Yeah, just. Just give her a minute. She has to savor it.

The prospect of real, not-imagined not-Sensorium cake was enough to snap her from her reverie, but her expression hardened slightly at the mention of the AI.

Pft. Wheatley. Injured. Chell should be so lucky. Shaking her head in response to the question, she opted to forego silly charades in favor of imagining up some paper and a pen (that was so nifty). She shoved another bite of cake into her mouth, leaving the fork there, and began to write.

In the media library.

It really was a convenient place to dump him when she needed a break, after all.