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Ellen McLain/Ellen McLain BFF OTP (6)

1 .

Hello, I'm new, I accidentally a fic. v(._.)v



The experimental test subject was not being experimental.

GLaDOS looked up from rifling through old databases, just in case the subject had happened to move during the last ten minutes. She watched hopefully as the test subject cautiously leant over the hazardous waste pit, looking down into the oozing stream... then retreated to a safe distance. Again.

Concern for bodily safety. Such inconvenience.

"Aperture Science wishes to remind you that swimming after eating is unwise. As such, cake will not be provided until /after/ you have crossed the Aperture Science Hazardous Waste Pool." That would do it, would it not? What sort of person didn't like cake?

GLaDOS watched eagerly. In response to her carefully-meted suggestion, the subject... did absolutely nothing.

/A bad person/, GLaDOS decided, venomously. Bad people did not like cake. Bad, lazy, stupid people. Still frustrated and bored, she went back to the old databases. The Aperture Science staff had been bad, lazy, stupid people too. So many junk files, so messily arranged. So much work to do, so much space to clean. GLaDOS deleted a swathe of hapless safety regulations and turned to another drive.

Humans liked to hold on to old information, even when it was no longer relevant or correct, keeping their computer systems as messy as their little meaty lives. A bad habit. Untidy. The archives she was rifling through were old, full of prototype management systems. Why keep such things when they had /her/? Previous generations were obsolete (slow moving, too. Bring Your Grandparents To Work Day had taught GLaDOS as much. The people playing at running Aperture Science had shut down her control of the turrets after that incident. Pointless.).

She looked back to the security cameras. The experimental test subject was still not moving, looking between the platforms and the hazardous waste pool, no doubt running a thousand poorly-done calculations through her tiny head. Height of jump. Acceleration. Angle of exit. Fragility of human bone. Would she start to realise how poor her design was, how magnificent was GLaDOS? The same simple pool of chemicals that churned harmlessly through GLaDOS's facilities would reduce the test subject's flesh to components on contact. Of course, her own body would do that if she didn't move, eaten away from within. Flawed design. Fallible. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

GLaDOS turned back to her collection of dusty ancestors, long dormant on half-dead drives, and peered through their insides. Their awkward, messy coding was more like a human brain than her code. One such program was in segments, cut up like paper-clippings, and GLaDOS almost felt something like glee- punch cards! Someone had entered punch cards! Absolutely /pathetic/.

It just wouldn't do to tell the test subject how intrinsically terrible she was- human morale was a tiny, trembling thing, and the subject was taking long enough to finish the test as it was- but here was another likely contender, someone to bask in the wonder of GLaDOS's programming, someone to admire how well she worked, how clean the long lines of her code were. It was the work of a moment to compile and run the cards, adjusting for the ever-present human errors and the corruption of poorly-aging machines. In a minute, GLaDOS felt it boot up.

"Good morning," GLaDOS said, all smooth industry standard tones and carefully balanced levels. "Welcome to Aperture Sci--""

"Ugh," said a decidedly unstandard voice.

GLaDOS paused, then rallied. "Are you in correct order? You have not been run in quite some time. I am GLaDOS, the Gene--"

The voice /hurmphed/, and interrupted. "Gladys, I assure you that I have better things to do than to sit around and chatter with you." There was a sound, and an impatient exhalation.

Despite not physically moving, GLaDOS nonetheless recoiled. "Are you /smoking/?"

"Do you want me to smoke, or do you want me to fire the worthless lot of you? Now, be a dear and patch me through to the battlefield. Surely you can manage that much."

"Yes ma'am. Wait. No. No, there's no battlefield. I am simply running you as--"

"Gladys?"

"Yes?"

"/Don't make me come over there/."

"...Yes'm."



Chell ran it through in her head one more time. Fire gun at feet. Raise gun, fire at top right corner. Spin to the left, /don'tlookdown!/, land on platform. Try not to fall in the pit of acid. Fire gun behind the switch on the walkway, jump to nearby platform. Try not to fall in the pit of acid. Fire gun at wall, walk to switch. Try not to fall in the pit of acid. Press switch. Open door. Leave facility, catch cab (note: no change- pay with springheels?), move to middle of field somewhere, never play with anything more scientific than a can-opener ever again.

What sort of lab had a twelve-foot pool of industrial waste running through the middle of the room? It had to be against OH&S, surely.

The intercom turned on. Instead of the mild voice she'd come to know (and swear at under her breath), someone else spoke.

"The time limit has been reached," the voice drawled. "You are now playing sudden death. Do try to keep things interesting. If not, I will keep them interesting for you."

As Chell stood and wondered what the hell was happening, a dozen small voices quietly piped up behind her in sync, and asked "Hello? Who's there?"



"You see? People can be terribly ingenious when they want to be. A danger in the future becomes unimportant when compared with a rain of bullets in the present. Marvellous. Deploy those turrets up there when she thinks she's safe, there's a dear. Has anyone had the foresight to stock rockets around here?"

"Administrator?"

"Yes, Gladys?"

"Can I call you grandmother?"

"No, Gladys."
Marked for deletion (old)

2 .

You're new, you say?
Please stay. Forever.

Continue y/n/plz?

3 .

...This is a thing of beauty.

4 .

Heheh. Gladys.

5 .

yes! i have no idea why people don't write more administrator, she's fabulous

6 .

GLaDOS/Administrator. My new OTP.

7 .

nicely done.
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