Number two, courtesy of anon: "How angry can you get, Wheatley? What if he still blamed Chell when he came back?"

His eyes flutter open and it takes him approximately three seconds to decide he would have rather died of exposure. For one thing, he doesn't know where he is—it's certainly not the endless field where he remembers succumbing to the limitations of his body—if one can even remember losing consciousness. There are trees, for one. Trees and the sound of running water and the feel of wet ground beneath him. His vision focuses and what was once a brown-and-tan smudge against the sky becomes the face of the woman he hoped never to see again.

He shouts and jerks upward, scrabbling against the dirt, every cell in his body screaming at him to run, get away, this is that awful, homicidal maniac—how did she find him, how is she alive? She's found him and brought him here (wherever here is), and she's cleaning his dirty wounds with an equally dirty rag. She looks concerned-probably ecstatic to find another human. It seems almost wrong to ruin it for her.

"Don't-don't touch me!" The words spill from his mouth before he can stop them and her eyes widen, confusion and shock shadowed by an undercurrent of recognition. Adrenaline floods his system all at once, allowing him to scramble to his feet and back away, shoulders hunched, teeth bared.

"Don't even think about touching me, you lunatic, you—"

Floating in space, he could do nothing but apologize, lament about what he did to her, knowing she probably died in the vacuum. But then, trudging through endless miles of grass, the hot sun burning his new skin, endless regret turns to bitter, seething anger. If she'd been happy for his success, if she'd listened to him, if she'd tested for him like she was supposed to, if she'd let go like she was supposed to, if she'd just died like she was supposed to, he wouldn't be here, he wouldn't be this, wouldn't be stranded in the harsh, unforgiving, unfamiliar world beyond the only place he's ever known.

And now, faced with her at last, after so long, it's not apologies that escape him. It's unbridled fury, the slow-building rage, the result of his first excruciating days in the Outside that bubble up inside him and boil over. "—you monster!"

A flicker of resentment crosses her face, but she reaches for him anyway, lips pulled tight, apparently undeterred by his exclamations. Her hand trembles as her fingertips brush his shoulder, as if she's not entirely sure he's real.

"I said don't touch!" Snarling, he flings his arm outward to push her away. It connects and she stumbles back, looking less and less bewildered, and more and more livid. When he swings again, the motion clumsy and unpracticed, she lashes out almost too quickly to see and catches his wrist, locking her eyes to his, furious, studying.

"This is your fault." He shakes with ire, voice low and dangerous. "Get-get a good look. You did this—how-how could you do this?"

And somewhere, hidden behind her furrowed brow and glinting, wild eyes, is hurt, the faintest trace of you were my friend. Her knee meets his gut and he doubles over, winded, coughing into the sandy riverbank.

When he recovers, she is gone.