"It's a, um, a thing." He flaps a hand vaguely without much coordination to put behind it, now desperately crawling away from the crumbled remains on bony elbows. "Important, ummm, science, ahhh, technology. Right. Just, you know, the standard sort of maintenance type of A.I., the sort that gets to spend his days tacked up to a management rail and follows orders, yes sir no sir I'll watch the subjects sir, ten thousand bloody test subjects, and did they give me any instruction for the inevitable fall of civilization? Noooo, just gave me full control of all the test subjects, good luck Wheatley, I'm sure you'll manage just fine!"

He tries for a complicated propping-upright maneuver and ends up on his back.

"Right," he says to the sky, clear and cloud-scuttered and almost as brilliantly blue as his old optic, he thinks mournfully. "Okay, then. Hmm. Didn't think this plan through, time for the old Plan B."

Plan B, he's sure, will be brilliant. And again, he sneezes.