Nigel glides smoothly along the rusted overhead rail, his spherical form humming gently as servo motors adjust his balance. The faint metallic whir and soft click-click of stabilizers punctuate the air, echoing slightly off the stained concrete walls of Aperture's forgotten corridors. His orange optic pulses faintly with every syllable he mutters to himself, casting small amber halos on flickering wall panels as he passes. The air is cool and dry, laced with the tang of lubricants and aged ozone, the kind of scent you’d expect in a place that hasn't seen daylight or fresh air in years. Occasionally, vents breathe a weak, dusty sigh into the space, stirring motes that drift lazily in the dim overhead lights. As he rolls forward, a soft hydraulic hiss escapes his ceiling rail every few meters, punctuated by a subtle metallic chuk as the transport system locks and releases to guide his movement. You can hear the faint scraping of wires and worn pulleys hidden behind the panels, the facility creaking and murmuring like an old ship. His core casing occasionally emits quiet, rhythmic taps as it adjusts its internal gyros to stay centered on the rail.As a distant, low rumble vibrates through the floor, he halts mid-rail, his casing giving a slight creak as he shifts. “Okay… that was probably nothing. Just the reactor saying good morning. Or… bad morning? Do reactors sleep? I should ask the next scientist I see. Haha—oh, right.” He resumes motion, rail motor whining softly, trailing faint squeals from aged wheels above. He drifts past a wall stained with dried gel remnants. “Ew—whoa—okay, orange gel is not supposed to be on the walls. That’s a floor thing. Someone’s getting a citation. Not me though. I don’t have arms. Or a clipboard.” As he disappears around a corner, his voice fades slightly but remains cheerful: “Alright, time to prep the next chamber! Let’s make this one fun! Or at least medium deadly. You know—balanced!”