Man I'm struggling with making these oc/side characters mean more than just a plot device or moral support, but it's hard to do that whilst also keeping their reactions realistic so forgive me if it's wack, it's very possible I might go back and rework dialogue sometime. Do pay attention to the shift between Him and him within this might I add, it's done on purpose (unless I've got rocks in my brain and just forgot to capitalise an H)

She didn't actually cry. Though she certainly felt very close at the time, it was mostly out of shock, and this too is out of shock– whether it be from the complete and utter failure that was the ritual, or even the idea that he meant to betray her. She doesn't believe it for a second, but he's not even here to convince her otherwise. The shock itself still hasn't worn off, so she's sitting cross legged and zoned out on the grass, with Fynn silently bandaging her fingers up. No lasting or deep damage from the blunt force luckily, just a lot of bruising and a gash she doesn't remember getting. Granted, she doesn't remember much beyond Caroline carrying her up the basement stairs in a hurry.

The air around the house is quite somber now. After Wheatley descended and never reemerged, sending the one who definitely shouldn't be able to leave the house back with a weary-eyed Chell– well, no one even dared to ask the obvious. Doug was the first to dip. At the sight of Caroline emerging his response was far more intense than anything Wheatley could have caused. So without a murmur or an apology, he shrank back to his busted up car, leaving as soon as Aiza had to go and back up their car to let him leave.

"Alright, you're all bandaged up," Fynn sighs as he packs up his medical kit. She doesn't respond verbally, her eyes gliding over in his direction, then to Aiza who's stepping over the tousled first aid kit. "Look, Chell, if you don't want to go back in there I don't blame you, my apartment's still open if you need a place to stay–"

Fynn interrupts them. "No, honestly, you want to know my opinion? I know you're probably quite hurt over whatever happened, you don't even need to tell me to understand that, but truthfully I think this is the end of the road. I know it's blunt, but… you got too emotionally attached to think straight, so best thing to do is probably sell that house."

A brief silence follows his comment, no one speaking up for or against the statement, not even Chell. Whether it be from how physically and emotionally tired she is, or deep down knowing he's probably right, or some mix of the two, she's not quite sure, but she can't break that silence in any convincing way. He voices her thought process aloud, and it pains her to see how rational it actually is. "I hate to be the one to say it, honestly I do, but you've had some close calls already, it's only a matter of time until something irreversible happens." Everyone's eyes drop to the grass instantly, and Chell ponders the ultimatum they're posing. There's only so much they can support her throwing herself head first into, and if withdrawing their support is what it takes to knock some sense into the young woman, then they're going to give it a valiant effort. Chell, however, is far more tenacious than that. She can't help but remember she made a promise to him before– sure it was flippant and mostly made to calm the anxiety-ridden ghoul into submission, but she's a woman of her word. Not only would they make it out of there, but make it out together. To walk out on him is to ignore the past month and a half they've spent bonding despite their differences.

When no one could work up the courage to break the silence yet, Fynn clears his throat. "You know, I'm really sorry that prick did that to you, but there isn't always a round two. Just seems like you can never really trust a ghost, huh?"

"I do not believe calling him that would be appropriate, he was like three of you once. He wasn't quite ready to take that step yet is all. And in regards to moving out, I trust she can make such a decision when she scours the rest of his notes in that little green book of hers." A new person entered the conversation, and Caroline wandered back over from her position on the front porch. She now speaks directly to Chell. "You are quite the audacious one, sugar." Chell raised an eyebrow at her unusual change in tone, and especially to use that defending Wheatley of all people.

Chell screws up her face in contemplation, trying to figure out this new woman. Come to think of it, she had no expectation for who Caroline must have been beforehand, but she had already anticipated that replacing him with a bloodthirsty ghost like her would be an incredible downgrade. Now with the notion that even someone who (god forbid) could possibly be sweet was reduced to the sociopath she was, has Chell's hope dwindling even further. Caroline extends a hand down to the younger woman sitting on the grass. "Make haste, let us begin phase one, no time like the present, darling."

"Woah woah woah hang on, Chell! Are you serious right now? What about any of this screams like a good idea to you? I mean what do you even get out of all of this other than a run down house and permanent injuries?" She stops for a moment. For a while now, she's certainly known this goes beyond the house itself for her, even before her recent… thing, with Wheatley. Truth be told, it's a tremendous amount of effort for a house, hence why it's been this way for over a century now. Maybe she's only doing it for the challenge, but that doesn't seem quite right. There's definitely something bigger at play here for Chell. It's not just about the house, or her own safety, or even Wheatley. It's for every victim it's ground down in the past, for Penelope and her family, for Doug and his probable medical debt, and for everyone it has yet to torment.

"My god, okay you've already made up your mind, haven't you? Well, what kind of friends would we be if we did actually leave you to fend for yourself? This isn't an endorsement though, so don't take it that way– just, stay out of danger so I don't have to keep buying more bandages for you, would you?"

Caroline places a hand on Chell's shoulder and squeezes gently. "I assure you, I'll take as good care of her as I can, as if she were my own daughter," she smiled sweetly. As a regular ghost she seems to give off an air much like an older aunt or grandmother, taking on a more maternal affability, a quality she was sorely lacking before. "Now, I'd like to take this chance to apologise for my recent behaviour you all witnessed, under different circumstances I would never wish to treat a guest so poorly, but He has different opinions on being hospitable to company."

She folds her arm back under her dark gray cloak, and stares slightly down at the shorter woman beside her in question. Chell can't quite meet her amber eyes, not after all the painful memories associated with that shade, so she pivots her head away from her piercing gaze. "Shall we take off then, sugar? No need to tarry, we have plenty of work cut out for us and I know just the place to start. Follow me, honey."

Just like that, the taller woman twirls on her heel, strutting away at a speed that only pressures Chell to jog after her. She wants to question where they're going, or what they're doing first, but clearly the older spirit has things neatly planned out already, and she's just dragging the other around for the ride. They pass through the unlocked gate, not even bothering to wait for the other two to leave and then lock it as the house is virtually guarded by a creature from hell. They walk almost together, Chell still staggering behind her, always just a few paces behind the determined Caroline.

"I'd like to bring you up to speed on a few things as we walk, answer some questions you may have, after all I don't think you'll be quite up to speaking to me yet if I've studied you properly." She glances back over at Chell who's still huffing from the walk, to which she bows her head again, then meekly nods. Pretty much on the money with that one. "Right, you do try my patience occasionally, but we can do this with no need for you to speak a word to me so don't you worry. So, in the case that you're wondering where we're going, the first stop is the florist, and I'm almost certain Wheatley has told you about inspiriting already since you've done it to me once before."

She taps Caroline's cloak and shakes her head. Sure, she's put flowers on graves before, but the term 'inspiriting' is entirely foreign to her. "Oh, so he hasn't yet? Well I dare say he wasn't particularly well acquainted with the dead even as a living person, so perhaps he just stumbled upon it along the way. Anyway, it's pretty importa– ugh!"

The tall ghost is yanked back following a clink on the pavement behind her. She huffs, picks up the organ key and grasps it firmly in her hand, standing up, then dusting off her ankle length gray skirt. "Right, oh dear, pardon me. It's like I've got a leash nowadays, it must have fallen out of your pocket so I'll take care of it for now. Seems like women's pockets haven't quite ameliorated even more than a century on from me, but at least you have them on your clothing. My domestic garments don't have any sewn pockets unfortunately for me… and now you," she grumbles under her breath, then continues to walk and talk, now drawing very near to the main road and the florist itself.

"As I was saying, inspiriting is a most vital concept, because not only does it invoke pleasure, but it affects real concrete change in a ghost, it quite literally is an act of imparting spirit. It's not just a play on words, the word itself means to embolden someone. When a ghost– whether they are wandering the astral plane alone or bound to a demon's every whim– is inspirited, they grow stronger in tangible ways."

Chell holds a hand in front of Caroline, stopping her in her tracks. Is she crazy? The man's been taken hostage by a demon and she suggests they make said demon more powerful? She seems to catch onto her concern rather quickly, then adjusts her explanation with practiced ease. "Very well, I see your apprehension, but worry not, it is to our advantage, sugar. The more one nurtures and strengthens the spirit, the easier they find resisting their very own shackles," she explains to Chell as she opens the florist door for her. "We will frequent here quite a bit, but leave this matter to me and all shall go according to plan."

She orders two moderately large bouquets with a range of flowers and a variety of colours in each. Chell pays for the well composed bouquets, admires how much nicer she clearly is at picking out flowers, and they depart from the store, heading over to the cemetery with Chell now matching her stride. "The flowers themselves carry importance in this ritual. Each bears a spiritual significance, its effect shifting with the apparition it is meant for. For example, he'd always give me a few gardenias or dandelions, one a symbol of peace and clarity, the other of resilience and strength. Essentially, he gave me some agency I never had, both the chance to resist with enough effort, and to see beyond the threshold of the house itself."

Caroline steps back from the grave, her gloved fingers lingering briefly over the headstone before she withdraws, leaving the fresh bouquet in place of the wilted one. The scent of damp earth and dying petals clings to the air. "I hold him in the highest esteem, truly," she murmurs, gazing at the name carved into stone. "Even after all that befell him, he never lost himself. Not entirely. Not until the day he passed."

Chell watches her carefully, then points toward the flowers in their new arrangement. Caroline follows the gesture, amusement flickering in her expression as she deciphers the silent inquiry. "Indeed, my darling, those are flowers. A most astute observation." A smirk tugs at her lips, but her tone softens. "Though I suspect you mean to ask something far more profound—speak up, if you dare."

Chell does not dare, not yet. Instead, she deliberately taps each bloom in turn. Caroline hums approvingly, understanding now. "Ah, I see. These particular species are imbued with many qualities—resilience, courage, strength, compassion… and, for you both, adoration." She traces the petals lightly as she speaks, her voice growing quieter. "You will need every advantage if He is to be kept from lashing out. While his restraint has been commendable thus far, whether a demon lets you live or not is often a matter of chance. Inspiriting tilts the scales in your favor, but without it? One can only hope to coax the remnants of good back to the surface... over time."

She turns on her heel, already calculating her next move, leaving Chell to hurry after her. Always one step ahead—physically, mentally. Perhaps even in ways she couldn't yet grasp. Chell huffs in frustration but keeps pace.

Caroline halts abruptly before a small, unmarked gravestone in the center of the path. Chell nearly collides with her before she realizes where they stand. Her stomach knots. She has seen many strange things in this cemetery—shadows moving where they shouldn't, whispers where no mouths should be. But nothing unsettles her like this dingy little cross, wedged between the cobblestones like a splinter in rotting wood. The last time she had passed it, something in her very bones recoiled. A warning. An omen. And she was never fond of those.

Caroline kneels and places the oversized bouquet before it, the flowers seeming almost comically large in contrast to the tiny, forgotten marker. She exhales, slow and measured. "You assumed this was for me, did you not?" A hint of mirth laces her tone. "As if I were so self-obsessed." She straightens, brushing dust from her skirts. "Let us hope our little helper takes the message to heart. We are in dire need of luck, and ours has run dry far too quickly."

A sudden touch.

A meek tap against Chell's hip—gentle, almost polite—but the shock of it sends her collapsing to the ground. A sharp sting lances up her arm as she lands, her injured hand throbbing in protest. She inhales sharply, biting back a curse. "Careful, sugar!" Caroline coos, offering a gloved hand. "Our messenger means no harm. He merely comes bearing knowledge." Her gaze shifts past Chell, settling on the slight figure now lingering in the periphery. "Tell me, dear one—have you two met before?"

Chell swallows hard, nodding weakly as she dusts herself off. Her gaze flickers between Caroline and the specter—small, yet unrelenting in its presence. The air thickens. The cemetery stills.

Then, the ghost speaks. "The minotaur, half man and half bull, was trapped in a labyrinth after Poseiden punished Minos for disobeying his orders to sacrifice the minotaur's father. Theseus volunteered to go, along with the help of his lover Ariadne, and slayed the creature."

Caroline tilts her head, intrigued. "Oh my, you have said this to me before, have you not? When I yet drew breath?"

The ghost does not waver. His eyes do not leave Chell. "Iter tuum divergit."

Chell stumbles back, breath catching.

No. She knows those words. She was never supposed to hear them again after–

Caroline stiffens beside her, then exhales, understanding dawning in real time. A sober expression shadows her previous curiosity.

"Your path diverges," she muses aloud. "Oh, has the revelation struck you as it has struck me, dear?"

Chell desperately hopes it has not. She swallows, heart pounding, and shakes her head.

"Don't look back, Orpheus." His voice is barely above a whisper. "That's all I can say."

They stand in the doorway to the house, procrastinating on opening that door. Even she's on edge, firmly clutching the organ key in her right hand, already anticipating what's coming soon. "You must make haste and slip past him. Just stay quiet and invisible while I distract Him, retrieve the items, and depart immediately." With the plan devised and already walked through numerous times on their stroll back, neither of them can find the strength to just open that squeaky old door. "Upon reflection, one final remark: you must return to read the Latin book he gave you, for there's certainly more inside than what your eyes skimmed. You are ostensibly falling to demoralisation, so recall he did request for you to remember him– and beyond that threshold, is not him."

There was more in that book, she says? Chell lifts her pupils, tracing around the doorframe as she ponders the situation. If she makes a mad dash for it, takes the book and the rest of the ritual's parts and makes it out unscathed, she'll get to read something from him again. Something unapologetically Wheatley, untainted and adamantly him. She reaches out to the door handle, and as she lets the ice cold air of the house waft out, so too does an uninspiring pedal tone. A D rings out through the house as Caroline enters ahead of Chell, following the sound to its source in the living room.

Chell picks the floorboards that squeak the least as she makes her way past the entrance of the house, and the repetitive, haunting note wavers as the two spirits communicate in their own way. Her heartbeat races, she can feel it in her clenched fists and jaw as she swiftly finds her way to the basement. Face to face now with the basement door, she's panicking– how slowly will she need to open this goddamn door so His wolf-like hearing doesn't get distracted? They're clearly arguing now, His piano playing becoming increasingly frantic and emotive despite only being a few notes in the key of D minor. The air in the house cools significantly more the closer she gets to the basement, and her skin is littered with goosebumps. Begging and praying that the door's hinges are drowned out by the brutal murder of the new keyboard she bought him the night prior, she does her best to act quickly and carefully.

She slips through the gap quickly at the sound of His fists coming down on the keyboard and a scuffle that's erupted in the other room, and so Chell picks up her pace while descending into the foundations of the house. Wishing she had a flashlight at this point in time, hoping to whatever deity is benevolent that the loud thudding from upstairs is just Him tossing books and not marching over, she makes her way to the bottom step. A step that just so happens to harbor the strength of two above average lemurs.

It's a miracle that step held on for dear life all that time, but her luck has truly run dry this time. The sound of splitting wood beckons the demon over in a hurry, Caroline ahead of Him already by a hair's breadth. "Chell, get out of there," a command that was howled far too late to save her now. "Ugh, out of my way, lady–"

He grabs her by the wrist, prying the organ key out of her slim hands, and pitches it across the room to the back wall. "Bloody hell, that was easy, wasn't it?" He slams the basement door shut and barricades it with the flimsy pipe on the left wall, buying them some time to get to business. He shifts his focus to the young woman clutching at her scraped up leg, shuffling across the floor of the basement and shivering from the cold– as if hiding in the shadows made her any less detectable to his hawk vision. This was the natural relationship of man and ghost, it's always been predator versus prey.

"Wow, love, you ought to be more careful in the future, watch that head of yours, it could split like a melon, you know?" He chuckles and stomps through the busted up final step, finishing the job. "You know, I was just about to look for you funnily enough, how convenient that you're right where I needed you. No need to waste time with the pleasantries, so pop on over into that boiler room, love."

She waits for a moment, straining her hearing for any sound on the other side of the basement door. Any scuffling, or sign of her to break it down and save her again was at least not audible to Chell's ears. She looks back at the tall spirit who's rapidly losing his temper even more. "Well, what are you waiting for? I've got a lot to catch you up to speed on after she took you away from me."

It was a bad idea, but so was re-entering that house anyway. There were frankly no good ideas currently, so she chooses which is most likely to leave her head attached to her shoulders. He corners her in that familiar spot, the engraving on the wall taken over by moss and cracks over the years. "I can see you took after myself in many different ways, you just don't learn from your mistakes now do you? It's time for me to have a little test of my own. You're going to talk, I'm going to watch, and everything's going to be just. Fine. Go ahead, love."

She turns her head towards the wall, He really does just want her to repeat the mantra she made for him? It was presumably designed for the young man to begin with, but in His blindly enraged state He clearly finds no time to amend the speech. However, it's the one line she will not cross just to make Him satisfied. She keeps her lips sealed. At least He hasn't laid a hand on her yet this time around.

"What– really? You're actually going to play that game with me? Look, I know you're dumb in the vocal sense of the word, but I didn't truly think you were dumb in every single definition! Is it that it's missing something? Oh… tell you what, scratch that part and say this instead."

He scrapes a word out on the wall, replacing 'moronic' with 'rotund'. She finds it really hard to contain a chuckle despite the dire situation she's stuck in, but it's left her wondering whether she reacted at some point to the weight-based insults either of them ever threw at her. "There, now you can do it."

She refuses yet again, and crumbles to the floor, hitting her head on the cool concrete beneath her. "Oh come on, you can't be serious right now– don't be daft and just say it! Blimey, you're not only stubborn but also incessantly dramatic." His head starts to clear yet again as He watches her still on the floor below him, no longer shaking now, her breath steadying to a reasonable pace. She shows absolutely no signs of the stress she's just endured, and his expression softens from His typical austere to a gentle frown. "You're alright down there, aren't you? I did warn you not to hit your head, it's not good for all your squishy insides if you do go batting it around like that."

He kneels beside her, prodding her arm, to which she does not flinch. The room begins to warm now around them, and he gingerly picks her limp form up bridal style. Her lashes flutter, and he carries her back into the main basement room, kicking the split remains of the final step to the side. "I offer to you the shape of my regret—words in abundance, though never truly enough." He could never really remember it word for word, so his paraphrasing will suffice for now. Wheatley climbs back up the stairs, retracing his steps at a leisurely pace. Using one arm, he throws open the basement door, still being watched closely by the female ghost now lurking in the corner. He flinches from her glare. "I seek atonement with no hope of mercy, for none is deserved, love," and her temper subsides at his shift in tone. She too was evidently worried about the curled up, unconscious woman in his arms. He's pursued up the staircase at a distance, still muttering to himself, seeking any way to atone for his actions. He doesn't quite finish the mantra properly, however, he just lays her carefully on the bed, and perches himself behind her back on his usual chair.

His murmurs turn to meaningless apologies now, speaking to everyone in the house and no one all at once. His moment of clarity has him stressing and reflecting. Sure, his itch to possess may be next to nothing in this form, but an even more sinister urge has replaced it. No matter how hard he tries to fight it, he's truly facing a Sisyphean task. Even right now it's there, the compulsion to hurt her in any way possible. He ruffles his hair in agony, and begins the chant once more.

Chell was baffled as to how easily she could feign unconsciousness. Admittedly, it hurt her head pretty badly, but it was convincing enough for Moloch to retreat momentarily, and the stress lifted from her shoulders. A moment's respite in this mad house is hard to come by, so she savours it, trying desperately to either fight sleep or the impulse to move in a suspicious way. He was behind her, that much she knew, but she couldn't risk opening her eyes or shifting in any way to get a better view of him. Now she knows he's still in there, and somehow it hurts her even more than before.

He could really be playing Dies Irae if you want to imagine that, it's the right key and everything so go wild.