Everyone, say it with me: awkward fluff to unresolved tension makes the world go 'round! My favourite way to enjoy a writing piece, reel you in with a sweet moment to chase it with some agony :))
"What did you say the name of this demon was?"
Doug's leg bounces uncontrollably in his car seat. His car speakers crackle with Chell's rarely used voice, his leg lightly shaking the vehicle from side to side as his laptop teeters on the edge of the dashboard. He taps his pen to the corner of his mouth as she answers the question, sweeping through his previous research for something on this so-called Moloch. "Moloch, of course, so GLaDOS was just a pseudonym huh… Moloch, Moloch, Moloch– here it is. I really didn't look too far into this one for my thesis but I do have a bit on Him. Tales of a half man, half bull– a minotaur-esque creature if you will. He was a false god in the old testament, mainly demanding sacrifices of children more than anyone, so it's strange that He's so active against adults for the most part there."
Oh god that puts into perspective the poor woman who lived here with her two daughters, and Chell winced at the thought. One thing is peculiar to her about the information Doug's digging up for her, it's the reference to His physical form, or at least what it's commonly attributed to. For people to describe Him in any visual way, He needs to have deliberately shown himself to a summoner or target, so then why has she or Wheatley never even seen this version? Another question now presses her to interrupt him. "Sorry, hold on– hey Wheats, do you know if Caroline had children at all?"
His head whips around from eying up the bird on the other end of the yard to respond to her. "Oh, uh, well as far as I know that's a negative." Doug's leg jitters twice as fast at the sound of the young spirit's voice. "Alright, Chell can you just… Do you mind moving away from him for our call? I can get pretty intense… episodes from simple things like that, so just please."
She uncrosses her legs and stands, holding a finger out to indicate to Wheatley to stay put while she moves. The déjà vu now makes a prominent appearance as she walks across the yard. "Okay, I mean you know he can still hear and all. It's fine I'll get moving anyway," she sighs, relocating herself under the shade of the willow tree to avoid the slowly warming sunlight. "As you were saying?"
"So, Moloch was a false god and the name itself quite literally refers to the act of sacrifice. Yeah, from what I'm reading He really just called on people to sacrifice their children as a form of worship, it's quite strange that He's tethered himself to that house, and Caroline in particular too."
"Wait, okay Doug, did you know any of this from your time owning the property? Does everything about this even add up from your experiences too, because it's sounding increasingly more and more irrelevant to me. I know you're the expert but give me some more insight here."
"Look, as I said to you a week or so ago, I knew things were strange. Granted, I never had a name to go off of and He never revealed himself to me apart from in Her form, but I think it's still relevant and probably true if Wheatley's story is real. There's really not much I can tell you without knowing Caroline's backstory or why she summoned him to begin with, my best bet would be in some way they demanded something from each other, and for her to uphold her end of the deal this all must have been his terms."
Chell pauses, worried that Wheatley's still in earshot, but goes for it nonetheless. "So like a covenant? Of course He wouldn't stay unless He saw something beneficial in this situation, but can he make something like that more than once?"
"Well yeah I mean I guess it's possible, but keep in mind oftentimes people really don't know what they're getting into or even if they're making a deal at all. It's akin to signing a contract and skimming over the fineprint, or really a lot of the time having it signed for you, if that makes any sense."
Now Chell's panicking. She knows she hasn't actually said a word to Her, but she's said plenty of things to Wheatley, and she doesn't know the boundaries of this deal-making shenanigans. She swallows the saliva building in her mouth, the knot in the back of her throat growing. "Wait, okay so firstly, I haven't said a single word to Her yet, full stop. But does it work indirectly or is it only through proxies like Her?"
"You're asking if speaking to him is gonna get you in trouble, right? Luckily I'd find it hard to believe since he's technically not tied down to the house like She is. That being said though, I'm not sure his whole connection within this: he could be kept around because of Moloch, he could just have unfinished business or desires, or some other obscure motivation to stay around."
She picks at the grass surrounding her, calculating the best way to describe her current dilemma. "So, I'm trying to weigh up how much time I have before I completely lose my rational thinking. I've only been back for a day and I had a pretty bad nightmare–"
"Wow, really I couldn't imagine Her doing such a thing, anything actually new or just the same old though? I guess it all depends on how many fingers you need to finish your studies," he feigns shock at her half finished comment as he adjusts the air conditioner in his ute. She rolls her eyes and continues on. "That was new though, I could move for once but it also wasn't obviously a nightmare even after I woke back up. She also– for some really strange reason, like I can't picture why She would do this– hid sage sticks in my bathroom drain. That's so obviously a place I'm going to kind of need access to, She tried drowning me in there too which wasn't my favourite moment of the night, but that's really strange if you ask me."
"Well I'm not asking you, I'm the expert here, but it's starting to sound like She's sort of, I'm not sure, egging you on I guess. It's like She knows what you're doing, and in all honesty might be telling you to get on with it. Questions still up in the air of course whether that's Moloch or Caroline speaking, though."
She stands up quickly at that comment, now thoroughly confused as to the nature of this demon. "Hold on, no wait a second I know we're cutting it close to when you have to go into work, but what do you mean by that? Does Caroline still have some control over herself?"
"Look, I'm really not certain about a lot in this. This is a completely different kind of haunting to the ones I'm used to, all I'm saying is it's a possibility. Anyway, I'm sorry but I do need to go now, update me later on your situation though. Catch you later, Chell," and he hangs up abruptly at the sight of his manager leaving the building, clearly in search of a missing employee for the shift. She's then instead left alone, trying to decipher that one last detail that could change everything for them. Or nothing of course if it turns out to be wrong.
She pockets her phone again, walking back across the yard to come across a fairly dejected Wheatley right where she left him. Chell gives him an apologetic look and pats his shoulder affectionately, sitting down next to him this time rather than across from him. Her hand lingers a moment or two longer until she realises he's not exactly leaning into her touch anymore. His head rests firmly in his hands as he curls in on himself, eyes half-lidded and despondent. He finally breaks the silence, heaven knows she didn't want to ask a dumb question like 'are you alright' and risk a breakdown. "After all we've been through, do you really still not trust me?"
She inhales slightly, trying to recall anything from that phone call that would even imply something so ridiculous, but he doesn't keep her guessing for too long. "Really, love? 'Does it work indirectly' is a really funny way of asking will I divulge things to Her."
"No, no no no that's not what I was trying to get at, I just needed to make sure that–"
"Then what were you getting at, hm? Because forgive me if I'm wrong but it's still sounding an awful lot like you're trying to throw me under the bus for being in on it!"
She rests her hand across his back, sitting up on her knees and turning his face to her own. If he's forced to look in her eyes, he'll at least be quicker to abandon his thought spiral this time. His mind is an echochamber at the best of times, he just needs proof of the contrary is all. "No, that's far from it. Here," and she places his hand against her heart. He could so easily pull back, but some portion of his brain refuses to mend the inconsistency between his thoughts and body language.
Her clothes are warmed by her skin and the summer weather below his palm, and it has him bitterly asking, why me? Why does he have to be the monster in this alliance? It would be so much easier if he were graciously accepting of her non human traits if she were the ghost, like if she were as cold as ice to the touch and sapping all his body heat, or had eavesdropping skills of a bat, or could crush his ribs below her hand in a single shove.
His face screws up in defeat and a bit of agony, the hopelessness of their situation dawning on him. It's a lose-lose scenario: either she saves herself from this demon and their story ends there, or they stay stagnant in this uncomfortable tension. The latter would also end in tragedy for her; there's only so long someone can live in a constant state of torture, that extent he knows too well.
His shaky hand clutches at her shirt and he hangs his head, ashamed at the obvious fact that he can't even cry in this form. "Would I have let you even get this close at the beginning? Think about it, we're way past that now, I wasn't even thinking about that when I said it, I promise you that." She guides his head to her shoulder. She's trying hard to repress the slight shiver at the further contact. He feels it though. It really makes him want to draw back once more. He's being selfish again.
He still hasn't said a word since the accusation, and she's starting to worry, so she diverts the one-sided conversation in any way possible. "What were you going to say before he so rudely interrupted, Wheats?"
He loved that nickname she gave him. It makes him smile at the word. He still can't force himself to be brave and go back to what he wanted to do though. "D–don't stress about it, honest, I'm okay," he lied through his teeth, and she gently rubs the cowlick at the back of his head, familiarising herself with the pattern and texture between her fingers. "You know, I know what you were going to do anyway, you got so close too. Was there a reason why you backed down… love?"
Boy, does she know how to make him fold. Using his own vocabulary as a battering ram. She now cradles his full weight on her shoulder, he's not holding back anymore nor slowly trying to tense up and pull away. He shifts his head to the side and tentatively swallows, his eyes opening once more. "I'm sorry, love. I don't quite know what came over me there. Just… forget I ever brought that up again, alright?"
She pats his head tenderly. "It was a fair question, I didn't quite phrase myself correctly is all," and then her hand stills on his scalp. "Do–did you want to kiss me, Wheatley?"
"Quite the forward question. I–uh, well yes that was the plan before I actually started thinking about it." He chuckles to himself.
"Do you want a second chance?"
His eyes zero in on her own. Did she really just ask what he thinks she did? "Pardon you? I mean I–I heard you just fine but you don't really mean it, right? Why wouldn't you just… do it yourself then?"
She watches his eyebrows knot in the middle in confusion, and she quietly brushes the hair off his forehead as he straightens himself back to his full sitting height. "I just thought if it's your idea, I want to see you go for it," she smirks at him, briefly recalling one of their first pleasant conversations together. She highly doubts that if he didn't ever have a partner as a living person that he's probably never even had a first kiss at all, especially not from his time period and upbringing. "Well, to be honest it was yours to begin with, although that could have been the alcohol talking. Anyway… Sure? Ahem, of course, master snogger right here, I can do that no problem, love. Not that I was kissing everyone all willy-nilly but, well anyway you get the jist." She didn't believe him for a second but contained her laughter regardless, worried it might draw out his self conscious side again. The embellishing Wheatley is always a bit more vivacious anyway, she likes that about him.
His irises cycle between her lips and eyes as he leans closer, a polite wordless question for permission yet again. Wheatley's lips gently meet her own with an air of hesitance, so she grips the back of his head and pushes them into a more purposeful kiss. Now she can tell he's panicking, he's gone quite stiff against her almost as if he's having second thoughts about initiating a kiss under the guise that he's a professional, so she guides him slowly and meaningfully.
He learns from her movements that it's a push and pull between them, relying on the rhythm of the two for the act to go smoothly. However, just as he's getting more confident in his control of the situation, she has to go and switch it up on him. Her tongue presses quizzically against his closed lips, a clear question of consent being posed. He could easily reject her advances, but he never wants this moment to end. The feel of her warm lips against his, her hand pressed firmly into the back of his head, the other reaching over to grasp his reluctant hand and bring it to her side…
He allows her entry to his mouth, and it's cooler than the surface of his skin itself, though she can't find herself caring at all. In fact, the temperature is lower than expected but not unpleasant, she actually quite likes it. She tries to meet his own tongue although he's still timid and shrinks back from her touch. She doesn't need to chase him down though, perfectly satisfied with caressing his palette and hungry for the taste. It's quite unexpected to her, his mouth tastes fresh with a subtle burn, as if she's chewing a handful of breath mints all at once.
Whilst he's thoroughly enjoying the contact and affection– she, having now resorted to stroking the side of his jaw just behind his ear and it prompts him to smile against her lips– he's once again disappointed. Disappointed that his experience will be nothing like hers. Disappointed that he can't take in all the sensations in their entirety, he can't smell her perfume, or taste her lips and tongue gliding against his, but one thing stands out to him. He can feel a flutter behind his ribcage, and that's not quite something he's familiar with. It sort of reminds him of the instinctual feeling Chell's body has when they swap, although muted down a fair bit.
She lets him go for a second, clearly to catch her own breath, although he doesn't quite get the memo. Whatever that feeling was, he needed more. Just as quickly as it came, it vanished like that, so he pounces back over to her, eager for more. They tumble to the ground, Chell hitting her head on the soft grass behind her and Wheatley scrambling not to crush her on his descent too. He props himself up above her with his hand in the dirt and the other fumbling to catch his falling glasses. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, messed that right up, didn't I? are you alright–?"
She pulls him down by the collar to lock lips again, a motion that would not go unnoticed by the silent observer in the kitchen window.
She's been back at the house for quite a few days now, and whilst at times Her torment can be quite unbearable, he's always there to comfort her after the fact. She strolls alone down the main street, a heavy box tucked under her arm. They'd agreed that during the day, he would search the house for anything out of place on his own. After the sage sticks "mysteriously" ended up lodged in her bathroom pipes, they're left wondering where the rest of his purchases are hidden across the house.
For Chell though, she's taking the time now to give him a bit of a gift for before they commence with their plan. He's already found quite a few of the items they'll need for the ritual he never got around to completing, however he has handed the hidden trinkets and devices over as soon as he's retrieved them. It's obvious they bring back some pretty strong memories, so she keeps them out of his sight to the best of her abilities, rewarding him with either a head pat, short hug, or his favourite being a peck on the cheek.
They're still waiting on the small leather-bound book from that fateful day, arguably the most irreplaceable part of the plan. Other things like the handheld radio, or the sage sticks, or even the communication board itself could be bought again in preparation, but that book is one of a kind. According to Wheatley at least, he says the seller was a well known and respected spirit medium in the country at that time. Interestingly, she was also where he sourced the Cablegraph too, both well-loved and well-worn elements of the ritual.
She walks with intent back to the house, trying desperately to minimise her time having to carry this box which keeps getting heavier for every step she lugs it around. She'll adjust it to the other arm, then back, then try with both hands, and repeat, but eventually she gives her arms a break. Chell pauses in one of the side streets, gingerly placing the box on the ground and taking a rest against the tree on the nature strip. She shakes out her aching arms for a moment, eyeing up the next few streets she needs to walk uphill for, then groans and gets on with it yet again.
He spots her walking a few streets away from her bedroom window, clutching the small book in his hands behind his back. He's had it for days. Found it alongside the Cablegraph, though that one he couldn't keep hidden for long. This, though—this he held onto, selfishly. The guilt and shame he feels from keeping this final piece of the puzzle hidden from her is starting to hit him full force now, despite how relieved it makes him feel to have just that little bit longer to spend with her. For as long as he keeps it to himself, they can stay together as it is, tossing playful smirks at each other from across the room, and having one sided but emphatic conversations at the dinner table, and her comfortably falling asleep while he sits sentinel on the chair beside her every night. But all good things have to come to an end, and he can see the novelty of their living situation wearing off as She slowly chips away at her.
He wanders down to meet her at the iron gates, confused but intrigued by the long unlabeled cardboard box she has lodged under one arm. He's never one to question her though, so he unlocks the gate and moves to take it from her. She swats his arm away in a teasing manner and he should have known better. She's never one to accept his help, not even with chivalry and charming smiles woven in the mix.
"Did you find the book this time?" she huffs as they climb the porch steps. He reaches into his navy blazer and pulls it out, guilt flickering across his face momentarily. She places the box down beside the door, then turns to tangle him in her arms. "Where did you find it this time?"
He hugs her back. "Under the scattered organ pedals in the basement. Does… this mean we're all good to go, love," he weakly murmurs to her. She pivots to the tips of her boots to reach his head, takes it in both her hands and their mouths meet willfully. It's still all it takes to make him weak at the knees.
She's not going to lie to herself, the déjà vu feeling retreated a couple of days ago, but in the past few minutes it's returned with a vengeance. She's trying to shrug that off, the first dream itself was of such little note that she can't even remember anything beyond the terror of waking back up again. "That's all we need. We can finish this once and for all, then it'll just be you and I. I'll message the others later tonight that we're ready. Oh, and find any of mine, by any chance? You know, the talismans and all?" He shook his head. That, he earnestly could not recover.
They cross the threshold into the house and she immediately goes voluntarily mute for the time being. He watches, thoroughly intrigued as she gently rests the box on the living room floor, walks over to the kitchen and reemerges with a boxcutter in hand. Wheatley awkwardly waits behind her, patiently gazing over her shoulder every now and then to catch a glimpse of what exactly she's opening up. His jaw drops at the sight, even though it took him until it was almost fully unwrapped to place exactly what it is.
"You bought an electric piano? It's so compact, love, that's amazing! Are you planning on getting back into it yourself or something," he eagerly starts rambling at her immediately, but is silenced once more when she shakes her head and points to him. "It–it's for me, you mean?"
She nods, smiling coyly. His breath catches. For a moment, he just stares, fingers hovering over the keys before pressing one down, knowing it won't even make a noise just yet. Despite that though, it's real, and it's his. As they unwrap it together and place each piece out on the lounge room rug, Chell pulls out her notepad and pen, quickly jotting a question down to the ghost. 'When's your birthday? Consider this an early/late birthday present.'
He chuckles at her as he makes his way to the kitchen, they all seem to have forgotten his previous banning. He rifles through the top kitchen drawer for a screwdriver, and on his way back to her he answers the question. "Honestly, wish I could tell you, love. It's just been some time, you know? All I can really give you to go off of is sometime mid November in 1935. My death day though… that's practically ingrained in my memory."
'When was that?'
"24th of August, 1960. For the lead up to the day I get a bit more, uh, mournful shall we say… so, apologies for that if we're here for it." That 'if' rubbed her the wrong way, but she was certainly not ready to call him out for it in fear that she might just lose the last of his optimistic side. It's been making an appearance less and less lately, as if his living self is slowly emerging and trying to take the reins once more. She tries to shake that feeling away again, that persistent feeling of having done this already on top of the slow degradation of her close ally, and finishes setting up the digital piano.
She plugs it into the outlet and gestures him over to the stool in front. He's practically buzzing with excitement, whatever he's made from could probably output an electrical signal just from his delight alone, and so he cracks his non-existent knuckles, taking out his manuscript book. He places it on the music rack, opens it, and his enthusiasm is as short lived as that. "Oh, yeah forgot about that. Just everything I amounted to in my life just scribbled away, how foolish of me. Oh well, guess I'll just have to keep writing more then, ey?" He adjusts his glasses, flipping through the defiled pages to see if any are untouched. They are not.
She closes the book for him and prods him on the back playfully, as if to nudge him into playing from memory, if that was even possible after how long it had been. "Oh golly, love I'm really sorry but it's been so long and I really can't remember much of anything without sheet music and– Wait, why don't you give it a try first, then I don't know maybe I can help you play?"
She waves her hands sporadically whilst vigorously shaking her head, completely desperate to not be forced into sharing how little she knows about piano. It hadn't been quite as long for her by any stretch of the imagination, but she was certainly no expert on the instrument. Nonetheless, he stands swiftly and ushers her in front of the keyboard, the keyboard that's been plugged in for some five minutes and has not made a single note so far. "Go on, love. I'd love to see what you've got, maybe I could play a part of it by ear too if you still remember it well!"
Oh well, he knows she's no professional, so no problem with trying and then having him take over from there. Maybe he'll be less nervous if she demonstrates her more amateur playing skills. She picks one of the first pieces she learnt, a little out of her skillset, but one that was repetitive enough to remember how to play. It was mostly timing and rhythms that were the issue, now replaying it. Her right hand plays a repeated two bar ostinato while her left bounces around from chords to octaves.
Without the muscle memory and calibre of a professional pianist, she falters here and there. Misses a repeated note, her hands can't quite reach an octave at times, the right hand rubato-ing a little more than it should, even the pedals are a bit out of sync, but she keeps pushing through. Until she hits a roadblock.
There's a certain bar she gets up to where she just stops, brings her fists down on the keys and moves to let him sit back down, to which he pushes her back to a sitting position. "Wait hold on– no that's not the end of the piece, surely! You can do it, I'll even play something after you finish."
She groans and attempts the bar, knowing full well it's out of her capabilities. It's a polyrhythm she hadn't ever quite gotten a grasp on, the right hand playing twelve notes per measure with the left playing three against two, or at least that's what it's supposed to be. He gets the picture though, and requests that she shift over. "Oh man alive, you can play really well, you know that, love? It's not something that comes easy to people in general… or me really come to think of it. My piano teacher would always make me tap out the rhythms in my lesson more than even have me touch the instrument, let me tell you. Anyway, put your hands in position. Hands, plural."
She's confused at the order, thinking he'd be here to take one side and herself the other, but she complies nevertheless. He gently places his own cool hands atop hers, matching each pale digit with their shorter counterpart beneath. Just on its own, this position is really comfortable to Chell, his hands resting on hers, arm swung around her shoulder and his cold form pressing into her side. "Alright love, we're going to play it at half speed. You know the notes obviously, so just feel what my fingers tap and then play along, sound like a plan?"
She nods, a bit worried but trusting his guidance. They play for a little while together, falling in rhythm finally after a couple of rounds, before Wheatley begins picking up speed. Once again stumbling trying to catch up with him, she huffs in frustration, and he slows it back down again. "Nothing wrong with not getting it the first time, you're doing great. Just keep it up and we'll be dueting one day, I can guarantee it!"
They continue playing, but his energy slowly deflates, suddenly conscious of the gravity of the situation now. They'd already agreed together that once they find each piece of the puzzle that they'd dive straight into the banishing ceremony. And wIth no time to waste around a volatile demon, he really doesn't blame her. Though that doesn't mean he isn't somber about it. Come to think of it, this is their last night together as they've come to know it. He relishes in the warmth beneath his palm, her head now resting on his shoulder, the strong heartbeat he can feel beneath her skin, and the muted rustling feeling in his ribcage that never ebbed away since the day they kissed.
He knows this night will come to an end soon, but perhaps for now he can indulge himself in her presence, living in the moment. Later he'll ask to sleep next to her, but he doesn't want to waste the present thinking of the future anymore. That's a problem for later.
He reluctantly passes the book over to her, they're almost ready to pull this off, they just need to familiarise themselves with the ritual itself. "In case something happens to this book while we're in there, I'll take a photo, and you can memorise your line. Look, it is in Latin, or is that Italian? Anyway, it's only one line… so that should be doable, even if under pressure, right?"
He swallows instinctively. "Yeah, sure. Can do."
Chell isn't dense, she's picking up what he's putting down, and right now he's dropping all context clues that he very much doesn't want to go ahead with the plan. Wheatley's meeting her eye contact a little too eagerly, like she might just vanish the next time he blinks. She knows he's a lot more pessimistic on their chances of this working in their favour, but this is getting ridiculous. She grabs him by the shoulders, preparing for the mini pep talk he seems to need every morning now. He shifts his eyes away, anticipating the words that are certainly going in one ear and out the other. "Hey, look at me. It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay, we've got this. The others are going to be waiting outside, even he's coming along and you know how he feels about you. Everyone knows we can do it, so let's finish Him."
"And what if He's expecting it? It's all a little too convenient, right? Hiding everything around the house like a scavenger hunt as if He couldn't just destroy them and be done with it?"
"Man, we've been through this already, you were even here for the phone call with Alistair– it's most likely her trying to help us. Think about it, Wheats, Occam's razor. Why would He be helping us orchestrate this? She has to have some sort of power at times, so let's take the opportunity and cut him right out of our lives–"
"And cut me out too, while you're at it! I know I did this to myself, I couldn't have kept my bloody mouth shut, and now I'm paying the price. But…" He retreats from her, frustrated that she's not taking his very real fears seriously. "Okay, so if we don't do it, what about after I'm gone?"
He blankly stares, fluttering his lashes and waiting for her to continue. "When I'm gone, it's back to normal for you. Wouldn't you rather take this risk now than be stuck in that situation? It's not even guaranteed you'll be gone with her– she summoned Him, you didn't. You're just stuck in the crossfire."
A low rumble radiates from the distance, detected by Wheatley well before Chell's own ears, but he always waits until she comments first or visibly notices. They both pivot their heads towards the gate, where two cars now sit, one in park with the ignition off, and the other neatly parking right behind the first. "That's them, come on."
As they make their way reluctantly towards the iron gate, Wheatley naturally catches parts of conversations, words crafted for others falling on his own receptors involuntarily. "Yeah, I've got the first aid kit in the trunk, can you get it real quick I'm just texting my mum that she might not be able to reach me for a while," Aiza calls to Fynn as he pulls the car door open. In the other car is a crazed muttering. Pill bottles rattling around on the dashboard, he's rustling through papers in his sketchbook, and Doug pops a few before leaving his vehicle.
They leave the iron gate ajar for their three new guests on the property, welcoming them to the disaster that is Aperture mansion. One by one they pass through, Fynn with the zip-up red first aid kit in hand, Aiza carrying a pair of walkie-talkies, and Doug hurrying through– of course making sure to keep his distance from the now visibly offended spirit. After shutting the gate once more, then deciding that locking it is a bad idea if she keeps the key on her, they follow the invited guests to their de facto meeting spot.
The front lawn is overgrown and dense without the proper maintenance it once had, the degradation of his property and living quarters still tugs at his heartstrings a little. The small group has joined together in the shade, and a clear line divides them down the middle. Doug is the newcomer in this situation, but he insisted that he joins if only he can keep away from both the house and Wheatley himself. Chell agreed to these terms with ease, to which Wheatley spent the next couple of hours moping around and suggesting she doesn't invite him if it cuts himself out of the plan.
They can both stay, of course, just not nearby and not for very long– his presence clearly agitates Doug's symptoms, so she assures him it's nothing personal just to make him quiet down and behave. "Alright, we have a first aid kit for injuries, Fynn is qualified so that's always helpful. I also have long distance communication devices for if you do get a chance to talk back, but I also have no idea how they affect transmission signals and radio so that's a shot in the dark at best. And you're here for…?"
"Advising for a reckless plan against one of the strongest demons I've come across. You're certainly going to need it," Doug mutters under his breath, leafing through his notepad. He abruptly nods at the book in Chell's hands, and she hands it over to him instinctively. "I remember this book, it was property of the Johnson family for quite some time, must have been left behind by her and just stayed in the house. I think it's best to go through the ritual now before you two go in."
They wander together through the basement, on edge, still manually sweeping through radio frequencies on the handheld device. Wheatley clutches the walkie-talkie in his hand, his other one softly resting on her shoulder, guiding her around the dimly lit room. He, in comparison, can see quite well down there, so much so it's almost like he belongs in a place the light will never touch. Unlike last time, when his signal came through loud and clear, the receiver now crackles—then falls silent. She pulls the antenna out, straining for something, anything. Still nothing. She goes to move from the center of the room, confused at the gap in signal of any kind. It picks up no frequencies, not even nearby stations. The hand firmly holding her shoulder still as she tries to move around is enough of a tell. They have the right place.
"Okay, I've got the handheld radio, love, so I'll stay close by, especially if She decides to make an appearance or… interfere," he murmurs into Chell's ear as she lays the box on the ground with a thud. Dust plumes around them, the basement floor is littered with the bodies of woodlice, arachnids, other various isopods, even the scattered organs of –ironically enough– an organ. In the house's ecosystem, the basement is the deep undisturbed layers of sediment resting at the pit of an ocean, only now about to be disturbed by the pebble sinking slowly through the depths.
Chell reaches into the box, retrieving the essentials for now: the cablegraph, the sage sticks, and the matchbox. Even though the boiler room is well and truly cleared out and replaced with new electronics since his time, she's still a little too aware of lighting the sticks early. If they can do this with minimal external problems like carbon monoxide poisoning, then that would definitely be preferred.
She seemed to be leaving them to their own devices, the doors were fully unlocked, with barricades and damage cleared up. Certainly, She was awaiting this day for quite some time. "Alright, you can get started now, She's not quite ready to reveal Herself to you just yet it seems, so you're in the clear. Have at it. If you speak through the cablegraph you should be relatively safe, especially with prewritten lines."
She settles the cablegraph on the floor, laying the tips of her fingers on the circular piece gently just as the instructions called for. She takes a deep breath, navigating to the right page. She spots a handwritten message in the corner of the page, definitely not matching the rest of the script surrounding it. She runs her fingers over the now dry ink and curvy lettering. 'If we make it out with one less, please remember me.' No time to dwell on his dramatic request, just get on with the ritual. "Ego adsum bona fide."
The cablegraph lies dormant, and Wheatley glances over his shoulder, checking the response that should have come through. "Really? Well, I mean I guess it doesn't work for everyone, it does say in the instructions that it depends on the power of the person operating it, something or other about magnetism? I'm not so sure, but here, I'll help you out there, love."
He circles around her hunched position on the floor, and aligns his cold and gangly fingers up, placing them on top of her own like some backwards twist on the piano lesson he gave her the night prior. "Esto quod es," she whispers towards it, to which it now responds, albeit in more Latin. She scans the book for a response or phrase to translate 'patere'. She whispers something from afar, way beyond the makeshift barrier Wheatley's arms make around her. It's a soft whisper, she could have passed it off as the shifting of the house's foundations around them, if only it didn't sound identical to the word 'endure'.
How do I respond to that? She scans the pages incredulously, hoping for some reasonable next step to take. Wheatley flicks his eyes back down to check on her, it's not a word that inspires confidence that she'll get out of this encounter unscathed. Chell decides to instead just continue with the pre prepared incantations, straying too far from the written could get her in hot water, so she ignores the ominous message. "Fiat lux; malum bono superate. Ego te expello, et noli me tangere."
Another short response. 'Ex luna'. He glances back at the board, brows furrowing, his voice quieter now. "Is that something to do with the moon, love?" If it mentions the moon or stars, the book affirms you're on the right track, but you need to amp up your demands, she recalls from Doug's advice.
Wheatley lifts his gaze back up from the woman crouched in front of him, and scans the room once more. Someone who was there has vanished, and yet the responses have not. "Non gratus hic es. Time! Ego voco Moloch, corruptus ultra reparacionem, consummatum est."
The dial on the board takes its sweet time to spell the next string of words. They were hanging onto each letter it spelled out, the phrases 'ad tempus mutatur' and 'dolor' being clear. Chell, purely from her upbringing and knowledge of a romance language, clocks straight away the translation of at least the latter, pain. She tries to retrieve her fingers from the board, but comes up against the strength of the spirit behind her. A tremor wracks through his form, invisible but overwhelming. His fingers tighten. Her breath catches—then pain. His shock mirrors hers, but it's too late. He's holding her there, crumpling her fingers beneath his.
Chell shrieks in pain, and he releases, the shock washing over his face replaced with an unrecognisable expression on him. The dirty floor clings to his hands which hold him up from behind, and Chell slowly makes her way to her feet, clutching at her crushed fingers. Her eyes scream two muddled commands at him, one a demand for what the hell has gotten into him, and the other to just say it already.
Iter tuum divergit. Iter tuum divergit. That's all he has to say, but he wasn't quite expecting to say it with such an… audience. The ritual clearly has worked, but perhaps neither of them were prepared for what it entailed. For better or for worse, Moloch and himself were one now, and He was no God of subtlety. He pounded in his eardrums to hold his tongue, that if he said it, even mentally just once, then they all would suffer His wrath.
Wheatley stares in horror, past Chell's worried hand waving him to pay attention, and to his former captor standing in the corner of the room. She's silent, but she dons an expression far warmer, more regretful than her usual calculated gaze. "Wheatley?" She broke her one and only rule, but his despondency is starting to frighten her.
He lifts himself back up, revealing the crushed radio beneath his hands, looking to and from his new victims– wait, no, that's not right?
He flexes his fingers, doing a little twirl to take in his surroundings. He was, after all, fairly disoriented by that fall, so it's only natural he needs a little more time to get acquainted for now. He feels the flexing of his joints and tendons under his skin, the chill of the basement creeping over his warm form. This is new. "Actually, well why do we need to leave right now, love?"
Her expression crumbles—worry dissolving into horror, then something raw. Something way worse. Recognition. The world tilts, her stomach drops. He's gone. To her, he's nothing but a dead man. Surely he can change that though, right? He meant the world to her just minutes before, it can't have all changed that fast. "Oh, come on, love, it's still me, yeah? I can handle it, honest! I just… heh, haven't felt this good for quite some time."
Caroline emerges from her corner, cautiously. The hand she places on Chell's shoulder almost startles a scream out of her, but Caroline presses a finger to her lips. She mustn't talk here, that much is obvious. The room suddenly chills, and Chell's skin is littered with goosebumps. "What? Really, are you getting all buddy-buddy with her now? You know she always called me the moron, but what kind of moron can't even resist a demon, huh? She couldn't take it, for over a century she let herself be used– puppeted by some entity! You were a real convenient pawn, that's for sure, I can do this though, I mean look at me."
He laughs lightly, and it's like the demon's been pulled out of him again, like he's back to his light-hearted self in the blink of an eye. She hums into her ear. "Don't listen to Him, it's not him anymore and you know it. Don't disgrace your friend by mixing him up into whatever Moloch has made him. He… kept him around to tame me, his personality and wit to–"
"I am NOT a moron! How much do I need to scream that at you to finally have you listen for once?" Oh god, that line fully kicks her déjà vu into overdrive. It's washing over her, now full force. The only line she could ever recall from that dream. He easily closed the gap between the two women and Himself. He takes Caroline by the collar, and Chell backs away. She couldn't be more confused. She assumed Moloch would be after herself for the ritual, but He seems to be taking it out on Caroline instead.
Chell edges her way over to the staircase out of the basement. If she can make it there safely it's just a short sprint out of the house. But He can see her slow movement from the corner of his eye, and stops dragging the weaker spirit. "Leaving so soon, are we now, love?" He stamps his foot on the concrete floor, its force causing the disheveled bookcase to crumble down, obscuring the exit. The other thing crumbling now was Chell's resolve as she tumbles to the ground with it, tears suddenly threatening to blur her vision.
With His free hand, He plucks out of the rubble the only untouched organ key. The middle C was surrounded by the remains and shards of neighbouring keys, parts, and pieces. The drawbar below it, pedals beside it, surrounded by the wooden frame of the hammond organ. "See this? This is the remains of my life's work right here, do you have any idea how harrowing it is to watch it get smashed to pieces? Well, watch this– now she'll live in it."
He lets go of Caroline, and she stumbles back—only to be yanked to a stop. Some unseen force holds her in place, limiting her to a mere three meters of lenience from the object. "Hah, blimey I hope it feels good to be so tiny and insignificant, only able to exist in a couple meters range of a stupid organ key."
He violently tosses the key in Chell's direction, to which she covers her head to avoid any further injuries. Caroline in turn is now essentially shoved into the corner near the exit, hitting the wall arms first. This can't be Wheatley. He's now capricious, and speaks exclusively in rhetorical questions and sarcasm, practically adopting her old speech patterns. The guilt creeps up her throat, a lump forming in the back of her larynx. He must really be gone now.
Retrieving the key and placing it in her pocket made her turn her back on her previous ally for a moment, and she wasn't anticipating his proximity when she turned back around again. "I mean, isn't this what you wanted, love? You, and me… and sure He's here but I can hack it, I'm fairly clever I'll have you know. I mean I'm even warm now!"
He grabs her hand and interlocks their fingers, and as much as Chell wants to pull hers back, she can't. Better yet, she doesn't. His warm hand radiates heat through her cold and clammy fingers, and for a moment, her heart leaps.
He seizes that very short moment. Pulling her in and Himself down, their faces meet swiftly, His heated and soft lips locking onto hers. She should really shove him away. Even though it would never work, she should try. Should drive her knee into his stomach and bolt for the exit. But she doesn't move. Can't move.
Because for one horrifying second, she thinks—what if he's still in there?
And there's that feeling again, only stronger. It settles at the pit of His stomach, a whimsical and playful fluttering makes itself more prominent in this form. He pulls her closer to Himself, insatiable for that feeling, hungry for more– another strong feeling to fill this void that's only grown for decades now. He withdraws from her reluctant form who's still wedged in the corner, a pensive look now on His face. "Wow, love. That right there, that's splendid." He exhales, voice thick with longing. "Man alive–" He laughs, the sound being almost fond. "I'd kill for that feeling, you have no idea."
Chell shivers in distress. He'd what now?
Latin translation! I do not know latin fyi, just some phrases I found from people online, some games, and a friend to help refine some phrases as best as possible.
"Ego adsum bona fide" - I am here in good faith
"Esto quod es" - Be what you are
Patere - Endure
Fiat lux; malum bono superate. Ego te expello, et noli me tangere - let there be light; evil overcome by good. I banish you, and do not touch me
Ex luna - from the moon
"Non gratus hic es. Time! Ego voco Moloch, corruptus ultra reparacionem, consummatum est" - You are not welcome here. Fear! I call upon you Moloch, corrupted beyond repair, [the ritual] is concluded
Ad tempus mutatur - A temporary change
Dolor - Pain
"Iter tuum divergit" - Your path diverges