When Wheatley left his job, he also left everything else, mostly. He woke up, stared out the porch, stared into the Internet’s abyss. Time stopped meaning anything; didn’t matter what day of the week it was. Or where all of his friends went. Coworkers.
And what all the people busied themselves with.
Well it wasn’t that foreign. In another life Wheatley loved to play games. He knew that’s a good chunk of time right there. That and shows. But games!
First one began with some playground games. Tag, tireswing, etc. But soon enough one discovers imaginary games! Those were the best. Isn’t life a dream anyway?
Yet for some reason eventually everyone Wheatley knew wanted to play Official Games®, like American football. Imagination was passé.
There was a convenient loop-hole though: instead of dealing with the stresses of American football, Wheatley could suggest video games. He could recruit his favorite classmates and add them on Steam, add them on Skype, add them on Xbox, add them on PlayStation Network. This was much better, since there was still an element of imagination attached. He had to imagine the smiles of his friends, each loaded in as another character to the story of the night. Stories that would last through school years – like the time they learned exploits to noclip through maps. Such things lived in infamy, though fated to be forgotten.
Wheatley immersed himself so much into this alternative that he no longer knew the crème de la crème: the imaginary. Superpowers, heists– seatbelts secured since the car could topple over. Taking cover since you didn’t know if you’d die. Instead he spent time configuring modpacks, consolidating the actors, stitching together something makeshift, but enough, and so it chugged along.
What Wheatley began to understand though was–despite all of these familiar cyclic moments–these games were only games. And these games had a hidden payment. Friends’ Laughter became only laughter. And familiar voices became voices only.
His fatal mistake was assuming the cycle started and ended with him and his friends. That they were in control of this story, these moments, even though they didn’t really have any input. That was all decided by the producer. Or the trends. Ultimately, they were along for the ride. More accurately, they transformed into the ride. The virtual existed through all of them, fed off all of them, and the virtual devoured him along with everyone he used to know.
What was once a grand symphony was now only pixels moving. What was once voices filled with life were now sparse callouts. His virtual entourage was now a cohort of faceless entities, himself included.
All Wheatley could do was say goodbye. Well, either that, or just fade away. It didn’t really matter. Another voice will replace his.
Even now Wheatley can hear the same voices, in the same matches. The faceless ones swarm together, select their roles, and siphon their lifeforce to revive the dead-worlds of lore. It used to bother him–but when he zoomed out, zoomed out to see the grand orchestra of shadowforms filling servers, voicecalls, insant messages–he admired its form.