Another Believer

The Pledge

Wheatley paced outside of the meeting rooms, going through his notecards, mouthing along to his speech, and trying out different vocal inflections along the way. His invention felt heavier than its estimated weight in his Aperture-branded duffel bag which he protectively held under his arm. It carried so much more than the cylinder of violet goo. It carried the result of countless sleepless nights in the lab. The proof that he was capable of critical thinking and ingenuity. The only good, fully realized idea he'd ever had. It carried what felt like his last hope to make something of himself at Aperture Science.

The weight of his career and self-worth was in that can of paint. All 5 kilograms of it.

A distinct cough caught his attention. He recognized the forceful expiration followed by a rough, mucous punctuation. That cough belonged to the deteriorating lungs of Cave Johnson.

The sound echoed off the walls, not making it any easier to find him in the expansive maze that was Aperture. Once he located the source, Wheatley collected his cards, tucked them into the side pocket of his bag, and chased after the CEO.

"Mr. Johnson! Sir!" Wheatley shouted as he stumbled his way across the catwalks, trying his best to bump into as few people as possible. "If I could just- oh pardon me- have a moment of your time!" His feet entangled themselves, causing him to trip and fall face-first onto the metal grate. Accompanied by the rattle and crash of his body hitting steel, there was a distinct sound of metal on metal. He unstuck his face from the floor to see his invention rolling across the catwalk, over the edge, and into the abyss.

His heart dropped in tandem with the can. His life's work, lost at the bottom of a pit among the piles of dilapidated machines and scrap accumulated from years of science. Helplessly, Wheatley lay on the cold floor, awaiting the distant thud that would fully cement his newest failure. Instead, he was met with a familiar Southern drawl from below.

"Think you dropped this!" Grady said from the lower catwalk, can in hand. One of the engineers had come to his rescue. Wheatley scrambled to his feet to jump for joy. Before he could thank him, the engineer switched the can to his prosthetic left arm and wound up. "Catch!" he yelled before lobbing the purple paint can into the air. The already frantic Brit outstretched his arms and by some miracle, grabbed it with a goalie-style body catch.

His skinny arms wrapped around the cold cylinder like a mother clutching her newborn. Shoving it back into his bag, he shouted a grateful, "Thanks, mate! I owe you one!" over the railing and took off running.

Meanwhile, Cave Johnson, his assistant, Caroline, and a couple of other employees snuck into the CEO's office. "I think we lost him," Johnson whispered. The group let out a sigh of relief.

"I swear that guy is a lawsuit waiting to happen," said Mr. Campbell, a curmudgeonly man in his mid-fifties. Or "one of the bean counters" as Cave would call him.

"I can't tell if he's more dangerous to himself or others," added Dr. Russo, a younger scientist with a special name tag, designating his role in the Test Chamber Design Department.

Caroline spoke up. "It wouldn't hurt to hear him out." The men turned to her, bewildered at her suggestion.

"Wouldn't hurt?" Campbell repeated incredulously. "Last time we 'heard him out' we ended up with that 'acceleration gel' and you remember how that turned out."

"So much blood..." Russo whispered, his eyes staring at nothing as he recalled the events of the infamous Aperture Office Christmas Party of 79' in vivid, grisly detail.

Cave sat in his executive chair where his assistant stood by his side. "Mr. Johnson, where would this company be if we didn't listen to the innovative minds of our scientists?"