grabme: (nnnnot sure what to make of this tbh)
[personal profile] grabme
This whole human business is really terribly, terribly complicated. How do they keep track of everything that needs doing all the time? He has keys - multiple! - and a little black square of a phone and an entire apartment he's supposed to be taking care of, only it doesn't seem to require the same kind of constant maintenance as, say, a certain Enrichment Center. Days of cautious experimentation have yielded certain infrequent results: the silver boxy thing in the corner dings cheerily and heats up when its trigger is depressed. Doing it three times successively isn't recommended, he's learned, when the box starts belching black smoke and sets some kind of alarm squealing and he dashes out of the apartment with his arms flung high over his head and nearly crashes slap-bang into a wall. Aside from the occasional hiccup - very occasional, certainly no more than once or twice a day, he's quite sure of that - it's been a very particular time of adjusting to the stumbling inadequacies of his newfound humanship.

His middle groans periodically with something, possibly hunger since food is, well, it's a thing humans need which is a bloody well inefficient means of refueling, and his head aches and he's got to remember to jam the great large-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose every morning, and it is an absolute bloody pain to remember every morning. The Enrichment Center didn't even have mornings.

It's a morning like any other morning when he puts key to lock, except for the part where he steps from apartment to a place that is not the hall just outside the apartment and Wheatley experiences a moment of pure, all-encompassing terror as he thinks, for a moment, that he's right back in the old Enrichment Center with Her shifting the cold matte black cubes of the facility around in Her overcomplicated chess games.

[ooc: old Wheatley's been hit by the Master Key and is not having a good time.]
grabme: (AAAAAAAAA)
[personal profile] grabme
The thing about space is that, frankly, it's enormous. Bloody massive, in fact. Just so very much of it stretching in so many different directions, and here, right now, currently drifting among the assorted debris caught in the Earth's lunar orbit in a slow, forlorn arc, Wheatley finds himself thinking that space, space is just - well, it's terribly overrated, really. It all looks more or less the same, to be honest. Big, black, empty space, with a little dusting of stars here and there, nothing special, just a few pinpricks of illumination to highlight his current complete and unending isolation.

Not complete maybe. Not entirely.

"Space," hums a delighted, dopplering voice in his audial processor for the millionth time in - well, Wheatley's not entirely sure how long he's been up here, but he's certain it's been quite a while. Ages, in fact. Some very long, very lonely, very loud bloody ages. The shared link between his audial processor and his companion's has given him some company, he can say that much, some sort of radiowave variation to offset the noiseless vacuum of space, but it's not saying a whole lot in the end, as said company is not exactly the best or most engaging conversationalist. In fact, the only other personality core around has exactly one topic on hand to discuss at inarticulate and immense length, and that is -

"SPAAAAAAAAAAACE."


"Right," sighs Wheatley without much enthusiasm. "Bang on. Space. Got it in one. Loads of it. Don't ever plan on running out, no sir, we can check that one in the column of things that we have at our, at our collective disposal. Space." Wheatley has long since come to accept the fact that emotional modulation doesn't seem to have much of an impact on his hyperactive companion's extremely one-track mind - regardless of how angry he's gotten, how desperately he's cajoled or pleaded or politely asked or screamed for the other core to pipe down for just a sec, mate, just one bloody second, is that so HARD?, the space core remains, as always, blissfully, elatedly, happily unaffected, lost forever in its euphoric personal daydream.

"Yeah," says Wheatley, watching the star-studded perpetual night spin lazily past. "Yeah, look, mate - d'you mind keeping it down over there? Trying to reminisce here, terribly important."

It was all his miserable, miserable fault. He'd been greedy, and bossy, and monstrous, and he'd mucked things up so colossally that she'd had no choice but to launch him into the great empty vastness of space. Really, he doesn't blame her for that - who would? She'd made the best choice she could, and he'd - well, if he's honest with himself, which has become increasingly easier here, in space, with no one to listen or care for a word coming out from discarded, broken, tiny old Wheatley's vocal processor, he'd conversely made the worst choice.

Hence: the banishment. To space.

Until, suddenly, he's not anymore.

He doesn't get a great deal of time to adjust. He gets the briefest impression of white, intensely hot light, and the barest flutter oh god, it's happened, I've been knocked out of orbit, I'm about to fly into the flipping SUN, and then, just as abruptly, he's somewhere else. It's terribly bright, and something's wrong with his optic, something's got to be off there, because everything is just more than a bit wonky, and, most impressively - no space! No space at all!

Wheatley does not get very long to process the latest in this unforeseen string of events as he's dropped, literally, on top of something squirming and squishy and moving like it's got limbs and he's got limbs, and he realizes he's got limbs and realizes the person beneath him has got limbs and reacts in the only reliable way he knows and understands: he screams, realizes he's acquired an entirely different vocal processor and screams again, and tries, with absolutely no coordination behind the movements or any idea what to to do with his newly-acquired body with its variety of long, gangly limbs, to scramble upward and off and away from the person beneath him, all with the absolute maximum of volume available to his vocal processors.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

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