He wasnât expecting it, but maybe he should have been. All the staring and the tugging and the rearranging, well, itâsâfamiliar in a way that makes him feel vaguely ill, so all he can do is fake a smile his new roommate wonât even see, and watch him watching his reflection uneasily.
âYes,â says Kanon. âI suppose so.â
That he looks like a mess, or that he looks like a human? It doesnât matterâitâs all trueâall humans are messy, even the glamorous ones. Theyâre ugly and organic. They have skin and nails and hair, and tears, and they go to the bathroom a lot. Wheatley wouldnât know about that. Furniture gets all the ugly parts without the sweetness. Wheatleyâwell, Kanon isnât sure.
âThey didnât even give you instructions? Your body wasnât⌠programmed to walk, or anything?â Funny? Stupid, moron? Whereâs the bitterness coming from? He didnât say anything like thatâso it must have been someone else. âIâve 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 donât think it was malicious.â
Spheres canât go anywhere on their own, at least not the kind heâs imagining. Maybe the sphere-Wheatley could roll himself around, but he couldnât interact like a human, find a job, help people. Thatâs got to be it.
Mirrors. Yes. Kanonâs usually harsh, but he canât help softening, just a little.
>> Â Â Â Â âWell, in my experience scientists arenât always the most friendly of people. Not surprised these ones arenât much different.â
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. Itâs all horribly uncomfortable and it likely looks even stranger than what heâs seeing. After those few moments he decides thatâs 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. âStill though, you might be right.â 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. âIt could always be worse.âÂ
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 wasnât one of those people; he was simply stating facts. It could be worse, he could be lonely and dying, but he wasnât. Maybe he should have been grateful to Hive Cityâs scientists, but he wasnât. He wasnât a lot of things. He certainly wasnât a sphere anymore. He didnât 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.
