"Okay. Rrrright. That - that is going to be - actually, it's not a problem. Not a problem at all! Kscshoo!"
Wheatley rubs his nose sullenly with the back of one hand, gazing morosely at what was formerly a proper marble statue, carved in the shape of a tiny little human with wings. He's not sure what sort of nightmarish hybrid was meant to be represented there in sculpture, but the fact of the matter is that, in an event that could have happened to anyone, he'd crashed slap-bang into the thing and sent it toppling.
"Probably did everyone a favor," he says to absolutely no one, now trying for affronted. "Ghastly thing. Lookit that - humans don't come so small, now, do they? What sort of genetic experimentation was at work here? Terrible. An insult to nature, I say, didn't like the old thing anyway. All for the best. Gshchh!"
What sort of biological nightmare is this? His whole respiratory system keeps seizing and shivering him with an awful judder, sound the alarms this is a crisis, and he doesn't know why! He hovers, wiping his nose on his sleeve, wanting nothing more than to leave the disaster in pieces and let it be someone else's problem, as he became well-accustomed to doing in the derelict Enrichment Center, but along comes the nagging feeling that she wouldn't have done that. She would've fixed the problem with her usual locked-down, silent efficiency. She would've -
Wheatley sighs, folding his long legs in a disorderly sprawl as he hunches over the mess and starts nudging hopefully at the pieces in the vague hope that some of them will simply snap back together again - what sort of shoddy technology is this, honestly - shooting nervous looks over his shoulder on the off-chance that someone might see and have the sheer gall to blame him for this, as if he could have any control of over this whatsoever.
no subject
Wheatley rubs his nose sullenly with the back of one hand, gazing morosely at what was formerly a proper marble statue, carved in the shape of a tiny little human with wings. He's not sure what sort of nightmarish hybrid was meant to be represented there in sculpture, but the fact of the matter is that, in an event that could have happened to anyone, he'd crashed slap-bang into the thing and sent it toppling.
"Probably did everyone a favor," he says to absolutely no one, now trying for affronted. "Ghastly thing. Lookit that - humans don't come so small, now, do they? What sort of genetic experimentation was at work here? Terrible. An insult to nature, I say, didn't like the old thing anyway. All for the best. Gshchh!"
What sort of biological nightmare is this? His whole respiratory system keeps seizing and shivering him with an awful judder, sound the alarms this is a crisis, and he doesn't know why! He hovers, wiping his nose on his sleeve, wanting nothing more than to leave the disaster in pieces and let it be someone else's problem, as he became well-accustomed to doing in the derelict Enrichment Center, but along comes the nagging feeling that she wouldn't have done that. She would've fixed the problem with her usual locked-down, silent efficiency. She would've -
Wheatley sighs, folding his long legs in a disorderly sprawl as he hunches over the mess and starts nudging hopefully at the pieces in the vague hope that some of them will simply snap back together again - what sort of shoddy technology is this, honestly - shooting nervous looks over his shoulder on the off-chance that someone might see and have the sheer gall to blame him for this, as if he could have any control of over this whatsoever.