He doesn't mean to do it consciously, or intentionally, or even at all, really, but the thing beneath him not only has limbs but it has a good deal more hair than he thinks humans are generally allocated, and it's very big and very orange and all he can think of to do, at the moment, is continue to make sounds. Vocal processors are still fully operational, big check in the 'pluses' column!
Hitting the ground properly is a particularly disorienting experience, the softened whumpf of limbs hitting leaves and leaves kicking up and him struggling to make some good proper sense of the fact that he is no longer spherical and metallic and creaky but made of corners and limbs and edges, all of them a good deal longer than he thinks they ought to be.
Then someone turns out the lights. He's blind. Noooo no no no no no, he can't be blind where are the lights why isn't his optic working.
The words reach him distantly. Wheatley wishes he could answer, he really honestly does, but the most he can manage is a strained, "mmmmmmmph," from beneath whatever thing is muffling him, legs kicking feebly once more for good measure. Legs! He's got legs. Legs and arms. What's wrong with his optic.
no subject
He doesn't mean to do it consciously, or intentionally, or even at all, really, but the thing beneath him not only has limbs but it has a good deal more hair than he thinks humans are generally allocated, and it's very big and very orange and all he can think of to do, at the moment, is continue to make sounds. Vocal processors are still fully operational, big check in the 'pluses' column!
Hitting the ground properly is a particularly disorienting experience, the softened whumpf of limbs hitting leaves and leaves kicking up and him struggling to make some good proper sense of the fact that he is no longer spherical and metallic and creaky but made of corners and limbs and edges, all of them a good deal longer than he thinks they ought to be.
Then someone turns out the lights. He's blind. Noooo no no no no no, he can't be blind where are the lights why isn't his optic working.
The words reach him distantly. Wheatley wishes he could answer, he really honestly does, but the most he can manage is a strained, "mmmmmmmph," from beneath whatever thing is muffling him, legs kicking feebly once more for good measure. Legs! He's got legs. Legs and arms. What's wrong with his optic.