Darkness…

Cold…

Neverending silence…

Everything turned to dust, given enough time.

It came in cycles, alternating periods of dark and light, despair and hope, gray dust, black emptiness pinpricked with stars, and a bright blue and green orb. Always there, always taunting him with its infinite possibilities - possibilities that were now cut off from him forever.

She was down there, and he was up here, and there was nothing he could do to change it. Nothing that could undo what he had done -

That feeling surged in his processors again, like it did whenever he thought of what he had done. He'd tried to push the unpleasantness down, tried and tried again, so many times, but like his fate, there was no way out of it.

Adrift in space, no purpose, no rescue, just a metal shell with no real reason left to be. Wheatley was a ghost.