a demon? Do they also happen to be masterful manipulators? Her head spins and blood churns in her ears. Her head injury hasn't really healed all that much yet, she can only hope the minor concussion fades quickly so she can finally think properly again. And she hopes she won't be doing any more throwing up in the near future over it, she can't handle another issue to take care of alone.
Her feet had diverted from the usual muscle memory path she takes throughout the neighbourhood. She loved to stroll around the fairly upper class area with its freshly cut green lawns and well kept gardens, sometimes guessing on the horrific water bills they must have to maintain a lush garden in the dry Michigan summer. But this time, she finds herself unknowingly wandering a different, longer path. Wandering around like a random walk algorithm, she feels she chooses her trail devoid of logic or bias, the only thing on her mind being Him after all. So she meanders. Left, then right, then right again, and straight ahead followed by a left. She halts and cocks her head to the side at the coincidence, the stars have aligned in some peculiar way to end up here accidentally. The rusted shut iron gates of the cemetery lie in front of her, the overgrown vines snaking around the bars and over the moderately tall brick wall she's about to find herself vaulting over. What the hell, she humours the universe this time, Chell may as well go with it.
She picks a few of the wild yellow dandelions growing at the foot of the fence, shaking off the stray ant that crawls up her arm as she slides over the barrier. She figures now that she's alone in her visit, she won't be disrupted by anything beyond the grave. They all started revealing themselves at the sight of another one of them, Him, taking the first step, but visiting in solitude she figures she more or less won't be interfered with. And she assumes correctly.
She strolls around the paths that were once probably well trimmed grass and neat pebble trails weaving through the field of people long before laid to rest. She strolls until a headstone catches her eye, and she places a dandelion. For what reason, she has no idea. Maybe some good karma will come her way, maybe she can appease the dead and spare her life, maybe she's just once again influenced by Him and His stories. Either way, she finds headstones left and right that she feels strongly about for some otherworldly reason. The more weathered stones are sometimes hard to make out, she comes across a 'Rick Banks', just barely legible under the decades of erosion and moss. She made out a bit more about him being a firefighter, something else about danger being his middle name, died doing what he loved, and so on, but the tomb stone that confused her the most sat in the middle of her path now.
A small white cross, almost so white it could have been untarnished, like it was planted there merely yesterday. The harsh sunlight on the pale wooden cross makes her squint at the little thing, and she peeks down for a closer look, she searches for any indication it belongs to anyone. Perhaps someone recent, she presumes, although fairly baffled at that considering the place has been run down for longer than she's been alive. She just barely can make out in very fine lettering, a name that almost makes her faint on her feet. She's never been one to respond so viscerally to horror movies or jumpscares or any of the sort, but seeing the name 'Chelsea Torres' does more to her body than any rollercoaster or airplane or social gathering could ever dream of.
Chell's breath hitches at the sight of her own real full name, blinks rapidly at the sudden onslaught of physical pain succeeding the rush of anxiety, and braves another short glance at the gravestone. It's still untarnished, untouched, and no name in sight. Holy shit, this is it I'm actually losing my mind, and it's a fair assumption she figures. She knows what she saw. With eyes like a hawk, she trusts her senses with her very life– which is hopefully to be expected as she now only has those to protect her. Shaken up beyond belief, she tosses three dandelions haphazardly at the stone as if she just got supernaturally mugged, but she doesn't linger any longer. She has two more flowers to give out anyway, so whatever visions she's having she hopes are kept to a minimum.
The next headstone is fairly modest in appearance, but she stops beside it, wondering why it in particular calls to her. She doesn't know what's making her pause at all these different stones, but she's followed their orders to a T up until this point, so no real reason to start questioning the logic now. She circles around to the front, and the pain in her chest from prior returns, but more as a heavy stone laying on her diaphragm. She knows what this guide, whoever or whatever it is, wants her to do, but Chell almost sees red at the name. She wants to kick the stone over, stamp on the grave, decimate the only evidence that this one ever existed here in the first place. Maybe even turn said gravestone into the cobblestone path she's been walking over this whole time. Only serves this one right after all that's happened. She crushes the dandelion in her hand, picking out the petals and sprinkling it onto the ground in front of the stone. She brushes past the grave labeled 'Wheatley Pendleton' in a furious huff, but she pauses yet again.
She turns around, stalks back over and winds up a kick. Her foot makes contact with the stone, and whilst it only succeeds in making her clutch her foot in unimaginable pain, she feels the satisfaction she expected. Somewhere, right now, He's flinching at the attack. He may not be literally rolling in his grave, but He better be disturbed over in that mad house of theirs.
"Hey, Wheats, you doing alright?"
Wheatley squirmed a bit in sudden pain, glancing around him in shock and confusion. Truth be told, he never even though he could feel pain in this form, so he's slightly alarmed at the new sensation. It's oddly satisfying to him though, he never would have expected himself to miss this feeling out of any of them, but he for some reason craves it again. It was a memory of his long gone humanity, the ebbing away of his sensations– he can touch, he can see, smell, and hear, but when he really thinks about it, he can never actually feel again. "Yeah, sorry mate, that was odd I just felt… pain? Maybe I'm getting to the edge of where I'm allowed to travel in this form or something– B-but no worries, just keep driving, I'll be alright."
"You sure? We don't have to go all the way back if it's hurting you or you're uncomfortable straying too far. Maybe we're going to be wasting time travelling," Fynn offers, but Wheatley rejects the suggestion. "No, we're already on the way, I said before I didn't think we should leave her alone but it's too late now. May as well commit," he sighs into his jittering hand, connected to his jittering arm, sitting atop his jittering leg.
"We're not too far now anyway if we take a left here, luckily we stopped over at my flat for the night or we'd be on the road for hours non stop," Aiza pitches in. "Just a few more minutes, we might need supplies for our plan if you think about it. We're not going empty-handed, are we?"
"Fair point there, you're always more thought out than I am. Thank god you're in on this or we'd end up dead in a ditch," Fynn addresses them. They pull up in the driveway of Fynn's house, taking no time to adjust the steep angle his old manual car ends up parked in. The whole time they get set up in his living room, Wheatley's manically ruffling his hair, shoving it this way and that, just anticipating and getting ready for the plan of attack. "Wheatley, you're going to have to calm down, get level-headed or I'll personally level your head to the ground. You've told us about what you say happened earlier so we know she's not in a good physical or mental state–"
"Yeah, we've got to be both of those for her if this is going to end up working," Aiza cuts off Fynn and pats the apparition a bit awkwardly on the shoulder. Neither of them really want him in on the plan. However, with no other options and his obscenely gifted ability to puppy-dog-eye his way onto the team, they decided in that split second that it's worth the chance to get their friend back. With Chell having a possible concussion after her run-in with the demon as Wheatley recounts, then she's probably not going to be easily convinced to leave the house without employing some… extra help.
"Take a seat, guys, I'm going to go pack some essentials and supplies we might need, you two can start hashing out the plans," Fynn shouts over his shoulder. He's in a rush to the far end of his house, and so leaves him alone with Aiza. She's already a step ahead of him though, and has her notes app open, ready to scribe the discussion in real time. "Alright, big guy, what have you got so far? Any ideas?"
His eyes bounce around the room, and if a screen saver could be nervous, they would resemble that. Anything to avoid her intimidating down-to-business attitude. She truly has some devoted friends, friends better than me at least. Lucky her. "Uh, in the plans department? No idea so far, at least nothing that would work in the slightest given my stupid track record…"
"Alright no time for self depreciation, any useful information at least about this whole situation?"
He lights up at that, it's the one thing he knows he can offer for certain at least. "Ye-yes! Actually, I have a lot of that, lots of experience and whatnot with Her and the house and ghosts and all, been one for quite some time after all– since around the fifties actually–"
Aiza cuts him off from his derailed ramble with a short hand squeeze, bringing him back to reality. "Listen, I know you're concerned, we all are, but the quicker we get through this the less time between now and the rescue mission. Copy that?"
"Uh– yes, got it! Right, so uh, there are some things you need to know about what She can do, Her strengths, weaknesses, and all that…"
Chell makes her final stop with her final dandelion at the gazebo towards the back of the cemetery. The two weathered statues stand proud even after all these years, despite the chips in their arms or the moss permeating their cracked forms. She looks from Caroline to Cave– not even a dandelion, she remembers bitterly. His light hearted words twist the dagger the betrayal left a further ninety degrees in her chest. She shoves the palms of her hands into her eyes, wishing she could just push the tears back into her lids and undo the already running nose that's forming. She gives up, and surrenders to the pounding pain in her chest and head and eyes, dropping her elbows on the balustrade and tosses the final flower for completion's sake. She isn't left to wallow in misery on her own however, as it seems her guide has different plans now.
"You won't find her here." The words jolt her out of her reverie in a panic as blood rushes to her head. The voice of the little boy is soft on her eardrums, and she slowly turns her head to find him staring towards Chell, not really at her, but just over her shoulder. At the woman's statue. He seems to notice her anxiety and change of posture in an instant, ready to run. She's now not only cornered, but alone this time. He parrots the same line they met with. "I'm different."
She's at his mercy, might as well play along. "Um, do you have something to tell me…?"
"The minotaur, half man and half bull, was trapped in a labyrinth after Poseiden punished Minos–"
"Yeah, yes I heard that one the first time, I mean more so anything related to me. Is there a reason you've brought me back here?"
The little boy blinks at her, and although she can't read his face all that well she feels she might have just cut off some important information, regardless of how cryptic or detached from her life it is. What if it was important? "Remember that! The answer lies beneath us."
Wait, that's something different. "What do you mean by that, exactly?" She hushes her voice, trying not to scare the little child away, as if he would be even remotely scared of a mortal like herself. "It won't be enough. That's all I can say." Oh. More indecipherable omens, how wonderful.
"Okay, well I'm going to get going now–"
"Don't forget!"
"...Right. I promise you I won't. Thank you for your help." She, after all, doesn't want to get on the bad side of yet another ghost, so she stores his insight in a far corner of her mind as she retraces her steps back through the cemetery. She hears one last remark from the youthful spirit– "Thank you for the flower!" –And she smiles to herself slightly. He said, something to do with Greek mythology, the minotaur or something? And something about an answer and another thing not being enough. It's all quite foggy to her currently, but she shrugs and doesn't expect anything more. Either he's just read a ton about mythology or she'll have an epiphany at some point in the future. All in due time.
She tries her best to clean up her face and walk as slow as humanly possible back to her house. The sun has begun its slow descent towards the horizon, and Chell has no patience left after His return. She's dehydrated from crying, starving from walking all day and stressing out, and frankly neither of those are doing good things to her throbbing headache. A quick stop for some food is a necessity at this point, so she takes a slight detour towards the main strip of shops. As the warm sunlight recedes below the treeline and leaves her in shadow, alone on the footpath, she encases her arms around her torso. The chill of the night air seeps through her cotton shirt, maybe it's best to just eat out for the night. She scans each shop window for the quietest restaurant to sit at in the window, and it happens to be the same vietnamese joint she visited on the first night in the house.
Just her luck that everything she does reminds her of Him in some tangentially related way. She orders and slowly picks apart her food, taking meaningful bites at random intervals– really whenever she feels that she can stomach another mouthful. Her mind is so clearly elsewhere as she gazes glassy-eyed out to the now moderately dark street. She watches people come and go, a kid on the other side of the road jumps in a muddy puddle, a dog on this side stops and sniffs at every lamp post.
After only about two and a half weeks, she never anticipated she would end up back here, crying over a ghost of all things. Anticipating the truth before it happens never really dampens the blow it throws your way. All she really needs right now, as she slams the door to the little restaurant, is just a nice rest. With Her still not in the picture (for some reason beyond her knowledge, but she doesn't have the mental capacity to question it currently), it should surely be some undisturbed shut eye once again. That's of course if He can't interrupt her dreams, although she finds that hard to believe after the narrative He's spun.
She trudges up her path towards the manor, finally able to unlock her gate as she often has to jiggle the key in the lock to get in. Chell just has to rip it off like a bandaid and enter the house, that's the biggest and hardest step to make, but she's hopeful her meeting with Alistair can maybe be brought forward to tomorrow if both of them have the time. She steps over the threshold, slips her shoes off at the door and neatly places them in the corner near her untouched winter coat. The feeling of eyes peering at the back of her head makes her shift uncomfortably. The arm snaking around her waist adds even more to the current discomfort Chell is experiencing, but she dare not move. His arm, His slightly warm arm she notes, tugs her slowly back towards Him, and she frantically thinks of a way to take back control of the situation. That is, to take it back without basically sticking a large sign on her back that says 'kill me I'm a fragile sack of meat'. She decides her best bet is giving Him nothing to work with– not a shove, not a turn, not a glare, not a word.
"Hello there, love. Still not feeling like talking yet or do I need to change that myself?"
Now she does not like the sound of that. Any situation where He would be trying to change her talking habits would only end in some form of torture. He's impulsive. That's the only trait that's carried over from before to now. Chell has no idea where He hid this arrogance and audacity the whole time, let alone how He never let the facade slip. It's the work of a demon to get away with it so cleanly.
Chell decides she doesn't particularly want to stick around to find out what He has in store for her, so she decides to stick with her prod-the-bear type plans. She makes her way to the living room at an unrushed pace to defy him in a casual way, non escalatory she hoped. Although, maybe trying to convince Him she's not taking Him seriously isn't the best idea either. In a clean and swift motion, a show of dexterity and speed she's never really seen from Him before, He latches onto her ponytail and pivots on His heel to pull her towards the staircase. "How about you come with me first? I suggest you start listening to me from this moment onwards."
Shaking her head and tugging the base of her ponytail away from His death grip, she struggles to break free of his grasp. Every additional resistance is followed by another step towards her bedroom and a sharp jolt for good measure. Unlike Her, he does things the gritty and old fashioned way. He could probably paralyse her as easily as clicking His ghostly fingers, but clearly He enjoys the fight that accompanies her ability to squirm. It repulses her.
He tosses her into the room, manually slamming and locking the door while she huffs in exertion and anxiety at the foot of her bed. "Please, make yourself comfortable. You'll get to sleep eventually, but I'd prefer to get some… response from you first. Anything really. You know ol' Wheatley, he's not particularly picky," He sneers, looking down at her flushed red face. It's not from embarrassment, or being drunk, or even anxiety or anger, she's actually starting to feel incredibly dizzy. Her vision goes out of focus on his crystal blue eyes behind his thin gold rimmed glasses, and everything went dark.
He groans in annoyance that she won't even be awake for the night. If she's so exhausted she's fallen asleep on the floor of all places, He can't have her doing this on His watch. He grabs her limp body by the collar and roughly places her on the neat covers of the bed. Wheatley shakes her shoulders to try and wake her once more, until He realises she's not just asleep, but she actually fainted. Chell awakens with a groggy blink and grimace at the pulsing pain in her head yet again, but Wheatley has no reservations towards talking at her in her half lucid stupor.
"Oh, good thing you're awake again. Was trying to shake you out of it for a second there. I was trying to tell you something earlier, did you know that? You never even listen to me, do you? Just silently judging me, all the time."
He's taken to pacing around the foot of her bed, agitated beyond what she even thought possible for him. When she really thinks back at how he was beforehand, she can't even recall Him ever being angry. He would be offended, or uncomfortable, or some other melange of relatively tame emotions. For the overly emotional fellow He was and still is, she never really saw that side of Him even rear its ugly head like it is currently. He's been ranting for some time now she realises, it's time to tune back in.
"...You just don't understand, do you? You don't own this house, I don't even own this house– bloody hell, even she doesn't own it! It owns us, just like She does, and it always will. See, Caroline and I, we live here. We made the deal, sealed the pact– the, the covenant– and we both live here, but you? No, you're just squatting here."
He stops at the side nearest to the window, gazes out at the beginning of the thunderstorm for that night. It was broadcasted to be a nasty tempest that night, but Wheatley doesn't linger on the soft pitter patter on the window like Chell does to ground herself, so he abruptly draws the curtains closed. "Do you have any idea how good this feels? To be immortal, omnipotent too really. Sure, you're Her victim more than you're mine, but that doesn't mean I can't have a bit of fun for once in my afterlife. It's amazing, I can do anything, tiny little Wheatley did this!"
The thunder rumbles softly in the distance, accompanying his voice which has taken on a more gravelly timbre than his usual soft and bubbly lilt– and the soft tapping on the attic floor, everything working together like a twisted symphony in the house. She tenses at the dissonant and scratchy quality of His voice. "I've had know-it-alls here before, you're no trailblazer in this manor. But I've never had someone think so highly of themselves that they would throw me out of the way when they decided they're done with me."
He starts to pull at his electric blue tie after he's done messing with his curly blond locks, further unravelling his previously put together appearance. He shoves his finger towards her, and Chell recoils in disgust and brazen hatred. "You know what you are, love? Selfish. I've done nothing but sacrifice to get us here, and what have you sacrificed? Nothing, zero. All you've done is boss me around."
He crosses the floor to her, and she shies away once again reflexively, shifting to the opposite side of the bed. "Now who's the boss? Who's the boss?" His cocky smile sweeps back across his face, His intense blue eyes squinting with the exaggerated expression. He looked crazed, manic, and He plants His large pale hands on either side of her poised legs. He's so close he no longer needs to yell, so He forcefully whispers. "It's me."
She drives her legs into His torso, the force of her whole body coursing through her spine and propelling out through her powerful kick.
"Guys, there's no way we're going tonight. Trust me, I would if it were a clear night, but there's no way in hell we're going out and driving all night in those strong winds," Aiza tries to reason with the others, but Fynn's not having any of it. "Oh come on, it's surely not that bad I've lived in this city for like a decade–"
He unlatches the front door and it swings open violently with a mind of its own. It slams into the doorstop at full force from the wind, letting in a fair share of dropped leaves and dirt and twigs. Whilst the other two turn their heads the other way to avoid the debris rushing through the entrance, Fynn wrestles the door back closed. It's final; they're going tomorrow. "Okay. Didn't know we got these kinds of storms up here. Uh, well in the meantime do we wanna try your plan, Aiza?"
"You mean texting her? Surprised we haven't tried that sooner in all honesty," they scoff. Wheatley's pretty puzzled at the whole situation though, he knows there's technology that's developed since he's passing, but he's never been able to wrap his head around how it all works, let alone the colloquial language for all of the different methods of communication now. "Sorry, I'm not following quite well. I-is…What exactly is 'texting her'?"
As Aiza opens up her phone and searches for Chell's contact, she absentmindedly responds. "Think of it as a newer, instant form of mail. It's non physical and can go directly to another person's device. Make sense?"
"Oh! Wow, you don't even need to pay for express letters anymore with that kind of technology I bet. The pigeon's finally become obsolete, man alive thank goodness I could never stand those winged beasts–"
Fynn clears his throat bluntly, urging the conversation onwards. "Right, so what do we want to say?"
Aiza blinks slowly. "So… we don't want to scare her off right away so maybe refrain from mentioning you, right?"
Wheatley's gaze drops to the floor, he knows they're right that mentioning him will only fan the flames, but it hurts to even just acknowledge their falling out. He slowly nods, and Fynn interjects. "Correct, so I guess just that 'we missed our meeting the other day' or something like that works best? It's a good way to get a foot in the door and gives her an opportunity to reach out if she needs help."
"Yeah, at least we'd know she's alright… Oh blimey this is all my fault I know it. It's all my fault and I don't even know how," Wheatley mutters into his clasped hands. "Fuck. Alright guys, that's not going through anytime soon, it'll probably be delivered in the morning at earliest," they lift their head up, no longer engrossed in the device. "Reception must be down tonight."
Chell luckily was able to get in contact with Alistair earlier that morning to request a sooner meetup– what she was extra thankful for was how convenient it was that he just happens to be heading into Michigan for work today too. Although her headache has begun to clear a fair bit since the altercation they had last night, she has no intention of travelling too far from the manor in case she exacerbates her poor physical condition. Their skirmish the previous day left her with a slight limp, and she wants nothing more than to get right back to full mobility. They chose to meet just a few hours past midday around a smaller town in the outskirts of the city just down the highway from her suburb. Great news is, it shouldn't take too long to get there on time in a vehicle, but then of course bad news is she has no vehicle.
She gets a sudden and very hazy feeling that she's forgotten about… something. She certainly missed something a few days ago, and the unread alert on her phone only confirms her suspicions. Aiza… shit I forgot about that, but she shoves that thought aside for later. She'll get back to Aiza's message about the whole situation when she's met up with Alistair, there's a few things that still just don't sit right with her. Now to figure out a solution to that transportation problem.
Whilst there is functional public transport in the city, as far as Chell can research, there's no direct route she can take, and any series of buses and trams have a sizeable amount of distance between each stop she'd have to cover on foot. She audibly sighs as she sits on the porch outside the house. It's better than hitchhiking, and it's definitely preferred over staying around for Him to torment me more.
So she's on her way; estimated time of arrival? Around 1:36pm, plus or minus hobbling time knowing her left leg right now. No time like the present, and so she gets to it, a tram, two buses, and then add up all the walking distance, around 6 miles. It's going to be a long day, and she's not even looking forward to the end of it either. Or the day after, or the day after–
The previous night was kind of a blur to her still, she remembers everything going black, a swift kick to His chest to keep Him back, but she never recalled Him being quite so nimble on His feet, or even with His hands. There were some more words from Him, as always (some things never really change), and He definitely pinned her to the floor where she fell trying to reach the door. Only problem was, in that position He was exerting a little too much force onto her left knee to keep her down and prevent any further kicking.
What disgusted her the most was that He was satisfied at every kick, punch, whimper, and fall. He had clearly said all He had wanted to say, yelled as much as His non existent heart required of him, and it wasn't sufficient. He had to go and be like Her while He was at it. As if the two are really that different to begin with anyway. She almost misses having Her around instead, although it's crazy to Chell that she'd admit that to herself. He mentioned that it's technically not His job– in that covenant he keeps mentioning– to kill any guests in Her house, but even then it still hurts more to be tortured by a backstabber than someone she never was truly attached to.
She mulls over her questions in her mind carefully as she approaches the destination shortly. It really is just dawning on her now that she has just decided to meet up with some random old man in a country town, no getaway car, someone who claims to have seen a ghost in that house of all things. She doesn't know whether she's more delusional for expecting not to end up drugged in the back of a divvy van, or if the guy is more deranged if he's willing to meet up with a total stranger who reaches out on Facebook of all places. No time like the present, she repeats to herself as she walks into the regional diner on the side of the highway.
She scans the interior for a man who looks anything like an Alistair Wallace, and to be entirely honest, a majority of the men in the restaurant fit the bill pretty well. The guy's online page had no profile picture, nor any linked images of himself or family whom she could stalk down–uh…investigate–for this man's appearance. So given that, it's a surprise to her when one of the younger men in the room (granted, no one in there was under 40, guaranteed) waved his hand from the corner to get her attention.
She walks with great difficulty over to the man in the furthest booth, and he really doesn't look like your typical Alistair, that's for sure. An unkempt, wispy black beard, scraggly black hair, gaunt cheekbones, very light eyes and shaky hands. He looks to be around mid forties to early fifties if she were to guess based on his appearance, and as she sits down opposite him, he whisks his sketchbook away and pops a few prescription pills. "Thought you weren't going to show up at all, honestly. Everything been going alright back there at that house or did something happen along the way?"
Chell pulls out her own notepad at the question, he clearly noticed her very poorly hidden limp, and she's just a little mad about it. She's just thankful she no longer needs the bandages around her head or this whole situation would be really hard to explain, and there wouldn't be enough paper in the world to even get through it. What she's not a big fan of about this man however, is his… how can she put this without sounding brash? His obvious difficulty to keep his hands still and dwindling supply of capsules doesn't inspire confidence that this guy made it out with only physical scars.
'Hard to explain really, what were your experiences with Him?'
Alistair blinks at the question, wondering where exactly to start. "By him, you do mean Wheatley, correct? There's really no other him, so I guess I'll just answer it the only way I know how. Whilst he was never, how do I put this–" he plays with his hands and his shaking leg rattles the unsteady diner table. "–He was never aggressive towards me is what I'm trying to say, but his tendency to uh, follow me around and be a bit verbose certainly exacerbated my anxiety issues. He'd misplace objects around the house that I never really remembered seeing there, god his black frame glasses were everywhere, always. Pretty much to the point where– well now I'm on Xanomeline. It's more of a pricey antipsychotic medication, but comes with way less of the side effects my previous one gave me, essentially no more fine motor issues or memory lapses. He's certainly cost me a fortune when I think about it, but I'm just dealing with the schizophrenia now. Just lucky I didn't lose my life."
That leads quite well into her next big question. 'Has anyone else died at the house before, either by them or other ways?' She hesitates before adding the second clause for clarification. "I've done my research, and as far as I know… and believe me I've searched far and wide for news about the house, no one else has died in there apart from him and Her."
Chell chews at her bottom lip, thinking up the next thing that she wanted to bring up, but not knowing whether it's too early to throw at him quite yet. She goes for it though. 'He attacked me yesterday. I thought He could be trusted and He turned on me.'
Alistair frowns at the paper, and sits back in his side of the booth. "Are you sure it was him? You do remember you live with Her too, right?" Chell huffs at the ridiculous question. Of course she knows She's still there, but the undisturbed salt circles and occasional basement and attic noises is clearly enough evidence that She's out of the picture at the moment. Her head spins slightly at the idea that she's made a big miscalculation, but she's seen it with her own eyes and heard it with her keen ears. She's made noises in the attic and He's been in her view, it must be Him.
"Alright alright, fair enough you probably don't want me telling you what you already know. Listen, it's just that" – his eyes dart left and right, and he lowers his voice slightly to blend in with the background din of the restaurant – "My name isn't actually Alistair, I pretty much tell everyone that for fear that my actual family might get caught up in this whole mess. I'm a studied demonologist, yes they exist. I essentially have all the facts and figures about each of the most common and active demons people typically encounter. Everything from their origins to how to banish them I'm well versed on, but Her… She's a whole different story. On a completely different wavelength than many of the demons I've come across."
He stops shaking slowly, taking his time to catch up with his train of thought. "Just, if you ever need further help, contact me again and we can discuss this further. With Her, I'm not even sure who She is, how She got there, what She wants from humans… fuck I don't even know for certain if She is a she, there's never been a female demon in any of my work experiences as a demonologist."
Chell is taken aback for a moment. 'Do you know the story of Caroline?'
"Yes, he's explained it to me many times before, the only problem is… you can interact with a demon in numerous ways without accidentally inviting it to stay for eternity in your house. I have no clue how she got from one to the other."
They sit in silence for a few moments longer, staring down at Chell's abandoned notepad, an obvious indication she's out of questions. "Do you have a way back? I'm driving towards the city before pulling back out to the highways again, so if you need a lift part of the way there I can drop you off at a train station… if you'd prefer."
She drops her bag at the front gate of her house, tired of lugging it around on transport the whole day, but thankful to have spoken to someone who might be of some help. Well let's not jump to any conclusions here, Doug is a schizophrenic too. She's grateful she's been let in on knowing his real first name, whatever it's supposed to be worth, but now she's worried that whatever happens here quite literally might come back and haunt her loved ones too. She stuffs her hand in the back of her letter and parcel box after she jangles her absurdly tall iron gates open, swats a couple of cobwebs away and brushes against a package at the bottom of the box. Her online order has arrived; a little late but useful nonetheless.
She enters her house a bit cautiously this time, careful to silently close the door and buy her some time to unbox the package in peace. What a naïve expectation, but it's worth a shot if she can get away with it cleanly. She, however, does not.
The parcel is thrust out of her hands violently, followed by the boxcutter that was in her right hand. Said boxcutter, now being dislodged from her left palm which instinctively reached for the box, clatters to the ground in a bloody mess. Chell has no time to go and retrieve the parcel, in fact she has no time for pretty much anything other than to gasp in pain. He uses this prime opportunity to wrap his arms securely around her body, one around her torso below her chest, the other right around her neck– not squeezing, but enough pressure to make Chell's blood pump with adrenaline. "You won't be needing those where we're off to, darling, now stop resisting."
That's definitely not one of his usual pet names, but she doesn't care enough at the moment to think twice about it. She kicks, and fights, and wrestles once again against His steadfast hold on her, it's futile but she gives it her best shot anyway. She can just feel his domineering smirk beaming down on her as they perfectly recreate the previous agonising night. "No time for introductions, not even gonna ask you out to dinner first, we're just going to cut straight to the chase like we did last time," he chuckles as she writhes and claws at his arms, half choking herself in her escape attempts. She never wanted this, it's the worst way this all could have possibly gone. The talismans and crucifix are left uselessly strewn across the kitchen floor now, and she's being dragged around like a hostage in her own house, forced right back down to her corner to cower in. It's all so cruel, so much worse than She ever hit her with, because this is all one big mind game on top of the physical torture, how many more hits can she take before she gives up on this house? Why is she even still here in the first place?
She was so caught up in the mess of it all she forgot she really was doing all this for Him, and if that's the case then why does she keep returning? He tosses the phone she pummeled his neck with in their struggle onto the mattress in front of her, landing face up between the two of them. "You know why you keep coming back, right? It's because you miss him, isn't it?"
Everything about this is wrong to her. He's now referring to himself in third person, carefully adjusting his gold rimmed glasses– Hold on, didn't Alistair mention them being–?
"You miss this, don't you, love? Just you and me right here, stroking your hair non stop until the early hours of the morning." He reaches a hand across to her, and although her flinch does spray white dots across her vision as she hits the back of her head on the wall behind her, there's no further pain she realises. Her eyes are screwed tightly shut, she has no time to question the particular details when He's right there about to bash her cheekbone into a concave pulp and–
His hand lightly brushes her cheek up and down, stroking away the tears running down them ever so gently. It's as if she could just open her eyes and it would be all a dream, and he– the real Wheatley– would be staring back with the most concerned deep blue eyes and sun bathed hair from the gaps in the curtains. All these cuts, bruises, and bandages would vanish in an instant. She hates that she still wants that, He's still weaseling His way into her brain. She knows she should resist, and she promises herself she will.
As she opens her eyes, it's still not quite right. But in a different way. She narrows her gray eyes at his slightly lighter than normal blue eyes, and come to think of it, yes those glasses are definitely wrong. He never had a blue tie either, surely. Whatever headspace she was in prior must have been so tunnel visioned, so tired, and hurt, and broken that she didn't even realise His dark sun spot is also on the wrong side of his cheek? The Wheatley pictured in her mind's eye is shockingly very different from the one crouched a few feet away from her, a twisted and morbidly amused smile spread across his face. But if this isn't him, and the real Wheatley isn't at her doorstep…
He's abandoned me. After all his promises he's made, he actually fails to show up when it counts the most. It hurts almost equally to this mimic's betrayal, but she has no time to ponder that, as an incoming message from Aiza buzzes her phone on the bed between them. They both glance down, frantically decoding in each of their minds the text 'He's with us, for what it's worth. We're on our way.'
"You saw nothing, love."
"Come on Fynn! Get the safety latch unlocked already," Aiza rushes him to prepare the rope he pulled out of the bottom of his bag. "I'm trying, just shut up! I didn't go into this expecting plan A and B to fail on us that badly." Wheatley just stares vacantly towards the house, clearly not pulling his weight but also now trying not to psych himself out of this plan at the last second. He's shaking like an anxious dog at what only he can hear in the house, and while they're messing around with making the cable secure enough to climb on, he's having doubts. "Wheatley, you can talk this time. The cat's out of the bag, she knows we're here."
"Are– are you guys absolutely sure this is a good idea? Maybe I shouldn't be the one to go in, I-I'll honestly probably just mess it all up knowing me."
"Wheatley no one else can do this one, this was your plan, remember? Getting cold fucking feet already, dude?" Fynn growls at the apparition. "N-no it's not that, I'm just… I hear my voice in there. She already hates me, maybe it'll be better for someone else to convince her to get out–"
Aiza grabs his shirt, pulls him towards the house and hands him the latch to the makeshift rope they've rigged up. "If you don't have the guts to do this plan, her hating you will be the last of your issues. We're not here to convince her anymore, we're here to remove her from that house. Go before we grind your gravestone into a fine powder and toss it in Lake Michigan."
Aggressive, but got the job done.
Now that she really focuses on it, this mimic is definitely taller than her Wheatley. His monstrous proportions dwarf her quivering frame in an entirely foreign way to the woman. She sits cradled in His long limbs, facing the door. As His chunky hand holds her mouth shut tight, she knows better than to struggle just yet. Her friends are on their way, she just has to hold on a little longer until they–
And the window caves in and shatters into a million little shards, she finds she's never been so gleeful over property destruction to her own living quarters. It's welcome, however, as following the tiny shreds of glass she's probably going to be finding in her arms for the next few months is truly a sight for sore eyes. And boy, are hers sore after all this crying. "Now, let's be reasonable here–"
"Step closer and this pillow will be the last thing she sees." She's not even bothering with masking her monotone voice at this point, but Chell pleads with her eyes that he just takes one more step. They can't stay in this standoff for eternity, someone needs to crack first, and given his quivering fists, he might be doing just that very soon.
"Okay, no reasoning allowed around here, I see," he mutters mostly to himself, and for a moment he flickers out of view to the dismay of the two onlookers. He's invisible to even the demon Herself. He didn't just leave, surely?
Her question is answered fairly quickly when she feels the familiar sensation of total body paralysis wash over her. In this situation, the only thing on her mind is how quickly she could have bled out from that severed few veins in her hand, but something even more irreconcilable to her brain is that her body is moving. It's moving, but without her. She drifts away, that's the only possible way to describe the feeling to herself, from her own body, watching it break free with such ease from the vice grip She held on it previously. Everything's so distant and feels literally out of touch to her at this moment. She makes a note of this new kind of perception to her, she's significantly taller than she was that's for sure, and she can't really feel her limbs– let alone any forces like gravity holding them down. A soft murmur is escaping her old lips, although she can hear every syllable, inhale, exhale, and vibration of it. "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry–"
Her old body is allowed to go free by the demon for some strange reason, to slide down the rope secured to the hinge of the rusty old shutters outside her now shattered bedroom window. She follows her muttering, sleepwalking body, and all of a sudden she switches back. Plummeting to the ground, her two best friends reach towards her to drag her dazed and disoriented body out of the haunted property, but she only had one thing racing through her mind behind those glassy-eyes. Where is he?
She leans against his side, and he carries her weight through the iron gates of the cemetery. It was a peculiar request, especially in her physical and mental state, but after the events of the night prior, both Aiza and Fynn accept that there's some things they just won't understand about those two. They decided to wait together for the pair in the car. Whatever relationship they have now, they both now have some fundamental trust that Wheatley will be there for her, and that's really all that matters to them. They're unsure why she needed to stop over real quick to a local florist, but have learnt to stop asking questions by this point.
They carefully approach the gravestone she's leading him towards, clutching the bouquet in one hand and his steady, familiar cold arm in another. The bouquet is complex, an intricate assortment of seemingly random flowers, and although the florist gave her a long look over, he gave a knowing grin. Some yellow orchids, a beautiful milkvetch, a few ragweed stalks, and finally some agrimony flowers sprinkled in. She never really understood the whole deal around designing bouquets, but this one wasn't for the looks, she did her research using Aiza's laptop she so graciously gave her access to as they reconvened in her apartment.
Wheatley didn't question her strange choice in flowers, a few looked more like wild reeds and grass than a flower but he didn't want to question her preferences. Maybe he should note these down for later reference with the lady. He stopped questioning her decisions hours and hours prior, when she wouldn't stop repeatedly asking them where he was, if he was with them, and a slew of other questions. He knew she was furious at him for what he did, she very well probably still was, but he couldn't hide from her forever. They stop in front of a fairly short gravestone, and Wheatley cocks his head to the side, straining his vision to read the faded lettering on the plaque.
As he stood there solemnly staring down at what he's now come to terms with as his own grave, she carefully places the bouquet neatly in the previously empty cemetery vase beside his headstone. In an instant, a feeling of bliss intermingled with pleasure and what he can only describe as fondness wash over his incorporeal form, and he understands. He understands the gesture, and the choice for the flowers, and the sudden sensations he's only just recently re-experienced. She forgives him, and he forgives her. He reaches down and gently folds his arms across her torso, and although she flinches at first, she enmeshes herself into his wholesome embrace.