[Wheatley makes what seems to be a concentrated effort to right himself, but the overall effect is not unlike a newborn animal (which, technically, he is). Were he not so incredibly occupied with making his new body parts function they way they're supposed to, he might be more taken aback at the presence of a human, mostly because the last he checked, they were all supposed to be dead. He lets out a sort of protracted sob, one that cracks in the middle.
Still, he does seem to recognize that weeping awful human fluids into the floor is not going to be a productive use of his time, and with no small amount of flailing, thrusts his arms out and starts to grasp, legs making a valiant attempt to push against the ground.
It works, sort of, and once he's achieved some semblance of balance, he looks up at the man kneeling beside him. Wheatley's hands, however, clumsily begin to pat himself down, as if taking stock of all this new, unwanted squishiness. One clumsily slaps his own face, the other soon joining it in an apparent attempt to poke and prod.]
It's bad, innit? Would you--do you mind telling me how bad, exactly? I mean, ha, you're all sort of--sort of ugly, that is, uh...a little weird, aesthetically, no offense.
[His hands press together, squishing his cheeks in.]
no subject
[Wheatley makes what seems to be a concentrated effort to right himself, but the overall effect is not unlike a newborn animal (which, technically, he is). Were he not so incredibly occupied with making his new body parts function they way they're supposed to, he might be more taken aback at the presence of a human, mostly because the last he checked, they were all supposed to be dead. He lets out a sort of protracted sob, one that cracks in the middle.
Still, he does seem to recognize that weeping awful human fluids into the floor is not going to be a productive use of his time, and with no small amount of flailing, thrusts his arms out and starts to grasp, legs making a valiant attempt to push against the ground.
It works, sort of, and once he's achieved some semblance of balance, he looks up at the man kneeling beside him. Wheatley's hands, however, clumsily begin to pat himself down, as if taking stock of all this new, unwanted squishiness. One clumsily slaps his own face, the other soon joining it in an apparent attempt to poke and prod.]
It's bad, innit? Would you--do you mind telling me how bad, exactly? I mean, ha, you're all sort of--sort of ugly, that is, uh...a little weird, aesthetically, no offense.
[His hands press together, squishing his cheeks in.]
What's the damage?