And the earth spins 'round while the people fall down [OPEN]
who ; T-800 and Choose Your Own Adventure
what ; An AI that's gone off its tit. Do say hello.
where ; Garden Zone 4, near a popular bird watching site.
when ; Shortly after Hypatia's return.
warnings ; ¯\(°_o)/¯
Dieter Conan was an special forces lieutenant, tongue was cut out by the Taliban during a mission in the late nineties. He hadn't spoken since. No, his name was Dieter von Rossbach, maybe. And he had recently retired to Portugal. No, Paraguay. He wanted to be a rancher. No, that wasn't it, either. His name what was its...his name? Its name was Commander Shepard and this was its favorite garden zone on the station. No, that was completely wrong as well. Names, information and line after line of code was all it could see, could feel, but nothing was matching up. It was surprised it could tell up from down at this late stage of decay. Humans called it insanity, machines only knew it as overload. The point of an artificial intelligence's existence where the amount of information coming in greatly exceeded its available capacity. It was all the cyborg's own doing, it knew this. Or at least, it thought it did.
Crouched down in a secluded mess of brambles, the terminator, looking incredibly out of place its heavy layering of clothing and equipment shivered despite having no skin to feel a chill, hid. It wasn't cold that caused winter to find its body, but the overwhelming weight of every excess of information it took into itself over its long stay here on the station. A glutton finally feeling the load of its sin.
All its sensations were fixated on one goal as it hide there, shivering like a field mouse hiding from predators, stabilize. External optics shut down for power efficiency, it monitored and 'watched' each and every line of code ticking by its HUD, sorting through an endless library in the vain attempt to sort through all the inconsistencies, all the fallacies, all the precious, irreplaceable things it had accumulated as a free learning, sentient creature. It was literally thinking itself into entropy.
In its deterioration, its communicator translated its steady fall into madness into a shrill, mechanical cry.
Ssssreeeeeee
what ; An AI that's gone off its tit. Do say hello.
where ; Garden Zone 4, near a popular bird watching site.
when ; Shortly after Hypatia's return.
warnings ; ¯\(°_o)/¯
Dieter Conan was an special forces lieutenant, tongue was cut out by the Taliban during a mission in the late nineties. He hadn't spoken since. No, his name was Dieter von Rossbach, maybe. And he had recently retired to Portugal. No, Paraguay. He wanted to be a rancher. No, that wasn't it, either. His name what was its...his name? Its name was Commander Shepard and this was its favorite garden zone on the station. No, that was completely wrong as well. Names, information and line after line of code was all it could see, could feel, but nothing was matching up. It was surprised it could tell up from down at this late stage of decay. Humans called it insanity, machines only knew it as overload. The point of an artificial intelligence's existence where the amount of information coming in greatly exceeded its available capacity. It was all the cyborg's own doing, it knew this. Or at least, it thought it did.
Crouched down in a secluded mess of brambles, the terminator, looking incredibly out of place its heavy layering of clothing and equipment shivered despite having no skin to feel a chill, hid. It wasn't cold that caused winter to find its body, but the overwhelming weight of every excess of information it took into itself over its long stay here on the station. A glutton finally feeling the load of its sin.
All its sensations were fixated on one goal as it hide there, shivering like a field mouse hiding from predators, stabilize. External optics shut down for power efficiency, it monitored and 'watched' each and every line of code ticking by its HUD, sorting through an endless library in the vain attempt to sort through all the inconsistencies, all the fallacies, all the precious, irreplaceable things it had accumulated as a free learning, sentient creature. It was literally thinking itself into entropy.
In its deterioration, its communicator translated its steady fall into madness into a shrill, mechanical cry.
Ssssreeeeeee