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You're still not used to GLaDOS' new body, and you doubt you ever will be, but when she brings you out of suspension and directs you to a test chamber, you're as eager as you've ever been to get anywhere.
It shouldn't be like this. GLaDOS' robot form is a stark reminder of all that you'll never have; she has arms and legs, the anatomy's all correct, but she isn't a person, isn't like you. And yet every time you see her silhouette, you hope beyond reason or logic or anything else your years of testing have depended on that someone else has made their way in. That you'll be able to make your way out, too.
And then GLaDOS raises the lights.
You try not to linger over your eagerness for too long. All that you know is that it's far removed from your usual grudging compliance, and causes your stomach to twist and knot in ways that thousand foot drops never have. Perhaps GLaDOS will sense the discomfort in you and look into it. Perhaps she'll conclusively prove for once and for all that you're a terrible person.
The door slides open when you reach the test chamber. It's nothing out of the ordinary; it's nothing much of anything, really. GLaDOS stands in a small room with a low ceiling and a clear exit that you could climb up to. Still, you tilt your head back, memorising all the white-patched parts of the wall, and your arm suddenly feels light, fingers flexing but not wrapping around anything.
“Finally. You took your time,” GLaDOS says from the centre of the chamber. “Not that it shows.”
She stands with her arms folded across her chest, head tilted to the side, as if in anticipation of an apology. Every time you see her, her mannerisms become more and more human. You wonder if it's intentional, if she really has been studying your kind as she claims to; you wonder if telling her that her back sometimes slouches would infuriate her.
“Well? We don't have all day,” she says, and you stride towards her, unafraid. GLaDOS isn't afraid of you, either. Doesn't even consider you to be anything close to a threat. “That is, I don't have all day. You, you have all the time in the world. From a pathetically limited mortal point of view, that is. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you of your woefully empty schedule, but we don't have time for the tears science says you're incapable of producing.”
You pull at the arms of your jumpsuit, just in case they've come loose enough to slip from around your waist. The show of nonchalance is enough to goad GLaDOS into getting closer to the point. Not that it takes much to inspire her to speak. She seems even more fond of lecturing you at length, now that the words have a mouth to come from, lips to rush between.
“I've been looking into human cinema for guidance. Considering that I'm not going to learn anything of value from a deranged mute who isn't capable of keeping as quiet as she'd like to. I've recently come across one of the more popular genres. “Romance.” It wouldn't interest you. Too much tenderness and affection and sharing of feelings. Not enough explosions or unprovoked gratuitous violence. Anyway, it seems that under your influence, we skipped one of the most vital steps when it comes to mutual organic contact.”
You lift your brow so high that you wouldn't be surprised if your eyes popped out of their sockets. You know what she's talking about. You know what GLaDOS is talking about specifically because she isn't saying it as bluntly as she usually would, and you bite on the inside of your mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Stop that, you. I don't even want to know what's going on in that head of yours.” GLaDOS holds her hands out in front of her. You've never seen her defensive before. It's as if she's gesturing without realising, having downloaded and absorbed endless hours of media, all to compare and contrast against you. “And when I said deranged mute, I was talking about you, by the way. Just so you know.”
You tilt your head to the left and then the right, rolling your shoulders back as if to say Okay, ready! GLaDOS has committed herself to going through with this, and for all you know, she's had weeks or months to prepare herself while you've been in suspension, but if there's any chance that you can make her feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, you're going to take it.
She narrows her eyes, hands clasping your shoulders to stop you from fidgeting.
“Don't give me that look. I've been over and over the data, and you're the only viable test subject within the whole of the facility. And it's hardly as if I can press my face up against a turret. Believe me, it'd almost be worth the extensive reconstructive surgery I've have to put myself through.”
You'll count being very slightly preferable to bullet holes as a win. Swooping forward, you decide that you are going to kiss GLaDOS, if only to do both of you a favour in shutting her up.
Your standard brand of determination gets you far enough. You might not know what you're doing, but you didn't know what you were doing the first time you jumped out onto repulsion gel, either. The logical move is to press your mouth to GLaDOS', which you do, and it seems as if everything will flow from there.
Which it doesn't.
The kiss begins and ends at your lips joining. Neither of you move beyond that, and you both have your eyes open. You don't think that's how it's supposed to work. Brow furrowed, you take a step back.
“Disappointing,” GLaDOS says, without any forethought. Because of that, you refuse to give up, leaning in for a second time. God knows you've placed portals an inch or two off enough times to be versed in making slight adjustments by now, and so you press your whole body against her. Tilt your head a little to the side, wrap your fingers around her outstretched elbows that are now bent as she draws you in closer.
Her lips aren't exactly soft. They're smooth, as smooth as the rest of her, malleable under your own, and yet unyielding at the same time. You part your lips, because it seems to make sense, and GLaDOS lets out a noise, something like a whirr, the swish and buzz of a motor running somewhere inside of her, and in that moment, you think enough of yourself to assume it's hesitance on her part.
GLaDOS digs her fingertips into your shoulders as you push her down to the floor, but doesn't object. You straddle her hips, not breaking your mouth away from hers, even when you're not kissing her. Her hair's tangled up in the fist you didn't realise you were making, and you breathe heavily through grit teeth as your forehead knocks against hers. She pulls you back into the kiss, hand on the back of your neck, and when it isn't enough anymore, you run your tongue out across her lower lip.
She was expecting it. Her lips are parted, and you let a weight lift from your chest, a staggered puff of air scraping around her mouth before your tongue does the same.
GLaDOS must push her tongue forward too, because she'd never let you outdo her like this, and as soon as the tip of your tongue touches something, the whole of your body jerks in her lap; a cool, sharp current runs through you, causing you to yank your head back. GLaDOS opens her eyes, but you don't want her looking at you, so you try it again, results exactly the same.
Just before you lean back in, she says, ”Well, look at that. There's finally a spark between us.”
You're racked with anticipation each time you move towards her. It takes you three attempts to determine that the shock running through you isn't enough to hurt, but it makes your body tense up in strange ways, and there's a grim sort of fascination that comes with running your tongue across hers. It makes you want to yelp, to move your body, or just your hips, to work the last of the current out of your system.
GLaDOS tires of your experimenting long before you do. Of course she would: that's her forté. She follows in your example, slides a hand up and around the back of your head, and when you kiss her the next time, she doesn't let you pull back. If there wasn't a small voltage being expelled into your mouth, you might wonder whether or not she was holding you in place on purpose, because there's definitely a smile pressed up against your lips.
You clutch at her shoulders in a feeble attempt to push her off, but don't stop kissing, and when she doesn't let go, you express your gratitude by biting down on her lower lip.
You doubt she's made herself as sensitive to physical contact as you are yet, but your teeth scraping at her lower lip are enough to make her start. “Ow. What do you think you're do—” she begins, but regardless of any electric shocks that are bound to follow, you throw yourself back into the kiss.
Her arms are around your waist, suddenly, hands splayed across your back, because she doesn't even need to hold your head in place. When the current becomes too much for you, you bite at her lips again, shoulder blades pushing back as you try stretching out all the muscles you can while you're still in her lap, slowly working your hips against her. It doesn't take long for GLaDOS to follow suit, adding in swollen lips to the list of grievances you currently have with your own mouth.
And then, just as you're finally at the point of not being able to tell one sensation from the next, a voice sounds overhead:
Look at you. As happy as a pig in mud. And to scale, too. Only instead of rolling in the dirt, it's as if you're chewing on a frayed wire. What's wrong with you? Do you have a death wish? One that's not aimed at other people, I mean. Oh, well. At least there aren't any calories in electricity_
You growl from the back of your throat, and slam her back against the floor, though you know there's no shutting her up. There are only temporary spats of relief, and if you let yourself venture deep enough into this, you won't be able to discern her voice from the buzzing in the back of your head.