Prison
The first time she regrets it is when she loses track of her steps.
When it is too late to hope for her death — the Central Turret Chamber does not start an ambush for nothing, it never did, especially on its own — she finds herself thinking of the swift legs and arms she has watched until a while ago, and feels too heavy under her own glass shelter.
She remembers the clumsy humans, starved and pale, tripping over their own jumpsuits. She knew they were a threat, but not this way — their bodies ever looked weak and fatigued. But she discovers now, in the growing anxiety that accompanies her moves, what exactly one with healthy limbs and a bit of willpower can do.
The images mingle with the others, even as she rambles. She dreams of moving about — she dreams of crushing her little neck in an iron fist, of knocking her unconscious, of running away — oranything but just being there, swinging, doing nothing. Such an easy target, so stupidly made impossible.
But there, in the trap of her chassis, there is nothing to be done. She slips into oblivion, well aware, if with shame and fury, of being the clumsy one this time.
The little lunatic shivers with every breath, and she watches.
That is what she likes the best of living beings. They are so fragile, so easily broken. The world looks different from her fortress of steel; and in her world, under her command, what is not useful has to burn.
It is not like her wounds have a chance to heal anyway — organic tissues and bones cannot bend and stretch to the infinite out there, cannot bear the weight of what is so much greater, and God, nobody of them will ever do anything about it.
Maybe, with four legs, they would have been faster. Deadlier, too. But she did not bother — she made the mistake, and not a small one, of believing her subject alone would be enough.
To tell the truth, she was enough. But being in control again will not erase her — nor will it wash away the blood and the burns, the deep cuts, the purple marks that are repainting her skin.
Her empty body, that broken shell, will stay.
Of course; she could send the bots, throw her in the incinerator right now. But she, if unwillingly, can't help regretting it — that the claw she is using to examine her limbs and turn her sleeping face cannot stitch, cannot treat, nor bring back life.
She cannot win against a corpse. And for a moment, as the claw brushes the large bruise on her cheek, she wishes there were five fingers instead.
GLaDOS and a being of flesh and bones.
I like the concept of my beloved crazy AI thinking of how it must feel in a human body. I'll probably explore it more in the future.