He wasn’t expecting it, but maybe he should have been. All the staring and the tugging and the rearranging, well, it’s–familiar in a way that makes him feel vaguely ill, so all he can do is fake a smile his new roommate won’t even see, and watch him watching his reflection uneasily.
“Yes,” says Kanon. “I suppose so.”
That he looks like a mess, or that he looks like a human? It doesn’t matter–it’s all true–all humans are messy, even the glamorous ones. They’re ugly and organic. They have skin and nails and hair, and tears, and they go to the bathroom a lot. Wheatley wouldn’t know about that. Furniture gets all the ugly parts without the sweetness. Wheatley–well, Kanon isn’t sure.
“They didn’t even give you instructions? Your body wasn’t… programmed to walk, or anything?” Funny? Stupid, moron? Where’s the bitterness coming from? He didn’t say anything like that–so it must have been someone else. “I’ve never known the scientists to make jokes out of us. Sure, they fill our lives with… discomfort. And inconvenience. It sounds like this was that, and it must have been difficult. But I don’t think it was malicious.”
Spheres can’t go anywhere on their own, at least not the kind he’s imagining. Maybe the sphere-Wheatley could roll himself around, but he couldn’t interact like a human, find a job, help people. That’s got to be it.
Mirrors. Yes. Kanon’s usually harsh, but he can’t help softening, just a little.
>> “Well, in my experience scientists aren’t always the most friendly of people. Not surprised these ones aren’t much different.”
He takes a couple moments to himself, stretches his arms in front of him, flexes bony fingers in an experimental fashion before inspecting them closer. He squeezes his eyes shut, furrows his brow, tugs the corners of his mouth. It’s all horribly uncomfortable and it likely looks even stranger than what he’s seeing. After those few moments he decides that’s all the exploration he needs, at least for now, and turns his attentions back to the plug on the wall and his conversation with his flatmate. “Still though, you might be right.” he says as he clumsily fiddles with the cord and attempts to position it the right way into the port at the base of his neck. “It could always be worse.”
Some would maybe consider how odd it is, how such a seemingly optimistic statement could be so melancholy, or how optimism can grow from a place of defeat like that. Wheatley wasn’t one of those people; he was simply stating facts. It could be worse, he could be lonely and dying, but he wasn’t. Maybe he should have been grateful to Hive City’s scientists, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t a lot of things. He certainly wasn’t a sphere anymore. He didn’t have anything to tell him what to do or how to do it.
The charger slips into place with the satisfying snap of plastic-to-plastic, and dim blues that make up his irises surge with a brighter glow.
