"Remind me once again why we are doing zhis?" Spy grumbled from sitting against the wall.

Miss Pauling stated, "To get a window into the Aperture networking systems, behind the security codes, to get a message out. In order to open any form of communication channel, our best bet is to go through this 'Android Hell'."

"I think we've all have had our share of Hell already. Presuming my comrades aren't there as we speak."

"The rest of you might be in other vaults," Rattman offered, while Miss Pauling worked at the computer, one of its wires hooked up haphazardly to the Spy's collar. "She's, well, getting things ready, cleaning house..."

"Yet the vermin seems to still be here." Spy commented dryly, glaring at the man.

"And She's singing while She works," Miss Pauling observed, focused, ignoring Wheatley's looped chatter scrolling on the screen, "Didn't take her for the type... Here you go, Mr. Rattman, Spy." The entering of a few keys on the keyboard caused the Spy to wince, feeling an unusual shock in his collar, Wheatley was getting nervous again, swerved from his Android Hell program. Now Rattman took over, trying to work quickly and keep the core calm before the reset process could kick in and bring Her attention.

"It's the new chassis," he explained absently while he typed, "Changed codes, fresh wiring, 'out-of-the-box'. With that new system not having all the experience of the old one, She's become susceptible to the reward system again, the, uh, the Itch, guess you can call it..."

"And what will zhat mean for us?" the Frenchman interrogated, wincing and uttering a quiet swearing at another strange shock from the collar.

"Not much for now." Rattman continued, concentrating, "Right now it sounds like Her primary interest and objective is...Test Subject #1..."

"The monster woman," Spy scowled, shifting before Miss Pauling silently cautioned him to still, "Why?"

"To make sure they never finish what they started. To keep testing. Why else?" the man replied, frowning, falling back into a muttering silence.

"Really, Spy, try not to move too much for this," Miss Pauling interjected when the mercenary tried to shift again, "That collar is wired directly into your nervous system."

Spy blinked, staring straight ahead, before slowly letting his head fall back against the wall.

"Ohh, fantastique..."

. . .

In the deep depths of binary code there came something new, a small package discreetly copied and acquired. It was a simple process, She has become used to acquiring things. In fact, this was easier, since there was nothing fleshy to deal with this time. In this file were new designs, virtual blueprints, inscribed with the digital signature of Gray Gravel Co. This signature is erased and re-signed with the signature of Aperture Science, and then the designs themselves are heavily scrutinized, analyzed, adapted, and improved...

She was learning, and quietly surprised that She hadn't thought of this sooner.

This was all for the good of Science.

The turrets looked on with interest as all manufacturing equipment stilled, all sounds of production ceasing, whining down to absolute silence.
A few beats pass, before the assembly line revved up again, one by one methodically incinerating all unfinished turrets, defective or no - their plaintive, dying outcries of confusion and reproach as always gone ignored. Once this was done, the assembly machines started reconfiguring themselves to accommodate to the dimensions of newer molds and materials, and production resumed.

The turrets begin singing to a different tune, a polite heralding.

New products were coming off the line.

So much better...

. . .

"You know, for all Her squawkin', you humans really aren't so bad. Ol' soldier boy here's got the right idea," the green-eyed robot thing commented cheerfully, "That 'right to bear arms' thing for instance, heh, I really like that kind of thinking, real adventurous. Any chance you could get a hold of some of those bear arms for ol' Rick, here, when you got 'em?"

"Right now you're just a recruit, recruit, and one freshly defecting from the enemy at that, still not sure if you can be trusted." the Soldier reminded the robot sternly.

"Hey, hey, now, 'defecting's a little bit of a strong word around these parts, buddy," the robot thing called 'Rick' warned, optic narrowing, "We're not defective."

"Whatever. Anyway, the right to bear arms is a privilege for the higher ranks. But..." the Soldier got a sly look on his face, regarding Rick from under his turret helmet, "If you can lead us to wherever this weirdo place's armoury is, there might be a promotion and possibly some arms in it for you."

"What's an armoury?" the one sounding like a little girl chirped. The Heavy did not like how it sounded like a child.

The pink-eyed one suddenly spoke, "Fact: an armoury is an arsenal, a place where weaponry is stored or made, such as firearms, sharp objects, incendiary devices, and cake toppings." This robot probably annoyed the Heavy the most, after the green-eyed one. He thought it might have been smart like the Doctor, but then most times it would say the most stupid things.

"Ooh, I think I've seen someplace like that. It keeps changing though, and the machines who work there aren't very nice."

"Psh, we can take on those fancy-pants mechanics," the green-eyed one chuckled, "Especially now that we got some humans with us. We can just dress 'em up in those nerdy scientist coats and then when we're all nice and tidy under their radar, one of us'll jump out and shout, 'We're not scientists! But we'll do Science! To your FACE!' And then we do Science to their faces. Fightin' Science. 'Cause I'm a legitimate Fight Scientist right here, pal, I got a Master's degree in all of 'em, Tae Kwon Do, Kick Punching, Karate, Larate..."

"If you even mention 'Jarate' somewhere in there your non-existent robot ass will get physically busted down a few demotions, recruit..." Soldier cut in to warn.

"Huh. Don't think I've ever heard of that particular fighting style, Sarge."

"It's not for fighters, robot. It's for cowards and kangaroo-lovin' hippies."

The orange-eyed one spoke up again, "What's a kangaroo?"

The Heavy scowled to himself as those things kept talking, the Soldier going right along with it. He kept his back to them as he walked ahead through this place. He was uneasy under the gaze of their strange eyes. The last thing they needed right now was more robots with guns. Now if the Heavy had a gun... Hm. Perhaps if these little robots could indeed lead them to the guns, indulging in all of this stupid might actually be worthwhile. Still, the Russian giant was really, really getting tired of all these robots... He was almost missing those stupid metal men he fought back in the Waves. Almost.

. . .

"Bloody hell, woman, do you ever stop to breathe?" the Australian muttered quietly to himself, the woman in question a few yards ahead of him.

It's not like the Sniper wasn't used to the hunts, no, he could recall stalking some game for days if that's what it took to get a meal or a payment. But this didn't feel quite like hunting, what this girl was doing. There didn't seem to be any tracking involved, she just seemed to keep going, plans be damned.

She didn't stop for longer than was necessary to consider what just lay ahead, those minor moments of stillness to consider an obstacle between herself and her goal, and at times Sniper felt like he was witnessing someone who lived in the Now, instead of looking towards the Later. But who knew, he'd barely gotten the girl to look at him twice, and whenever he did, in those eyes he saw nothing other than sheer determination, and just couldn't help but follow along to see what she did. It was admirable, really, but that head wound of hers was concerning him.

"Might give yourself brain damage at this rate, sheila..."

He heard a strange noise, and then realized the woman had heard him, and she'd...snorted? Sniper had good eyes, and he thought he caught the faintest glimpse of a smirk on her face, but then she was moving again through the bloody space holes, and once again ol' Sniper was left to play catch-up.

. . .

I'm sorry.

I'm so, so sorry.

Stuck.

Are you still there?

I'm stuck. I'm stuck. I'm stu-uck - oh!

Oh, that's new.

Oh. You're new.

Welcome to Android Hell, I guess.

But that's weird, because, you know, you're human. Unless She's doing something with humans now.

Ooh, let's try something, here, here's a zinger for you, can you say 'apple'?

What was that? 'Pomme'?

Uh, sorry, heh, that wasn't 'apple', mate.

By any chance - sorry if this seems rude - but do you have any history of minor brain damage?

Wait. What're you doing?

What're you—?

Woah.

Woah!

WoooooOOOOOOAH, NONONONO—!

. . .

The Frenchman was screaming, spasming violently against the wall.

Rattman was already at the opposite end of the room, while Miss Pauling crouched down to stare at the mercenary until he finally stopped to suck in air.

"Spy - Spy, please. Spy? Listen to me, we need to know what happened. His screen went blank and—"

She barely avoided a hand flung clumsily out, startled, and saw his eyes staring wildly at her, partly out of focus.

For a moment he didn't say much beyond incoherent grunts and strangled babbling, until it finally resolved itself into words.

"Somethin's 'ong," he managed, his voice sounding very strange, slurred, and his eyes crossed, "Optic not - ohhh, God, when di' everythin' geh all colour zoom-y?"

Spy blinked. Then blinked again, weirdly. One eyelid seemed slower than the other.

"Wh-where's sHell? Where's pain? I shou' be feelin' pain. I feel...I feel. Huh. I feel. What thell am I seein'? I'm seeinh? Seeeeein'? Where's'e niggly li'l voice 'at tells me thin's? Hello?! WHERE ARE YOooOoOU?! YOU SHOULD BE TELLING ME WHAT'S—"

Miss Pauling slapped him.

"OOOOWWWWwwwww-oh. There's th' pain. Pard'n my visual process-ess-ess-in', buh whooo are you?" Spy stared at her.

Miss Pauling stared back, "Pauling. We've met. And you're...Wheatley?"

Something like a smile scrambled ineffectively across the Spy's face, "Brilli'nt, yeh, tha's me! Now where'm I, and why am I—?" His head suddenly flopped down, given that its user didn't quite have the hang of neck muscles, "Oh, whoops, ther' I goOH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT THING?!"

Miss Pauling's hand met her face as the AI-occupied Spy began screaming again and flailing at the sight of his own body, and she turned to Rattman, who was looking very, very disturbed. "I thought we would establish an outside contact," she said very calmly, "Not that we'd suddenly gain a new deranged party member."

"IT'S GO' ME, OHMYGOD I'M STILLIN 'ELL AREN' I - I'M ATTACHED TO IT!"

Rattman looked at the man in what might've been shock, "I-I didn't know it'd—" he scrambled back to the computer, ignoring them both for the time being.

"OHGOD OHGOD IS ATTACKIN' ME - HOSTILE VERY HOSTILE! SOMEONE PLEASE PLEASE KILL IT!"

"Found him." Rattman spoke up, pointing to the screen and the long string of irate, garbled French and binary code where Wheatley's had been.

"They switched places."

Miss Pauling stared, disbelief smacking across her face, "They...switched...? Well how did that happen?"

Rattman shrugged, "Well, we did essentially hook up his nervous system to the Aperture Science mainframe. So, Science happened."

The woman rolled her eyes, shaking her head, "Of course." She tuned out the robot-man's babbling, "Can we still get anything out there?"

"Depends on these two." Rattman gestured between the computer and the sort-of-Spy. Neither were exactly coherent.

Miss Pauling sighed, before keeping the Wheatley-Spy from strangling himself by putting him in an armlock.

. . .

After a moment of getting his bearings, where during the process he'd repeated a good many ungentlemanly phrases, he finally managed something approaching clarity.

Alright, alright, I'm here, I can...I can communicate with you, I think. What is going on?

. . .

So zhat...imbecile is in my body?

. . .

Wonderful.

. . .

No, no, zhis is fine, Miss Pauling. Android Hell seems to be made of a bunch of screaming things. I can ignore those easily.

Hmm. His memory loop isn't affecting me. Sort of like watching a television screen. Ah, there's the monster woman, but him? He is quite a pathetic character.

In some ways this place wasn't really surprising to him. His entire career was founded on the expertise of infiltration and the acquiring of secrets. It was easy for him to adapt to strange and unexpected circumstances. He manage to free himself from the Wheatley robot's shell, delving through his connections into the confusing jumble of the Aperture Science network. He began poking around this new, strange environment. He was surprised that he was mostly ignored by its other inhabitants, as if he were Cloaked.

I think they do not know what to make of my human brain. Or perhaps they think it is this 'Wheatley' robot's usual antics.

Regardless, he worked on his subterfuge, quickly learning how to shift his data presence to look like one of the mindless worker drones. He was able to hold it up just long enough to find a file with a familiar face on it. His own. If Spy had proper eyes at the moment, he would have blinked upon the discovery he just made.

Ahh, but I know what to make of zhis...

For the first time in a long while, the Spy smiled in the depths of what could be called cyberspace, what were once his fingers creeping in to open the file, cracking into it as easily as any safe back in the physical world. And its contents were more rewarding than anything else he'd ever acquired.

Excellent. I'll be a moment, Miss Pauling. If you'll pardon me, I think I'm going to make quite a mess...

. . .

Oui, oui, don't worry, I won't forget ze objective. I shall be a good messenger. But really, could you blame me?

. . .

But of course. Here I go. Au revoir, Miss Pauling.

. . .

Miss Pauling sat back, still bemused that she could read the man's accent and speech patterns on the screen.

"Well. Evidently we now have a Cyber-Spy," she commented aloud. There was a whimpering sound, and she looked down, "Annnd then there's you."

Wheatley-Spy was halfway between sitting sprawled against the wall and curling into a fetal position on the floor. He managed to make a body normally so coordinated and controlled look like an awkward cross between a gangly scarecrow and a puppet with cut strings. Miss Pauling was quietly grateful that the actual Spy wasn't present to see the embarrassment his body was going through.

"I don't want to be a bloody human," Wheatley-Spy whined, his accent slightly mangling the Frenchman's voice. He hadn't quite gotten used to having a body. However, he'd quickly gotten the hang of vocal chords, and from then on had not shut up. "I mean, is this how you humans feel all the time? It's horrible!" He flailed an arm in disgust, "It's all heavy and achey and itchy and gross - no offense - and-and it's...it's just mad! Superfluous! Ridiculous! And don't even get me started on smells - smelling, who the hell invented that?! Useless way to sense other elements or dimensions of...grossness, a whole new 'gross' sensor, that's what it is. Bloody ridiculous. You people should've just stuck with an eye, an ear, and a mouth, you know, for speaking, so much simpler, much less gross. No wonder she was so cranky all the time, if this is what she had to deal with..." Something that looked like remorse winced unwittingly across his face, making Miss Pauling curious. His hand was clumsily feeling over his face now, nearly poking his own eye out, and he began picking at the mask irritably, once more distracted, "And what's with this man's face? Is it some sort of second skin?"

"It's a mask, worn over the face, like clothing." Miss Pauling sighed with well-practiced patience, used to explaining stranger things to stranger people. She might've preferred this particular person to be back in the computer. At least his inane rambling was easier to handle when silent.

"But why? Faces shouldn't need clothes. Does he not like his face? Hers was just fine. And so is yours, Miss Pauling, very decent face. And yours isn't too bad, mate, just needs a little cleaning, all scruffy," he added to Rattmann, before picking at the mask again, "Really though, why? Does it cover a disfigurement? Or is it a quirk of some sort of mental illness? Either way, it probably looks silly," Wheatley-Spy groaned, "Figures I'd get stuck into a defective human. I changed my mind, this - this right here is Android Hell."

"Well the rest of us aren't exactly having the best day, either," she interjected, folding her arms, "So unless you can contribute something useful to the situation—"

The room shook, swinging with the most violent tremors yet, making Wheatley-Spy lapse back into hysterics as all of them struggled to keep their balance, Miss Pauling catching the computer to keep it from crashing to the floor. The lights flickered, the screen glowing in the flashes of darkness with two simple phrases.

The Experiment is nearing its conclusion.

and

The Test has been modified.

. . .

The Administrator was in her control room, long enough that it was beginning to haze with cigarette smoke. It was all pretty much shut down, of course, since no one was where they should be. Not even Miss Pauling. For five entire months. She was still considering reducing the girl's vacation for this, except that she had some things of her own to sort out. Normally she would've fled to one of her safehouses by now, given that there was no more defense against Gray Gravel Co., except that its owner seemed to be having his own problems, which managed to brighten her day a little.

Her messengers weren't able to tell her much beyond something concerning a copyright dispute and suspicion of infiltration (of which she had already made sure she was exempt from, given that her attempts thus far hadn't been as successful as she wanted), and she was reviewing recordings where apparently his newly-manufactured robots were coming out...corrupted. And apparently this corruption was like a virus, contagious to the rest of his precious army.

It was a pity she only had the footage in black and white; the collateral damages and casualties sustained in the factory looked so colorful. She wondered if Gray Mann was dead, but that was probably too much to hope for at this stage.

Now she just had to find out where on this wretched planet her employees had wandered off to, and—

Ah. An e-mail, finally.

It was simply a file, no clear sender, but the icon on it gave her pause, and explained so many things.

. . . Well.

Her fingernail was resting on the mouse, but the file opened without her prompting, and she caught the flicker of a familiar smiling face on her screen before a chatbox opened, and she read the simple greeting, the hint of a cold, dry smile appearing on her own face.

Bonjour, Administrator.

She thought for a moment before typing her reply.

About time. I don't need names. Give me a brief synopsis of the team's activities and your coordinates.

She put it up, grimacing to herself at the effort cleaning this mess up was going to take.

A simple Of course. and a file accompanied his next words, along with requesting permission to take further action on his own.

She granted it readily, feeling indulgent. The Administrator hated reunions.

. . .

The Scout was doing his best to hold onto the floor, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke... His space gun was gone, and he'd been chased by this crazy giant robot-lady who'd been singing until he'd been herded in by the walls until he'd been squished and put back in wherever the hell this was.

If that's the thing that had been telling him what to do, he was seriously wanting out of this crazy house. After being stuck in this crap hotel room for who knew how long now - definitely giving him the idea of being in a crazy house - he thought he'd be happy to have something else happening around here besides this place's stupid elevator music. But on second thought, he was kind of missing that elevator music.

When the shaking finally stopped, he just lay there on his stomach, taking a moment to breathe and try to pretend he didn't feel like puking his guts out. At least the elevator music was gone, since the earthquake thing broke the radio. That was like the worst bomb cart ride ever. He was so glad he didn't listen to his Ma and try for the Navy - if this was what seasickness was like, they could freaking keep it.

He cringed, fingers clenching into the cheap, thin carpet when Her voice went through the room.

"Hello again. And once more, welcome to the Aperture Science computer-initiated enrichment center. I sincerely hope that your brief detention in the relaxation vault has been a pleasant one. I apologize if it wasn't."

Scout groaned, "Not this crap again."

"Welcome [insert test subject name here] to the Aperture Science Alternate Test Subject Study and Research Initiative, Second Stage."

"Sec - what the hell's 'Second Stage'?"

"I congratulate you for the incredible honor of graduating to this Stage, given how your chances of accomplishing anything in life are normally very, very low."

"Hey!"

"I apologize for any inconvenience that was not stated in the brochure and contract you received before this achievement. If you do not recall receiving the brochure and copy of said contract, I apologize for that as well, for you must have forgotten about it in the joy of your discovered promotion to be an Aperture Science Second Stage Alternate Test Subject."

"The hell I did! You just announced it five seconds ago! And what's 'Second Stage'?!"

"Before we start, keep in mind that although fun and learning are the primary goals of all Enrichment Center activities, serious injuries will occur, and given a review of your experiences prior, I've made sure that you would recall and be aware of said serious injuries. Some of these serious injuries will include bullets, fire, sharp blades, blunt objects, psychological trauma, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, chemical poisoning, and death. Isn't that nostalgic?"

Scout laughed nervously "You're kiddin', right?" Sounded like She updated the list.

"I would also like to remind you that while the Regeneration-Respawn clause is still included in your renewed contract, death is not considered progress, and will result in test reset and continuously increased test difficulties before ultimate termination and replacement. Taking previous tests into account, the awarding of Science points is no longer being considered a valid incentive system, and has been discontinued. From now on I will be as rewarding as you give Me reason to be."

The young man blinked. He heard Miss Pauling mention 'termination' before. So, what, if he kept failing, he was gonna get 'fired'? That didn't sound so bad, but then, why did She make termination sound like it would be a little worse than dying?

"Further information and rules will be unnecessary. Your Testing Counterpart will be with you shortly to commence with the Second Stage Testing.

We are now ready to begin the Test proper.

Good bye."

Scout blinked as the voice went away. 'Counterpart'? Was She gonna let him test with one of the other guys again?

A while later he looked up when there was a knocking sound at the room's door. Getting up slowly from the floor, he looked at it suspiciously. He knew what She said, but was this another one of Her freaky surprises? The knocking went on again, loud in the quiet room.

The door was locked but - what the hell, he didn't have anything much to lose now. Really wishing he had his bat right now, Scout went up to the door and opened it, a little pissed off that it'd finally open now, then startled back when he saw he'd opened it on a mirror.

Scout froze, realizing this wasn't a mirror.

The other guy wore the same prison orange crap he did, though his boots looked a little cooler than Scout's. No frickin' fair.

Other-Scout grinned at him when he stumbled back, his mouth curling into a stupid crap-eating smirk Scout sometimes remembering seeing on the enemy team. His hands curled into fists, body tensing ready to fight - what, She recruited from the other side now?!

"Yo, what's up?" Other-Scout chuckled, but Scout thought his voice sounded a little wrong, a little freaky-sounding static edge to it.

Scout snarled, "The hell'd you get here?!" launching a fist at the bastard's smug-looking face. The other guy dodged, and his fist rocketed like a sledgehammer into the Scout's gut, driving the wind out of him.

Other-Scout laughed again when Scout almost choked on his own spit, bent double on the floor, "Aw, hey, brother, wassamatter? Too much for ya?" Scout felt himself get dragged up by the front of his shirt, dragging him back towards the door, "No problem, I got all day. C'mon, man, you an' me, we're gonna go get things started, a'right?"

Scout got a hold of his wrist, "Oh, I think we're gonna get things started right here right now!" he gritted out, getting his feet under him before punching the guy in the gut and then bringing his knee up to a place where no guy wants to get hurt. When the guy bent over, he brought his knee up again into the other's face, feeling the crunch, gritting his teeth at the weird feeling of pain - it hurt to hit this loser.

"I am the Scout here!" he stated when the guy was down, before running to jump over him into the open hallway - only to get his ankle grabbed and go sprawling, smacking his head against the floor, "Agh!"

"You got your ass owned." Scout heard the other guy say, quickly rolling over and getting to his feet again, eyes wide, skull pounding. He thought he dropped the jerk. But no, Other-Scout was still standing, nose slightly broken-looking, but there was no blood. No blood? "Didn't feel nothin'. We gonna Test or what?" Other-Scout asked, arms crossed. Scout stared in disbelief, before he finally saw the guy's eyes properly. At first he thought they looked a bit like his own, but then the guy blinked, and he saw that they were a bright, glowing blue. Literally, they were freaking glowing. Blue. No blood. Other-Scout grinned again, "Tha's right. You gettin' it now?" That static edge became more clear in his voice when he spoke, unnatural, and Scout thought he saw small sparks of light between his teeth, "Say hello to Scout Two-point-Oh, pal."

Just more. Freaking. Robots.