Wheatley's Nights at Freddy's: Chapter 5

"S-space friend?"

"Fact: the ID core is still not talking."

Wheatley retained his deadpan expression.

"C'mon, we just wanna know h-how your day went! We missed it the f-first time!"

He twitched, far too many sparks shooting out of his casing.

"Come on, ID! Y-you can tell us!"

He twitched again, optic narrowing, and finally lifted his faceplate. "I-I-IT wWWwent BLO—krrrtz—ODY Fi-I-I-i-iI—" Another nasty spark shot out of his casing, and his frame racked with a few static-filled coughs.

Rick, meanwhile, was quite literally rolling with laughter, as much as he could with his lower handle still hooked around Fact's. "That's the greatest—g-greatest thing I've heard all week!" the Adventure Core choked out between laughs.

"B-bl—krrrz—dy hi-I-I-I-llllari—krrrz—ous…" Wheatley managed to croak out, shaking his faceplate in annoyance.

He had discovered rather quickly that without his lower handle it was incredibly difficult to sit upright—it could be done, but only with a lot of concentration. So after a while of rolling he had finally tipped onto his side. At least he was stable that way, but unfortunately it meant that he was perpetually facing all the corrupt cores unless he shifted his face and inner mechanisms into some uncomfortable position. And currently, he was treated with the annoying sight of a certain corrupt core's mocking him.

"Stop that," Fact Core demanded, his downturned upper handle giving away the annoyance that his monotone voice could not convey. Rick's rolling was causing him to shift around, the bottom of his casing scraping against the floor.

"Make me, pinky!" Rick growled, dropping his laugh to glare at the other core.

"If you insist." And Fact jerked himself backward, yanking Rick forward and causing the two cores' faceplates to collide with a CLANG. "Fact: ow."

"A-at l-l-lea—krrrrtz—st you hHHHAve l-lower ha—krrrz—dles," Wheatley grumbled. He felt a light tap at his side, and glanced over to see that Space Core had scooted himself closer and was attempting what Wheatley could only assume was a consoling pat with his upper handle.

"It's okay s-space friend!"

Wheatley gave a slight smile.

"H-handle will—g-grow back!"

Plink, plink. "R-really?" he asked, optic widening in amazement. "W-w-EEll, th-A-A-At's g-good to kn-kn—krrrrtz."

"But your voice will not recover without repairs," came Fact's muffled voice.

Wheatley's face plate clunked against the floor, and he gave a groan of despair.

"Quit your belly-aching!" Rick said, pushing himself away from Fact's faceplate. "I think it's an improvement."

The broken core's optic swiveled in Rick's direction. "Y-y-YEA—KRRRZ—" Twitch.

"Sure. It actually makes you shut up sometimes! HAHAHAHA—!"

Attempting a growl and winding up making a static hiss instead, Wheatley spun his faceplate and fixed Rick with a glare. "You-U-u-U-U wouldn—KRRRTZ be lAUghing if-f-f-f you work-k-ked th-this blooOOOdy j—KRRRTZ."

"You're nothin' but a sissy, ID!" Rick countered with a roll of his optic. "Any core with half your processing power could do that job. It doesn't even require muscles! Which I have, by the way." He flexed his upper handle, smacking Fact in the optic and sending the core's inner casing spinning.

"I-I'm not a SI-krrrrrtz—"

"What was that? Not a…?"

"I'm—KRRRRTZ—a s-sissy!"

"Oh, so you admit it! HAHAHAHA!"

When Fact Core straightened out his casing, he looked like he would have very much liked to smack his lower handle against his faceplate.

Wheatley would have very much liked to do the same, but, lacking a lower handle, he flipped himself over in his casing to face the back wall instead.

"Space friend o-okay?"

The broken core's vocal processor replied with a bark of static, and he left it at that.

"Don't pay any mind to him, Space. He's just sore 'cause he doesn't have the guts or brains to do his job properly."

"Cores do not have guts or brains."

"Yeah? Well I got both, alongside some killer muscles—"

"You do not have muscles. You have a handle that you smacked me in the face with."

"Want me to do it AGAIN?!"

Wheatley was pretty sure the four of them were growing more corrupt by the second at this point.

So it came as almost a relief to him after a voice finally spoke up from the omnipresent speakers: "Well, I hope you've enjoyed a nice, peaceful rest among your fellow lunatics."

"Yeah! Lunatics! Crazy! C-crazy about space!"

Wheatley dully glanced up at the ceiling.

"How is your vocal processor holding up?"

"F-faaan—krrrrtz —bloo-o-o-o-dy—ta-a-a—KRRRRTZ—stic." He twitched.

"That's what I thought. How fortunate that your voice is not necessary for your job. If it were, you would probably be dead." She paused. "Though you'll probably die regardless." As usual, her claw reached down from the ceiling to grab him. "Anyway, back to work."

The claw clamped around his frame, and Wheatley wasn't all that sorry to leave.

Until he got to the office.

As soon as he was brought into the dimly-lit room, the fear came back to him—he was back here again, trapped for six hours with these killer androids that had mutilated him just last night—what was to stop them from doing that again? He couldn't move or run from them, or just ignore them—oh, he would rather deal with three annoying cores taunting him than four terrifying androids stalking him…!

And to make matters worse—

"L—laa—a-a—DY!" he yelped as the claw set him on the stool, and he immediately lost his balance, rolling backward off the perch.

Graciously the claw replaced him. "Oh, I'm sorry. It appears that without your lower handle, you'll have a more difficult time balancing on your seat."

Wheatley looked up at the speaker with an expression somewhere between hope and desperation. "Y-y-EA-KRRrrrrz… C-can you—"

"I suppose you'll just have to be extra careful, then."

He twitched and his remaining handle drooped. So much for that. When the claw let go again he made a conscious struggle to keep himself from rolling, his inner mechanisms starting to work overtime.

As stupid as Wheatley was, he had at least picked up on a pattern at this point—every time he was brought here, she would announce some new, horrible thing for him. "S-so… wh-krrrtz—is it-it-it th-this time?"

"Hm?"

"Wh-wha-a-AT is n-new?"

"You were honestly expecting me to tell you every night? I thought you might like a nice surprise every once in a while."

Wheatley gave a yelp that glitched into something between a turret's cry and a radio's screeching.

"So I'll leave you to it. I'd advise you get started checking those cameras, since while we've been talking, the clock has ticked past midnight, and the androids have become active. Have fun."

Beep.

Optic contracting, he scrambled with the cameras to access the one facing the show stage, only to find that the rabbit was already gone. He would have very much liked to shout a few unsavory things at GLaDOS, but he couldn't think of any in his panic, and his glitching vocal processor probably would have rendered them indecipherable anyway.

"Bloody ridi-i-i-i-i—" His voice broke off with a twitch, and he nearly lost balance. That rabbit is the worst, he thought as he switched through the cameras to find it. He finally checked the backstage camera and gave a choked cry at seeing it with its face right against the camera.

The permanent smiles on the animal masks made it difficult to tell, but if Wheatley didn't know any better, he would have sworn that thing was grinning at him.

It was the same expression it had been making last night, when it…

Wheatley shuddered and turned off the camera. "If-f I d-dreamed, tha—KRRTZ—thing w-would give mE nightm—krrrrtz." That was one good thing—he didn't sleep. Yes, count your blessings—that's what he would have to do. A lot of bad things were happening, so he should think about all the bad things that weren't happening.

No nightmares, no screaming androids at the moment, um… He narrowed his optic in thought. And… um… no… no financial troubles. Blinking, he shrugged his upper handle. I'm not getting paid, so a low pay check'd be the icing on the bloody cake. He rolled his faceplate.

Flipping the camera back on, he looked at the stage to find that the bird was now gone as well. Wonderful. It wasn't even 1 AM yet, and those two were already out and about. "Th-this cAN't p-possi-krrtz—g-get any w—"

Wheatley's vision flickered.

"WHA-A-a-a-A—" He jumped almost completely backward, mechanisms whirring audibly as he tried to restabilize himself, his vocal processor emitting a static-filled panting noise. That hadn't been the camera—that was his optic. First his vocal processor, then his lower handle, now his optic? What next? Was his auditory sense going to go screwy too?

As if on cue, his vision flickered yet again, visions of glaring androids flashing before him, accompanied by a low robotic mumble.

"N-NOTE TO BL—KRRRTZ—DY SELF—D-DO NOT T-T-t-TEMPT f-ATE!" he wailed, snapping his optic shut until the visions passed. She was doing this on purpose—she had to be! "I-is this the sur-krrrtz-prize you w-were talking ab—" Twitch, spark.

Unless this wasn't her, and this was actually something the androids were doing… but why? Were they trying to drive him bonkers or something? Maybe—maybe if they drove him over the brink, he would be easier for them to tear apart, and—

He shuddered. "O-okay, pull y-y-yourself t-together," he whispered, pulling up the camera again. All he had to do was watch the androids for another—what—five hours, and then he would be taken back to the corrupt core bin. It was so much better than here…

The camera focused on Pirate Cove, and Wheatley gulped at the sight of the android there pulling aside the curtain with its shiny new hook. Well, actually, no, it was not shiny or new, because it was his former handle. Hope you bloody enjoy that, mate, he thought, glaring a little. You're not getting this one. Switching off the camera, he looked up, indicating his own handle with a wave. It was all he had left—if he lost that, he'd be nothing more than a bloody football. A metal football. One for those androids to kick around. Maybe they would hurt their feet doing that—he hoped so.

…What was he doing again?

Blinking, he shook himself out of his completely off-track thoughts and focused instead on the time. It was past 1 AM, at least, though he wasn't so sure just how far past 1 AM it was. Why did these clocks only give the hour, anyway? Clocks usually told the minutes, and seconds, and… nano… micro… hours, or something.

But at least he'd gone an hour without being attacked, right?

Hehehahaha…

"WhAT?!" Wheatley cried, voice warping to a higher pitch as he switched his camera to the stage. Of course it was empty. "N-no! You—krrrtz—I-I d-IDN't g-krrrtz-ive you p-permISSIOn to l-l-l-leave the st-stage!"

Not that these androids needed permission to do anything—no, they just waltzed around wherever they liked, stealing parts off of an already-helpless core. It was… it was bloody unethical, that's what it was. Unethical and… probably illegal. He'd report them to the authorities for sure, if the authorities weren't GLaDOS.

Wheatley's optic spun, and he gave a pained twitch. His thoughts were getting disorganized—more so than usual. The stress of this was getting to him, and he was honestly a little surprised he hadn't cracked yet. Surprised, but not ungrateful—he would very much like to keep his sanity, even if he couldn't keep his life.

Switching the camera to the dining area, he flinched at seeing a pair of glowing white eyes staring at him from a dark corner. "H-hello!" he squeaked, flinching. "G-g-good to s—krrtz—you're getting y-y-yOUR exers—KRRRRTZ." He twitched again, and cringed as his vision flickered—he couldn't keep an eye on this stupid android if his vision kept doing this. "S-st-stay rIGHt the-e-e-e-ere—!"

He closed the camera and shook his faceplate, trying to rid himself of the visions that were attacking him yet again. They were images of androids, but something was off about them…

Not wanting to find out just what that was, he turned the camera to Pirate Cove, trying to focus through the flickering images so he could see the android there. Strange, though, that as hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to see any hint of the thieving robot…

StampstampstampSTAMPSTAMP…

The word Wheatley shouted was not one that could be found in the dictionary, but he was too scared out of his mind to care. The electromagnetic door to his left slammed shut, and immediately he heard the bang, bang, bang of the android's pounding on the door, as well as the grating screech of metal-on-metal as the thing dragged its hook over the barrier.

Wheatley contributed to these noises with a terrified whimper as he pulled himself as far into his casing as he could go, keeping his remaining handle clenched in a vice grip over his body. All the while, the visions continued to assault him, the killer androids appearing and disappearing before him, their optics narrowed maliciously… and suddenly he could tell what was wrong with them.

One optic was white, the other blue.

"NO!" he screamed, shutting both his optic and the other door. "Y-Y-YOU'RE N—KRRTZ—NOT G-G-G-gett-ING M-M-MY OPTIC! Y-YOU'VE G-GOT T-T-TWO OF Y-O-O-O-OooooUUR BL—KRRRTZ—DY OWN!" His artificial, useless breathing made him sound like he was hyperventilating before that degenerated into whispers of static. It was only then that he realized that the pounding at his door had stopped, it was past 2 AM, and he was already below 50% power.

Part of him wondered if this wing of the facility's power was tied to his own, because suddenly he felt rather drained. His internal mechanisms finally gave up on the effort of keeping him balanced, and he tipped to his side.

He wasn't going to survive the night, was he?

With a slight twitch, he opened the doors and turned on his flashlight, straining to see out into the hallways. Both were empty, but they probably wouldn't stay that way for long.

Hehehaha…

"O-oh for—" his voice broke off into static, and he searched the cameras for the rogue bear again. It was hard to spot since apparently it was quite fond of hiding in the shadows. After switching back and forth between cameras for a while, he was starting to wonder if this was even worth it—if it would somehow help him to play hide-and-seek with the bear even as his power steadily drained. Part of him was tempted to just give up and shut the doors, hoping they would last until the clock struck 6, but with four—no—three hours left and only 39% remaining, he really doubted it.

A faint whispering sounded from outside his room, and with a gasp the core flicked on his flashlight and shone it in the right door.

The bird's optics were dark save for the flickering white pinpricks, and it was hunched visibly, moving toward the door in an unnatural, erratic shamble.

To heck with the power. Wheatley shut the door, his own optic a shuddering pinprick as he stared at the window, waiting for the bird to rear its terrifying head again.

An unearthly shriek sounded from the opposite side, and he swung his flashlight in that direction just in time to see the rabbit grab at its purple mask and tear it away, exposing the bare, twitching endoskeleton head beneath.

The other door crashed downward, and Wheatley twitched, his sparks briefly lighting the dim room. Wondering if either of those things had actually happened, he glanced at the hall cameras. Each showed the two androids staring up at him, their heads twitching erratically. But at the same time, he swore he could still hear them scratching at the doors. What was real? What wasn't? Did it even matter anymore?

He twitched again and gave a strangled gasp when he saw the bear in front of him, its suit yellowed with age, but with another twitch, it was gone. There were still androids at both doors, whispering and mumbling and scratching, and there were ones in the hallway, waiting. His vision flickered and blurred again and the pirate was in his room, the stolen handle outstretched so close to him that he could count the wires sticking out. With a blink, it was gone.

The visions came and went, the androids clawed at the door, and Wheatley's attention turned to the accusing 8% in the corner of his vision. This was it—he was really going to die here—there was no way out, this job was really going to kill him—this—

…Wait.

A thought struck him, and he was too dazed with terror to tell just how ludicrous it was. But what did he have to lose at this point?

"LA-A-A-ADY!" he cried, fighting with his broken vocal processor. "I'VE G-GOT SOME N-N-E-E-e-e-e-e-EWS F-FOR Y—KRRRTZZzzzz…"

No, no, focus, he had to speak clearly, just this once—

"I QUIT!"

At first he thought it hadn't worked, and he almost gave into despair when an audible hum filled the entire wing, giving way into silence.

"You what?"

Wheatley tipped completely off of his stool, giddy with excitement as he swung from the cable he was connected to. "I-IT WORK—I-I m-m-mean, yES! I q-qui-i-i-i—krrrtz…"

"Really."

"YES!" he cried, twitching and showering the floor with sparks.

"But you have such a promising future here."

Wheatley was about to argue that being used for parts didn't sound all that promising to him, but she went on:

"It's much better than the fate that awaits you if you give up."

Wheatley made a glitched scoffing noise that sounded more like an electronic bark than anything else. "Y-y-y-EAH ri-i-i-ight, m-mate! Wh-whAT c-could p-possi—krrrtttz—be w-worse?"

It was amazing, really, how quickly Wheatley could regret a decision.

One moment he was in a moldy office, wishing he were out of there—somewhere where it wasn't dark, where killer androids weren't threatening to rip him apart, where he wasn't perpetually scared out of his mind…

And the next moment he was out of there, immediately wishing he hadn't wished he was away from that wing—where there weren't lights so bright they hurt his optic, where there were no constant cries of dying turrets, and where he was not on fire.

His systems retched in racking coughs as smoke sputtered out of his casing, and the bottom of his casing still smarted from when he'd banged against a surface of rusted metal after she had thrown him here, into the incinerator. The metal held him above the fire, but that didn't stop the flames from occasionally lapping his casing and inexplicably setting him aflame. He rolled in his casing until the fire was out, but it would start again in a few minutes.

"A-at l-l-leaST it's oo-o-o-only a b-bloody yEAr of th-this," he stammered. "C-can't g-get any w—"

CLANG.

CLANG.

"THE SUN! Are we in the sun?!"

"F-f-fact: the current temperature is three thousand nine hundred and twenty-seven-point-oh-eight Kelvin."

"O-oh bloody h-heck," he groaned, rolling his optic away from the other cores.

"I've been told that misery loves company, but I haven't had the chance to test the veracity of that statement until now. So I suppose your change of employment wasn't a total waste. Thanks for that."

Wheatley twitched his optic upward, and, failing to find the speaker, turned to look at his new incinerator-mates instead. "Y-y-you are th-the perfect blo-o-o-o-ody comakrrrrtz…"

"SPACE FRIENDS!" Space Core cried, seemingly unaware of the flames that danced around him.

"Only 27.2% of misery loves company," Fact Core droned, shaking the soot off of his face.

Wheatley winced, waiting for the third core to begin mocking him again… then blinked, turning his optic this way and that. "Er… g-guys?" he asked, and the two cores turned to face him.

"Wh-where's Rick?"

"It's fortunate you were around when the previous security guard found employment… elsewhere."

He twitched his half-lidded optic up to the speaker in the corner before looking at the musty room around him again. He didn't have any olfactory sensors, but if he did, he was sure this room would've smelled like adventure. "Fortunate ID admitted to being a pansy," he said with a swagger.

"So you understand your duties here?"

"Watch the power and keep those killer androids in their place. If any of 'em gets too close, I'll karate-chop them back to the stage!"

"That's what I thought."

The speaker went offline, the clock struck twelve, and Rick opened up the camera.

How difficult could it be?