Right to it

You want your freedom? Take it.
That's what I'm counting on.

A trail of trodden spikes cuts the field in two oceans on their own, each indifferent to the other's gold.

On its length, one can easily read the traces left by a journey. There are footprints with a steady, regular rhythm – those feet have run for miles and seldom paused.

The traces of the traveller's breaks are neatly shaped, all in the same way. Very distant from each other, but regular, they show where a heavy flat object has broken more stems with its weight.

Then the areas become wider, after what must be the distance of long hours. They grow in number and frequency, interrupting a straight line that is melting into a wave – a path so full of bends and stops that it almost becomes a broken line, broken by hardships, by struggles to go on.

Halfway through the long road, a cube is found, abandoned on a corner of wheat. It is covered in dirt and mud, with clean handprints all over the surface. Those arms have tried hard before giving up. Now the cube waits, and watches time pass by.

Far away from it, two hours at least, the other end of the path encloses her – a fragile human. She wades through the spikes with bloody fingers, determined to march on in every way.

She clings to her freedom with every inch of determination she has left. Not even her physical needs growing can stop her – not hunger, not thirst, not the growing numbness of her dying organs.

The sun has never been hotter than this. At least, the blue up there is enough to comfort her – this sky is so deep she can lose herself in it. The wind grazes her head from above, the clouds shine; they shelter her from the heat, and the piercing rays on her back become more bearable.

She hopes it will be enough to let her survive.

Her weakened body is not the problem at all. It is all about time and its backstabbing, slow and relentless; she has a hunch, and hard to chase away, that she will be dead before it gives her a break. And truly – if lengths could be measured in time units, this field would last centuries.

The first thing she saw out of the shack is likely to be the last; and it will for sure, if the thirst spreading through her limbs does not come to an end soon.
It has just been the yellow landscape, the one and the same. She has no other choice.

Chell's footprints grow more irregulars as her rage kicks in.
In fact, she could never choose.

How was she supposed to know in the first place? Facing a neverending wheat field to gain her freedom was never written in her test schedule. Dying was, maybe; but dropping dead like that, on a simple carpet of weed, would really be the worst of humiliations.

She has lived through dozens of turrets, hundreds of bullets, rivers of acid. She has had enough of humiliations.

When she thinks about it, it all feels worse, but definitely more real. Showing honesty – mercy – just to turn it all into the supreme act of cruelty.
It is just so like her. It must be so. She knows GLaDOS well after all.

No, it is not her fault this time. The fault truly belongs to the monster, to the fat test-subject – the human who really believed, without any proof or even the slightest hint, that she was finally running to her freedom.

How could she put her trust in a computer? And a moody, lunatic, murderous one as well?

But Chell cannot forget how strong her trust was. It did not last for long, but it was there, unmistakable. A feeling echoed by her voice, and then wrapped in the notes of a song.

When it all finished, two tears fell on the ground. They were the truest tears in her whole life – truer than the drops lining her cheeks now, as she faces the inhuman effort of moving another step. One more, one more. On to forever.

Her adieu had the taste of loyalty. Of course she was lying. Chell wasn't, though.
What a huge mess she has gotten herself into.

She clenches her teeth. She wants someone to know she died without surrendering; if not other human beings, the wind, the beautiful sky protecting her from above. The worms that will eat her flesh, uncovering her tightened jaw. The void of silence around her. They will all stay.

As for her only moment of weakness – how could she be so gullible? – she does not mind.
Such a thing will never show through her corpse; it is her secret, their secret. And if nothing else, well, she knows GLaDOS will respect it. As long as Chell stays out of her way.

The pain in her chest starts softening, just a moment before taking her breath. Right when she can less accept her illusion of freedom, she finds herself unable to believe her eyes.

The profiles of slim skyscrapers invade her field of vision. It looks like she could almost touch them – they are closer, much closer than she thought – and there are legs and arms, there are clothes, heads of people just like her. Bright red outfits turn to her, worried and surprised.

Her knees collapse.

The wailing of sirens fills her ears as she falls asleep. Fuzzy silhouettes are softened by her eyes – the shapes of those people are crying and running to her, probably asking for her name.

When Chell is sure it is not another dream, a wave of relief burns out the last spark of energy she has left.

She lets herself faint in the arms of a policeman; her head falls to find his forearm, and her eyes, swelling with tears, fade to black.
She is happy; for she is sure, now, that her last thought will forever be a truth.

She was never wrong then. She put her trust exactly where it belonged.
At last, once and for all, she has let her go.

I'll let you get right to it
Now I only want you gone.

I'have thought much about the ending of Portal 2 these days, and have drawn my own conclusions.
We all know what GLaDOS hoped for. Truth is, she just couldn't do it herself anymore - and I strongly doubt she would really want it after all the adventure, not to mention how little she'd want to be there. So I pondered her decision and tried guessing what she meant to do.
Tricking Chell for the very last time was probably a chance too delightful to be ruled out. On the other hand, if Chell could be safe out there, GLaDOS knew it. And GLaDOS, to this day, is probably the only one to know for sure. This story tells my own little wish on the matter.