"Nothing but the boring old maintenance rail," says Wheatley, still utterly enamored with the bright points of color dotting the bushes all about. What's the word for those, hmm? He swears he knew it once. Probably got lost in the old transfer out of the mainframe. Lots of odd bits got jostled about when he was sucked into space. He is not envisioning that now, not at all (he ignores the horrible itch in his nose and behind his eyes at the thought), just thinking the whole thing over and remembering why it is he can't remember the little tidbits, like what those colorful leafy things are called.

"Big, crumbling facility," he says absently, now turning slowly in the spot in continuous revolution, awed. "Left me in charge of the whole thing, can't expect one little personality core's able to do much about the miles and miles of technology just wasting away? All those test subjects. Worst job imaginable, let me tell you, none of those humans could hold a conversation, cryosleep'll more or less do that to you, suppose they can't really be blamed for it, but still. No one to chat with but that pushy nanobot work crew, and they're not much for conversation either. Nasty pieces of work. Size discrimination, s'what it is. Big round metal ball, oooh, he's just much too big to acknowledge properly, let's just steer ourselves right on by! Watch out for big, clumsy Wheatley! Better not even make eye contact, mates!"

He lifts his hand until it's even with his large, round glasses and wiggles his fingers in a disparaging gesture that just seems appropriate. "Horrible. Awful. I said to everyone else, I told them, I said, we ought to form a bloody union. But, ah, they were all asleep. So that idea didn't really, um, didn't really take off. Sorry, where was I?"