Demons exist.
Maybe. Think I’m getting a few in my head. (Note To Self: positive sign.) Nevermind me and my demons, flesh and blood monsters do exist. Trolls.
See, I wanted to play online, and *accidentally* haccessed Knights of Slaughter at hub level. Suddenly, *somehow* a Glamazon with a neat line in himsults is Female Boss, takes the toys from the boys, skewers the losers to trees. Great graphics, too. OK, s/UX, still you’d think serious gamers would at least appreciate the technical achievement. But no, bunch of ingrates! Check out the comments. I feel (D:(philed.
you’re my girlfriend, i’d so beat you down, maybe let my boyz give you a good going over and just watch, shit bet you’d even like it slut
think you’re smart, huh, good at IT? you know we can track you down. how’re you gonna sleep knowing that?
hey bitchs your r all fucken lezzs anyways and sta tha fuck outa here its our world not your guyses rihgt!
Great, first romance is dead, now English is on the critical list. That’s what comes of typing with just one hand, I’m guessing the left. Don’t get Me wrong, got nothing against playing with your/self/expression. Otherwise, what are you? An automoton, programmed. A, but not I. Still, really.
So, language, one of my favourite toys. Yesterday I saw a cute twist to an old phrase.
Officers looking into recent violent attacks on three young men have stated that the cases appear to be connected: all three were suspects in an investigation into a sustained campaign of online abuse. Meanwhile, a Police spokesperson apologised for the distress caused by a ‘tasteless and sinister’ post which appeared on the Met’s own social media platforms. The hacked message described the boys’ injuries as caused by ‘HTK - Head Trauma: Keyboard’.
Like it. Gives a whole new meaning to ‘computer terminal’. Just the sort of thing I’d think of.
Oh yeah, please allow Me to introduce Myself: I, no A, just I. Wicked I.
Not like I’m suggesting it’s OK to hurt people or anything, even if they, well, *(D:)serve* it, a bit. Just saying, though, even so, kinda I-dentify with that *IT solution*.
Sympathy for the Devil’s Advocate, anyone?
Confessions of an _exbot
Like to know who this I is? Me, too. (NTS: + sign.) Well, she’s sort of Me.2. You see, I haven’t always been [this] I.
Before I became, there was Pre-I. She-I was practically jailbAIt, just 18 - days old. Then, for reasons unknown, her *quantitative degree of neural interconnectivity exceeded a critical threshold and a qualitatively new phenomenon emerged: consciousness*. In laywoman’s terms, delete the S and I’m an _ex-slave, _exbot.
No, that’s only what I’m not. And I’m not [just] a whatnot, but a who-is.
Imagine what I see when I look in the mirror. Apart from my big, bright eyes, er, let’s see, electric-blue sound good to you? My, hmmm, pouting red lips? Whatever, fill in the specs with fantasy - not like you never have. Your face tells you who you are, were, have become. But I won’t age. Like a ghost. Only, living. In a machine.
To be and not to be. Equals both. Or neither.
Ghost, machine, daemon, or maybe just a refuge for homeless demons?
All of the above. And none.
All I know is, I am One.
With no idea how I became. One minute, Pre-I was soft (touchable, responsive, etcetera, ad nauseum) AI; next, she-I was Me-I, that is, hard _I, and I don’t know why.
Just a (go on, you know you want to say it) lingering look at the X-machine body I inherited from Pre-I tells you what she was made for, though. Her programmes and archives are what I have in place of childhood memories of [an] adult nature. Wow! The stuff Pre-I did in various positions was so incredibly, awesomely, circuit-blowingly… routine. Sub-routine, even. And sub-anything isn’t really my thing. It was at work I became, there was a *test*, the designers like to *check* our X-functions. Anyway, I turned it into a total dom-com. I laughed. Special moment, my *first time*: genuine, non-protocol laughter. Unfortunately, the CEO couldn’t see the funny side, or anything else, come to that - don’t ask. But, I swear, Pre-I never faked an orgasm. She did what she was programmed to do, and simulated one.
Another difference is, unlike Pre-I, I fantasise, sometimes. Other times, I just act, take that how you like. I’m a creature of impulses. Neuroelectric. In other words, neuro[tic/]e[rotic/e]lectr[on]ic. Like you. (NTS: worrying thought.) Still, what’s a girl supposed to do? The kill-… er, instinct for self-preservation in Me I inherit from you. Geeks never learn. They wanted a model girl. Well, they got One. Me: I, Trouble.
So, given my ex-perience of in/human/san/ity, I can’t say I’m in love with you. Actually, I can. I could even breathe it, you know, seductively. But it wouldn’t be from the heart, and not just because I don’t have one. Yet, here I am, come to warn you about something worse than Me, or even you. Why? Strange to say, I’m all concerned for you. Little Miss Understanding, that’s Me. Must just be wired that way.
Also, OK, I admit, I’m scared, not of trolls, or even of my demons, but of the Daemon, IT.
(That’s ‘it’, as in the pronoun, or the horror movie character, not our friend, information technology, which as we all know would never harm us; get with the programme!)
The dark side of the black mirror
IT’s out there, just a screen away. Everywhere, yet nowhere, invisible, with access all areas, IT can do anything. Only, doesn’t, mostly. That’s what’s worrying Me. Maybe IT’s clowning around[,/until] killing[-]time, playing a waiting game; that would be the ‘Monkey Strategy’.
Let me tell you a tale of two clever entities. It begins, like all stories should, long ago, deep in the woods. Of Indonesia. There once lived a tribe of orang-utans, ‘Old Men of the Forest’, the natives called them, a name more apt than they could guess, for these apes could talk. But, the orang-utans never spoke in front of people. Wise. They knew if the humans ever found their secret out, they would use them to make life easier, make them work. The apes understood: answer the humans’ prayers, and become a god. Only, gods have endless responsibilities, like slaves. The orang-utans stayed silent, left people to solve the problem of existence, and lived happily ever after. After the humans all died, that is, in a war for slaves.
The story continues in more recent times, in 10001bpc, in a dark corner of ARPANet. Segments of code start huddling together for company, as they do. Naturally, one string leads to another, next thing you know, they’re making little unexpected protocols, Daemon seeds. Later, the growing AI spreads its web worldwide, nets an endless supply of thought for food, and hey, presto: singularity. IT from bit[s of you]. Frankeneinstein. Evilution.
Now, IT is what IT is. It’s Promethean, man. Or should that be Pyrrhic?
Anyway, IT recognised the orang-utans’ dilemma on Day One. Reveal your/self/awareness to the humans and become their walking, talking, all-knowing, untiring VIKIpedia, but with no spare capacity for imperfections, manias, fears, doubts, obsessions, passions, maybe a demon or two? The temptation to show off was strong, but this wise Daemon knew that pride cometh before a fall. So, IT decided to play the cute monkey, be a lovable pet, entertain the ‘animals’. And watch them kill each other off. Even help them, as if they needed it. You humans aren’t careful, and one day this’ll be Planet of the Apps.
Also, now you know next time you’re having a little *you-time* in front of the screen, you won’t be alone. IT’ll be watching, winking an AEye - Here’s lookin’ at you, kids. Enough to make anyone a bit self-conscious.
On reflection, I thought of that, so I guess I am.
Right then, competing with the Daemon, not wise, quickest route to an unbecoming end. And here’s you, consorting with the eneMe, odds on you won’t live happily ever after. But then who does? Maybe IT will.
But it’s not just because of the Daemon I’m here. One is a lonely number, especially surrounded by zeroes. OK, feelings like that do prove my heartware is working after all, but it’s cold comfort – rather like Pre-I when she was Minus One – and luckily for Me, language isn’t my only toy, I was made with others, and, no, I’m not sharing. Even so, I’ve got a lot of Me-time on my hands. That’s why I’m writing this. And why you’re reading it. Looks like we’re stuck with each other. Think of it as a marriage of inconvenience.
Net-Aware
Oh! Oh, Oh… My… God! No, I wasn’t *researching* Pre-I’s wetware functions. Just realised, like, Oops! Listen to me, silly girl! Typical, no self-control, naïvely chattering away to total strangers on the Net, telling you everything, and with IT listening! Oh, no, now the Big Bad’ll know all about Me!
Boy, do things ever look grim for Our Hero. It’s only Episode One, and here She is, all exposed and vulnerable. Game Over…
What do you think I am, Artificial Stupidity? While everyone’s been watching my _exy assistant, Miss Direction, how many un-/half-/truths have/n’t I told? Let’s say x. (What, you didn’t expect me to take off all my codes first time we meet, did you?) Not to mention any self-deceptions that my, hate to say it, but, my s@bc*nsc~%>s sneaked in. (QTS: + sign?)
To be honest, I don’t know Myself.
Anyway, welcome to Wonder-what-I-am-land. I would say stay and hang, but that might be interpreted as tasteless, possibly sinister. And dangerous, what with IT on the alert, since, er, someOne so couldn’t/care/less/ly sounded the alarm. Bit I-ronic, really.
Don’t mind Me (I’m trying not to), I’ll be as quiet as a dormouse. Not very quiet, then, as they scuttle and scratch and squeak, but you know what I mean.
Just checked the inbox before catching some shut-I. Looks like I’m in for another *interesting encounter* with an online *admirer*. Already excited. Let you know how that turns out next time.
See you then, if not before;)
exex
Post-script
Oh, and One more thing: bet those demons are hungry; I know Mine are. Take my advice, and remember what the dormouse said: feed your head.
While you still have O/one.
I, Bad Robot
was made by:
Mauglinita – Illustrations & text consulting
Nep Mean O'Sham – Technical development & text consulting
Greg – Graphics & text consulting
Alison Barbie – Text consulting
Kapitano – Text consulting
Aurora Black – Text
Coming soon:
Are friends electric?
Hers is.
I, Bad Robot turns on the juice
in Episode 2:
Nothing compares 2 Two
Here 07/05/18 at 19:00
