Cake and Lies (Ch 2) The Beginning

The violent shudder came out of nowhere.

"Whoa!" Wheatley breathed, leaning away from the laptop. Balancing it on his thighs, he vigorously rubbed his arms, which were suddenly rippled with goosebumps. He gave the monstrous machine next to him a shamefaced grin. "Whoa. Heh. Dunno what happened there.... huh. Gave me the willies, a bit. Guess, uh, guess somebody was walking on my grave, as the saying goes," he said.

The thing didn't reply. She'd been shut off for a several days now as his program ran its course. Her massive mainframe towered over him, though her GL core dangled only a few feet away. Even though she wasn't awake, she was constantly writhing with small movements; the servos all over her Central Core "body" working to keep her perfectly balanced underneath the generator. When conscious, they also allowed her to manipulate her faceplate into expressions that were damn near human, which was quite unnerving, really. You didn't expect your computer to start making faces at you if you did something it didn't like.

And pretty much anything they did to GLaDOS, she didn't like.

Most everyone else – well, actually, everyone else – ignored these mannerisms, considering GLaDOS no more than a glorified computer. Wheatley, however, felt oddly compelled to treat GLaDOS like a fellow human. The way he figured it, since she controlled damn near every aspect of the labs from the floors to the lights to the neurotoxin emitters, it couldn't hurt to extend at least the basics in common courtesy.

Besides, it had just been him, his laptop, and the unconscious AI in the central chamber for almost four days now. The security guards posted just outside the door wouldn't even let him leave to use the restroom.

Wheatley did not envy the next person who needed to use the bunker housing the Emergency Intelligence Incinerator button.

The lobby had been turned into a nest of computer monitors, towers, and tangled wires. The only area off the floor that was not filled with clutter was the desk supporting the Red Phone (that  it was important enough to warrant capitals was something Wheatley often wondered about). Underneath that was where Wheatley had been sleeping the past three nights, as the heat from the computers made the lobby quite cozy.

In mild revenge for being imprisoned here, Wheatley had relaxed his uniform to the point where he was lounging around in just his wrinkled slacks and sleeveless undershirt. If he was going to be stuck in a room, he was going to be stuck in a room dressed as comfortably as possible, thank you very much. It's not like anyone was around to chastise him.

He had taken to sitting on the stairs leading to the observation platform, both to enjoy the more open area and to give himself the illusion of company. It was almost physically painful to not speak for more than an hour, and it was better to talk to GLaDOS than to himself.

Marginally.

Wheatley rested his hands on the edges of the keyboard, tapping it with his thumbs. The progress bar pulsing on the laptop's screen was close enough to the rightmost border that he wanted to scream in impatience. "Compiling almost complete. 'Bout time, really. Only been here for what seems to have been a small eternity," he muttered, extending his arms above his head and stretching, relishing the sensation. Sighing, he flopped his hands on top of his head, dragging them down the sides of his face until they met under his stubbled chin. "Four days... four long, bloody days," he grumbled, "'Don't leave until it's done,' they said. 'We'll provide everything you need; just stay and observe GLaDOS,' they said. Then I have to remind them I'm down here so they'll bring me a bloody sandwich once in a while. Not my fault they didn't tell me not to use the Red Phone unless you'd gone mad. I'd have starved, otherwise!

"Dunno what they expect me to do while the program's creating a backup, anyway. Not like I can speed along the process through the power of positive thinking or anything. But, nope, can't leave – have to stay here and 'observe' the process, stimulating as it is."

Carefully setting the laptop next to him on the stair and untangling the cords from his shins, Wheatley weaved his fingers together, turned his palms out and extended his arms, giving a soft grunt as his knuckles popped and cracked. He looked up at GLaDOS, dropping his hands in his lap. "Not saying I blame you, exactly, except... well, it is a bit your fault, isn't it?" he said. "You and your.... frankly ludicrous desire to apparently wipe out every AI but yourself. Bit selfish, if you ask me. Causing a lot of work for a lot of people – including yours truly – all because you don't want the competition." Wheatley paused, then frowned down at his knees. "Or... or something. Your, ah, your motivations are a bit on the vague-ish side; you've never really told anyone why you're acting out of sorts, after all," he admitted.

He gave GLaDOS a sideways look. "Well, I have to warn you: they're taking off the kid gloves."

Wheatley put his elbows on the stair behind him and leaned back, stretching out his long legs. "Yes, indeed, not joking around anymore," he said. He looked around in a conspiratorial fashion (as if anyone had popped in to eavesdrop in the last three minutes), then lowered his voice. "Let you in on a little secret. I'm not s'posed to know about it – I'm only a tech-3, after all, not a big hotshot robotics brainiac like Jerri – but they've come up with some kind of special project concerning you. Word on the street is..."

Wheatley paused, a thoughtful look settling on his face as he stared at the ceiling. "That's a bit of an odd phrase there, hey? I mean, it's actually quite vague, when you think about it. Where is this street, and who's putting words on it? S'posed to mean 'something that only a certain group of people know about; very hush-hush,' but if you're going around scrawling words onto pavement, you're not really being very clandestine, are you? Not exactly the best-kept secret anymore, is it?" he mused.

He shook his head. "Nevermind, nevermind. Getting off-topic. Anyway, if there were a street, and there were indeed words on it, they would say that the big shots upstairs have come up with the latest in AI inhibiting technology. Something called a 'personality core.' Dunno how they expect to power it, as you are literally in control of every terminal, port, and connection in the building, and you fry any other AI you come in contact with," he said, scrubbing the back of his head. He shrugged, dropping his hand. "Ah, well, I'm sure they have a plan. Won't have spent all the time, money, and effort into the project without some foolproof scheme of gettin' around you and powering it. Who knows? What we're doing here might even be an integral part of it."

Beep-eep!

Wheatley bolted upright, snatching the laptop towards him as he pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Enter command > backup.exe

Compiling ... please wait.

Enter command > "backup.exe" Complete

Enter command > _

The feeling of relief and jubilation that rushed through him could only have been reproduced by means of buying a lottery ticket with the last remaining vestiges of your money, then learning you'd won said lottery just as the loan shark hefted the hammer to swing at your knees. "Oh, brilliant! Absolutely, bloody brilliant! Oh, man alive, aren't you a beautiful little thing!" he breathed, running his hand down the side of the screen.

Setting the laptop back down, Wheatley leapt to his feet and bounded over to the lobby. Skidding to a halt in front of the main keyboard, Wheatley hummed to himself as he closed out all the programs. "Yes, yes, thank you, 'eject,' thank you," he muttered under his breath, clicking as he talked. Stepping back as the system worked, Wheatley did a simple dance in celebration, then plucked a thumb drive from the main tower.

He held it up in front of his face, eying it curiously. "Hunh," he said, turning it back and forth in his hand, "Funny how it takes all this mess just to sort through all your files and processes and compress them into a manageable size, but what makes you you fits onto this teeny-weeny little thing."

Looking past his hand to the sleeping giant in the chamber, Wheatley gave a soft smile. "Don't worry," he said quietly, capping the drive, "I'll take good care of this. No matter what, you're safe."

The only reply was the gentle hum of computers.

The sharp sound of the door sliding open was that much louder in contrast, making Wheatley jump. He whirled around, pulse pounding, then sagged in relief as he recognized the woman joining him. "Jerri! Man alive, you about scared the life out of me!" Wheatley said, breathless from his scare.

It was probably the only time anyone had ever said they were frightened of Jeronah Peabody – a marshmallow perched atop a kitchen knife would have been more intimidating than the rotund engineer. She was a nervous creature, always twitching and moving, and to be perfectly honest there were times when Wheatley forgot she was a woman: her mop of ginger curls lay flat on her head, she wore no cosmetics, and her uniform was (to put it kindly) unflattering to her figure. Jerri managed to work her doughy face into an expression resembling apologetic. "Yes, sorry. We, uh, wanted an update. On your progress," she said, fiddling with her tie.

A sudden feeling of unease tightened Wheatley's shoulders. "Were you lot watching me this entire time?" he asked, ignoring the urge to glance at the bunker.

Jerri shook her head. "No, just monitoring your biometrics. Scans showed an elevated euphoric response indicating project progression," she said.

Wheatley frowned. "I see how it is. A man wants a bite to eat in order to not die of starvation, he's got to pick up the 'oh-God-we're-all-gonna-die' phone, but the second something important pops up, someone comes running," he said irritably.

There was a moment of silence as the sarcasm sailed over Jerri's head. "Is that the backup?" she asked, her eyes locking on the thumb drive.

"Yup, this is her, in all of her digital glory," Wheatley said, rolling the drive over his knuckles. "We can now safely modify her programming, secure in the knowledge that if everything goes tits up we won't be left without an AI caretaker." He looked away from Jerri towards the center of the chamber, eying GLaDOS up and down. "It's a bit exciting, isn't it?" he continued with a grin. "Feels a bit like the 'eve of battle,' if you will. Valiant heroes, gearing up to fight the good fight against an ancient, implacable foe, betting all their hopes on one last, desperate ploy."

Jerri's analogy reception was just as fine-tuned as her satire identifiers. "It's just a computer," she said, her brow lowering in confusion.

Wheatley looked down at her. "Yeah, but it's a computer that's been throwing a bit of a hissy for over a decade, mate," he said. "I've reviewed the files – had quite a bit of time on my hands, past couple of days – and no matter what's been done to her, she refuses to cooperate. Works like a dream in every other aspect, never caused anyone any harm, but when it comes to AI and test chambers, she goes a bit looney for no apparent reason. No code or program or modification so far has been able to force her to cooperate for long."

He looked down at the thumb drive, bouncing it in his palm. "And no one knows why she's acting up. I've looked over the programs – again, lots of time – and she's fully capable of conversation. Just won't. No one has any idea as to the why of it, either," he said. Wheatley sighed. "If only she'd just talk to us, this whole thing would be so much simpler."

Jerri's face contorted into a sickly expression, her complexion going sallow. Wheatley caught the look, and opened his mouth to ask after Jerri's health when she butted in. "Well, if the back up is complete, get dressed. Dr. Atlas wants you," Jerri said abruptly.

Wheatley froze, his concern forgotten. "Dr. Atlas...?" he breathed. He then erupted into a whirlwind of activity, scrabbling to find the rest of his uniform. His mouth easily outpaced his movements as he began babbling in panic.

"Why didn't you say anything earlier?! Just let me go on and on like a bloody looby!" Ah, work shirt, under the keyboard -- pull that out, throw it on. Forget the buttons; button it on the elevator. "'No need for me to say anything, just let ol' Wheatley gabble on while Dr. bloody Atlas is waiting for him!' Honestly, Jer!"

Socks, socks, socks.... Well, there's one. Good enough. Shoes... shoes... Here we are! "He's only the head of our bloody department, when he's not busy being the right-hand man to the bloody CEO of the entire bloody company!" Lab coat... Right, been using it as a pillow; under the desk.

"Tie, tie, tie, tie, tie, tie, tie.... Tie! Where the hell is my tie?" Can't believe you didn't mention anything sooner, Jerry! "Are you mad?" Keeping Dr. bloody Atlas waiting! It's not like you just forget something like that! "Not like it just slips your mind!" How would you forget something like that? "You can't! You just c – AH! TIE!"

Wheatley dug the tie out of his lab coat's pocket with a triumphant flourish. "Right, come on, man! Let's go!" he said, pushing Jerri towards the door.

She resisted, trying to look back at Wheatley's makeshift workspace. "Where's the drive?" she asked.

"In my pocket, mate! Let's go!"

Allowing herself to be directed, Jerri headed down the enclosed walkway separating the Central AI Chamber from the rest of the facility. Her unhurried pace caused Wheatley no small amount of anxiety, and he bobbed up and down behind the little fat woman like a distressed kite. "Jer, um, no offense meant to your motor functions whatsoever, but is it at all possible we could maybe walk just a bit faster than the speed of smell?" Wheatley pleaded.

Jerri gave him a dirty look over her shoulder. "Trust me, I want to. But I was hoping you'd take the time to at least try to make yourself presentable. Unless you want to go to Dr. Atlas looking like... that," she said, sneering.

Looking down at himself, Wheatley decided Jerri had a point. Shirt unbuttoned, tie in hand, shoes unlaced... he would still look like a hot mess, given that there had been a distinct lack of ablutionary facilities in the Central Chamber, but he had to do what he could. Holding his tie with his teeth, Wheatley's fingers flew over his shirt buttons, and he had to be careful not to trip over his trailing shoelaces.

The fight with his tie lasted the remainder of the hallway and most of the elevator ride, until Wheatley gave in to his frustration and simply tied it in a haphazard square knot. "Where's Dr. Atlas at, anyhow?" he asked as he knelt to finally tie his shoes.

"The application corridor."

Wheatley's fingers stilled over the laces. He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and tried to force his voice into something resembling a casual tone. "Oh? He, uh, w-want me to, uh, meet him somewhere – anywhere – else, after he's done?" he asked, not looking up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wheatley saw Jerri's feet turn towards him. "No, he'd like you to meet him in the interview room," she said, though she did sound sympathetic about it.

Closing  his eyes, Wheatley dropped his head into one hand. "He's been waiting four days to get me back in there, hasn't he?" he groaned.

"She hasn't said a word since you started the backup," Jerri admitted.

"Brilliant," Wheatley muttered. He opened his eyes and finished tying his shoes, though his movements could not be considered enthusiastic by any stretch of the imagination.

---

Wheatley stared at the wooden door in front of him. Jerri had abandoned him, not even wanting to be in the same hallway as the test subject. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, trying to psyche himself up. "Just knock on the door, mate," Wheatley told himself, his voice barely audible. "Just knock on the door, stroll on in, sit in the corner, and don't attract any attention to yourself. All you gotta do."

His hand didn't move. "Yup, just lift up your hand, form the fingers into a fist, then rap your knuckles on the door. Usual amount of knocks is three, though two can also be considered acceptable," he said. Still nothing. "Doesn't even have to be a fist, really. As long as the fingers are at least slightly curled, in order to bare the knuckles, the hand can be in any kind of shape you want."

Nope. "You could go with the old, 'middle knuckle slightly raised' technique," he continued, "Though the 'two-fingered claw' shape has been gaining popularity recently. No, no, keep it simple, just use the fist."

Wheatley squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. "Just do it. Just... lift," he breathed, and his hand raised as if hypnotized, "And... kno-Idon'twanttodoit!" Wheatley scuttled back against the far wall, clutching his hand to his chest as if it burned. "Oh, bloody hell, I'll admit it, I do not want to go in there again. I can't. Can't do it, sorry, tried, nope, not possible," he said, watching the door as if he expected it to attack him.

Then, to his horror, the door opened, and he was suddenly meeting the eyes of one Dr. Gregory Atlas. Wheatley instantly felt like he had shrunk, despite actually being almost half a foot taller than the other man. There was something about Atlas' cool blue eyes and narrow, angular face that just radiated dominance and control. Even his wrinkles and the wings of gray at his temples only contributed to the effect. Where Wheatley was gawky and awkward with his height, Atlas – no small man, himself – was refined and elegant. He was everything Wheatley was not: calm, graceful, respectable.

Wheatley was suddenly acutely aware of his disheveled appearance, and idly wondered if it was at all possible to just melt with shame.

"Ah, Dr. Wheatley," Atlas said, his deep voice cultured in a way Wheatley could only dream of ever achieving, "I heard you had finished your task. I was just coming to find you."

His mouth curling in a rictus grin, Wheatley forced out a laugh he straightened, his hands snapping down to his sides. "Ah, n-no, no, Dr. Atlas! No need for you to, ah, trouble yourself. As you can see, I'm right here, just about to knock on the door," he said, gesturing with his still-closed fist. Wheatley jerked his fingers apart and ran them through his hair, giving another nervous chuckle.

Atlas smiled. "So I see," he said, his tone warm. He stepped back and extended his arm inside the room. "Well, since you no longer have to worry about knocking, why don't we both go inside?"

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no!!!

"Of course, Dr. Atlas," Wheatley said, trying to walk through the doorway with as much dignity as he could manage.

The entire Aperture facility was designed to look clinical and sterilized, with fluorescent lighting and plain walls. This room took it to a ridiculous level, the walls, ceiling, and floor blending together in an edgeless white. There were only three pieces of furniture in the room, all of which were also white: two office chairs that could have been plucked from any other room in the facility, and a massive one that looked to have been constructed with restraining an infuriated gorilla in mind.

Strapped to the third chair was a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, slumped with her head down and her dark brown hair covering her face. Against the unrelieved white, her orange jumpsuit was almost painful to look at. Her bare feet dangled a few inches off the floor, and she was absolutely motionless.

Motionless, that is, until Wheatley took a seat in the chair furthest away from her. Wheatley heard her give a sharp sniff, and her head snapped up, her strange-colored eyes boring into him.

Wheatley swallowed again and smiled, hoping it didn't look as trembling as it felt. "H-hallo, m-miss! How-how are you? Doing? Today?" he asked, his hesitance blatantly evident.

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and her lip curled away from her teeth in a silent snarl. Wheatley's stomach felt as if it had suddenly shriveled up and died.

Atlas chuckled as he closed the door. Walking to the remaining chair, he picked up a clipboard from the cushion and took his seat. "That's the first time she's reacted to any stimuli since you went to tend to GLaDOS," he said. He looked at the woman. "Hello, test subject. Are you prepared to cooperate today?" he asked.

The woman never stopped glaring at Wheatley. "I am always prepared to cooperate, doctor," she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Wheatley couldn't meet her eyes for more than a few minutes at a time. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to find something – anything – to look at that wasn't her.

Atlas smiled and said, "Yes, of course. Will you answer my questions?"

The woman ignored him. "While you've always appeared to use your personal hygiene as an assault against my senses, I would like to applaud your particularly notable efforts today," she sneered at Wheatley, her voice getting stronger and more smooth. "I think I can actually taste how bad you smell from all the way over here. Did you actually manage to forget how to dress yourself? Believe me, it wouldn't strain my credulity very much if you admitted you had."

Wheatley's eyes narrowed for a split second, but he chased away the flash of anger and shame. He set his teeth together, refusing to acknowledge the woman – he was not going to get drawn into bickering with her again. And this time, I mean it. So don't mind me, I'm just a fly on the wall. Just a tiny, unnoticeable presence, nobody important. No need to acknowledge me whatsoever.

"I'll take your lack of an answer as agreement. I can't think of a single other reason why you aren't launching into an idiotic diatribe."

As always, Atlas did not interfere, his only reaction being to take notes. He says it's for Science, but sometimes I get the feeling he just likes watching me get humiliated, Wheatley grumbled inwardly.

Undaunted by his silence, the woman kept up her verbal attack. "I suppose I should thank you for finally learning to keep your mouth shut. If the rest of you is any indication, your breath could probably peel paint," she said.

A small muscle began fluttering in his cheek as Wheatley's jaw tightened. I won't respond, I won't respond, I won't respond, I won't respond... he chanted.

"Admit it. You're not being polite, are you?" the woman asked scathingly. "You don't care anything about my delicate sensibilities. Your tiny little brain just can't come up with a response yet. Don't worry, moron, I'll wait."

"I'm not a moron," Wheatley snapped automatically, glaring at her. A split second later, he remembered himself and looked away, hunching his shoulders.

"Yes, you are," the test subject insisted.

"Well, if I'm such a moron, why can't you do something as simple as answer a bloody question, hey? It's only taken you a month-and-a-bloody-half to get to page three!" Wheatley retorted.

The woman sneered. "Because if I can remember my Unique Identity Number (Plus Letters) – 90ef0f7f7e10289f221811cb659fff14a48055ff99b378185212d9b6632732d4, by the way – letting you know Franklin's favorite letter is 'q' isn't worth my time. Not that I would expect a moron like you to understand that," she said scathingly.

Wheatley's lips thinned. "I am not a moron," he growled.

The woman's expression was more a baring of her teeth than a smile. "You are a moron. A smart person wouldn't have just been standing in the middle of a hallway, trying to figure out why the alarms were going off. An intelligent person would have gotten out of my way and not tripped me up and ruined my escape," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut. "The next time I get free, you can rest assured I'll kill you before I go, just to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Oh, for the love of – !" Wheatley started, running a hand over his hair. "For the last time, I'm sorry! If I'd known you were a bloody violent lunatic with the emotional stability of a house of cards in an earthquake, I'd have helped you escape!" He met her eyes, frowning. "And I don't know where you got this idea that I intentionally let you blunder into me, but I didn't! I'm not that kind of person!" he added plaintively.

"Of course not. You may be a moron, but you're smart enough to be a coward, too."

"I am NOT a moron!" Wheatley snarled. He blinked, realizing he had half-risen from his chair, his hands balled into fists. Swallowing, he forced open his hands, settling back into his chair. He looked at the test subject, whose knowing smile sent a chill down his spine.

She'd been goading him, again. And he'd almost fallen for it. Again. If he'd gotten close enough to actually hit her...

Just because she was strapped to a chair did not mean she was not dangerous if you happened to get in range. There was empirical evidence of that.

Poor Dr. Henry, Wheatley thought, looking down.

Wheatley jumped as a knock sounded at the door. Atlas narrowed his eyes, frowning as he stood. "I left explicit instructions we were not to be disturbed," he murmured, irritation edging his tone as he moved to the door.

While Atlas conversed with the interrupter in low voices, Wheatley's eyes were drawn back to the test subject, who was still smiling at him. Taking any chance to torment him, she slowly ran her tongue over her upper lip. Wheatley's answering shudder was one of revulsion.

Mostly.

"Dr. Wheatley?"

Wheatley whirled, surprised. "Yes, Dr. Atlas?"

Atlas stood with a familiar-looking security guard – Rick, Wheatley believed his name was.

Rick "No-You-Can't-Leave-The-Room-Not-Even-to-Piss"-erson.

Atlas was frowning at Rick, the older man's face was dark with frustration. "I'm afraid we must cut our session short for now. It seems the president would like to have a word with you," he said, his expression making no secret of his opinion on this development.

At this point, Wheatley's ability to feel shock and dread gave up in disgust. "What?" he said numbly.

Dr. Atlas' frown deepened. "You heard me, Dr. Wheatley. You can't keep him waiting," he said sternly.

Wheatley slowly rose to his feet, pointlessly adjusting his poorly-knotted tie. "Oh. Right. Right, then," he said.

He was almost out the door when the test subject spoke.

"Dr. Wheatley."

Against his better judgment, he turned. She was still smiling at him, her hooded eyes alive with amusement. "Your pocket's undone," she said.

Wheatley looked down, and sure enough, his left breast pocket had come unbuttoned. "Oh. Well. Thank you. That's... that's very nice of you. Thanks," he said politely, quickly amending the pocket situation.

"You're welcome," the test subject replied sweetly. "We wouldn't want you to look like a moron in front of your boss, now would we?"

Her mocking laughter followed Wheatley as he stormed out of the room before being was cut off by the door slamming shut. "I look like a bloody moron, hey?" Wheatley grumbled to himself, "What kind of freakshow has yellow eyes, anyway?"