"Fffffun," he says, stretching the word out experimentally like it's a concept foreign to him. It is, in a manner of speaking. Fun. Fun. Shooting up through those tubes riding the way to Her chamber had been fun - at least up until the point the slope changed and he came bouncing back down again. He can't imagine fun being a thing that one has all the time.

"Right," says Wheatley sheepishly, scratching the back of his head with one hand. "All part of a proper adjustment routine, is it? Can't be that difficult, can it. Adjusting's my middle name. Ol' Wheatley the Adjuster, they called me - " He sneezes, and hastily amends, "or, well, they didn't, actually, but they would have if they'd known, I'm sure - " And he sneezes again.