Wheatley

The pole clanged as it hit the bars of the cage. Wheatley poked the motionless body of the Ampelope a few more times just to be sure, before wheeling the cage away to a waiting dragon by the door.

“This one can go in the incinerator,” he told them.

The dragon nodded and scurried away with the cage, looking almost like they were glad for an excuse to leave. Wheatley watched them go with a sense of curiosity. Were they scared? There was really nothing to be scared of in the laboratory, except GLaDOS. Maybe it was GLaDOS they were scared of? If so, they were in the same boat as him.

He wasn’t scared of GLaDOS. That was what he liked to tell himself. He was just wary. Something about GLaDOS gave him the distinct impression of a crazed genius, and he had no doubt that she was the type to go to absurd lengths just to ensure she got what she wanted. Wheatley hummed to himself as he re-entered the laboratory, glancing over at GLaDOS’s work. She was gazing at a chart, eyes narrowed, her expression calculating. Wheatley shivered. He turned away, preferring to dive into the rows and rows of used subjects.

“Hey, little buddy,” he cooed at a young Butter Caiman.

The poor creature snapped its jaws at him, tucking itself into the corner of the cage furthest from him. It was one of the very few subjects still alive, as GLaDOS hadn’t gotten to it yet. But as though it could sense the stench of death that lingered in the air, the caiman was on high alert. Wheatley smiled crookedly, leaning a little closer. He could see the infantile fear in its eyes.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he crooned. “Daddy’ll take care of you.”

He reached for the pole and inserted it through the bars, only for the caiman to lock its jaws around it and thrash, obviously trying to wrest it out of his grasp. The cage rattled and shook against the metal rack it sat on, and above the noise came GLaDOS’s cool warning: “Keep it down, Wheatley.”

Wheatley wrenched the bar from the caiman’s mouth, frowning in displeasure. “No fun,” he muttered, shooting a furtive glare at GLaDOS’s broad back. “Won’t even talk to me, then goes and complains when I talk to her goddamned animals.”

He continued down the row, still holding the now tooth-marked bar. He remembered every single one of GLaDOS’s subjects, even if she didn’t. He'd had conversations with them when they were still alive. It was a stark contrast to seeing them lifeless and stiff after GLaDOS’s experiments.

But Wheatley had grown used to it. He’d grown used to talking to corpses. He’d grown used to not calling them his friends even when they were alive, because he knew they were on their way to their execution.