Prompt 016: "How about Wheatley meeting an animal for the first time, you can choose what animal."
The only living things Wheatley has seen in Aperture's halls have been humans.
He does take care of them, after all. Even if they are shut off. Well, not shut off. In stasis. That's the technical term. They're in stasis. Suspended animation and all that. Brilliant stuff. The whole Relaxation Center is full of humans in stasis. The older rooms aren't actually rooms at all; they're like some sort of chamber filled with water (his tiny chassis shudders to think of it) and the humans are sort of just… floating there, eyes closed, pickling, cords hooked all over their bodies. It looks bloody eerie, if he's honest.
Of course, in addition to humans, there are other robots about. Although he supposes they're not really living if one sticks solely to the biological definition of things, but that's a rather fine line, don't you think? He prefers to think of himself as living. He's sentient, intelligent, taking part in daily routines. He has thoughts, feelings, sensations, albeit simulated. He completes tasks in his internal queue, which sorts them in accordance with some kind of complex algorithm that is manufactured in machine code. Really, why shouldn't he be categorized as a living thing? Seems a bit, you know, discriminatory. Hostile work environment. That's a court case waiting to happen.
Wheatley zips along his management rail, optic blue and bright, circuitry humming under his hull. He's in the Relaxation Center, popping about between hanging rooms, checking on the status of the humans in suspension. The rail leads him to one boxed room in particular; series of numbers are printed upon its side, yellow and bold.
He's about to pop up to the control panel when his sensors pick up abrupt movement above.
"Hello? Anyone there?" Wheatley peers over the top of the cell with the help of the rail. He blinks, soft blue light illuminating the gunmetal gray framework. "Look, Rick, if that's you again, I swear—I'm not falling for it. Can't go using the same trick over and over, mate. Seriously. Not going to work. I'm not easily frightened, you know. Just jumping out of nowhere isn't as scary as—AAGH!"
A black shadow swoops into the air and circles around him, lightning quick. It screeches, a high-pitched, keening noise that seems to scratch at his receptors, and it echoes in the vast space of the Relaxation Center.
Wheatley jolts a safe distance back on the management rail, handles pressed close to his chassis, optic shut tight. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he rambles, "I didn't mean to—" He cracks it open, just a smidge, and there is a bird staring back.
Oh. Well. That's new.
"You're not one of them," he says to the bird. "Where'd you come from, little animal? That is the proper term, right? You're an animal? Definitely not a human. Or if you are, well, no offense, but you're not exactly the most attractive one. From this robot's non-biased point of view, of course."
The bird, feathery and black, lands on the edge of the cell. Small eyes scrutinize him as the creature cocks its head, wings folded.
"Well," says Wheatley, much less surprised (not scared, mind), "not exactly sure how you got in, sealed exits and all, but, just thought you should know, this isn't a very good place for birds. Lots of humans about. Well, they're mostly in suspension, so maybe that won't affect you much, but everything's been going on the blink lately. Power outages or something. Might be some tremors. Not particularly good when the old box moves about, yeah?"
The bird is ignoring him. It's now perched on his management rail, slowly inching its way toward him.
Wheatley scoots back, compilers processing apprehension. "Now listen, I think this is starting to get a bit too close. Ha, you know, invasion of personal space. I sort of like having space between myself and small animals. Or just anything, really. Space is very nice. Appreciated. And you're not going to listen to me, are you? You're not listening. Oh, god. Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't—"
The bird has climbed atop his body, claws clasped about his top handle. It lets out a shrill caw before craning down to look into Wheatley's optic. He can see beady eyes, sharp beak, and black feathers. It sits there, studying him, and it doesn't seem like it means to do him harm. Or that's what the algorithms are telling him, anyway.
"Oh," says Wheatley. "Are you a peaceful sort?"
The bird makes a softer cooing noise, still peering into his optic.
"I'm not entirely sure what that means," says Wheatley. "But I do have a job to do, you know, so if you could just… move, that would be great."
The bird, however, does not.
"All right, all right, fine. Sit there. But I'm warning you, there will be a lot of movement involved once I'm finished here. Can't really get across the facility without it. A required thing, movement. So if you're going to stay there, don't get cross with me once it starts. Okay?"
The bird squawks in reply, adjusting itself upon his handle.
"Right then," says Wheatley, approaching the control panel once more. He aligns himself with the screen and analyzes the readings according to the preset that pops onto his HUD. When he's satisfied that everything seems to be in order, he swivels on the rail and prepares to continue on to his next target.
"You ready?" he asks the bird.
"Corrugh," says the bird.
"I'll just take that as a yes. Right. Off we go!"
And both Wheatley and the bird zip off to another part of the Relaxation Center.