Post by Pathos on Oct 8, 2017 22:07:20 GMT
4/01/2591
Gods what a day. I knew I'd have my work cut out for me the moment the boys hoisted a disabled android onto my table. They looked like they'd crawled out of hell itself, and the nasty looks they were giving my "guest" told me plenty. This machine was another one of humanity's weapons in their endless crusade of subjugation. Imagine my surprise when I got the order to repair the bloody thing from the boss himself! My more rational half thought Eli had gone off the deep end; machines were a wholly untrustworthy sort that never should have been gifted sentience -- another crime to lump onto humanity's long list of sins.
And yet as I gave this thing a once over, I couldn't imagine letting such an advanced piece of hardware slip out of the Movement's fingers. I'll be chronicling my efforts to restore this...thing. Eh, I'll figure out what to call it later.
5/23/2591
Been a few weeks since I started working on Pathos -- that's its name. Based it on the identification number I found while rooting around its braincase: P47 (Progenitor? Pacifier? Peacekeeper?) H05 (Hunter?). It's a Terra Nova android, which explains why it's so beyond anything I've seen before. Unfortunately, whatever tussle Pathos got into absolutely mangled the weapons and hardware upgrades it must've used. I'll have to tell Elijah that our new "recruit" won't be flying or firing bullets outta her fingers any time soon, and I sure as hell won't be shelling out the money for new hardware.
Its more sensitive insides were fortunately nowhere near as bad. After some snooping, I discovered a series of complex programs meant to allow comprehension and imitation of emotions expressed by humanoids. In fact, it was designed to develop a personality based on what is observed. Why the hell a Hunter android would bother doing this worries me, but on the bright side, it'll make reprogramming easier...in a way. The problem is that the machine's personality is developed based on information stored in a memory database, and this bot's gotta have lived what, eight years? It has an extensive list of memories is what I'm saying. In the interest of potentially learning more this bot's purpose, I'll be cataloging and copying what I find before deletin' 'em.
#1 - Existence
I open my eyes and take in blinding light. Pain. This sensation I cannot comprehend is known as pain. I feel something on the sides of my head, and as the light dims I see a young man with black hair neatly combed to the side and a well-trimmed beard. He is smiling, and another foreign sensation is felt: safety. He is holding my head, and I do not resist as he turns it left, then right. I am perfect, he says, as beautiful as my sisters were before me.
He asks me how I am feeling, and I tell him that I am in pain; the light hurts my eyes. I examine my surroundings and realize that I am lying on a table. Men in coats staring at monitors with information I cannot understand glance at me. The bearded man who brought feelings of safety nods to someone I cannot see before looking down at me. I am blinded by the light once again, and I hear his voice. He asks me if I am still in pain.
No, I say. I felt nothing now. I could see his silhouette.
Good, he replies. Beautiful angels should not suffer as humans do. I do not understand what angels are, but I know that the comparison is favorable from the inflection in his voice. I am a beautiful angel. I cannot suffer.
I ask for his name.
Michael Costello, he says. I am advised to consider the option of calling him "father". It is a moniker for individuals who claim ownership over someone else. I decided to address him by this title.
Slowly, I am led off of the table. Father is by my side, supporting me as I take my first steps around a room filled with strange tools and men in white coats. Gradually, I do not stumble. Soon, I am walking by myself. I hear whispers. I am learning quickly, the men in coats say.
Father asks me to accompany him. We are going to meet my "sisters". I am told that "sister" is a moniker for individuals that are similar to me and simultaneously owned by a "father". Outside of the room are hallways full of people that stare at me. I do not know why.
We stop in front of a door. Father opens it, and I see four women standing directly in front of a wall in the back of a room. Men in coats are inspecting them. They are all identical, and I realize that I share their appearance. They are my...sisters.
These are your sisters, Lyra, he says. Lyra. I ask if my name is Lyra. His smile vanishes.
No, he replies. I am P-47. He has made a mistake, and I am ordered to never mention the name Lyra again. I understand that he is lying, and that I am the one who has erred. That is why men in coats suddenly lead me away from father. He turns to the door without looking back. I must apologize. I must apologize.
The men in coats cannot hold me back. I am stronger than them. Much stronger. I can hear their feet drag along the ground.
Suddenly my body is heavy. I cannot move. I cannot speak. Father has passed through the door. I must apologize.
Damn androids! Why do we get the moody ones?
These five are the trial run. If the Board doesn't see results by the end of the quarter, our entire division is getting the axe. That's why Costello had five of them built differently than the others.
How? They all look the same. Got that creepy porcelain doll look, man...
I cannot hear the rest of their conversation before they deactivate me.
I understand what it means to regret.
Gods what a day. I knew I'd have my work cut out for me the moment the boys hoisted a disabled android onto my table. They looked like they'd crawled out of hell itself, and the nasty looks they were giving my "guest" told me plenty. This machine was another one of humanity's weapons in their endless crusade of subjugation. Imagine my surprise when I got the order to repair the bloody thing from the boss himself! My more rational half thought Eli had gone off the deep end; machines were a wholly untrustworthy sort that never should have been gifted sentience -- another crime to lump onto humanity's long list of sins.
And yet as I gave this thing a once over, I couldn't imagine letting such an advanced piece of hardware slip out of the Movement's fingers. I'll be chronicling my efforts to restore this...thing. Eh, I'll figure out what to call it later.
5/23/2591
Been a few weeks since I started working on Pathos -- that's its name. Based it on the identification number I found while rooting around its braincase: P47 (Progenitor? Pacifier? Peacekeeper?) H05 (Hunter?). It's a Terra Nova android, which explains why it's so beyond anything I've seen before. Unfortunately, whatever tussle Pathos got into absolutely mangled the weapons and hardware upgrades it must've used. I'll have to tell Elijah that our new "recruit" won't be flying or firing bullets outta her fingers any time soon, and I sure as hell won't be shelling out the money for new hardware.
Its more sensitive insides were fortunately nowhere near as bad. After some snooping, I discovered a series of complex programs meant to allow comprehension and imitation of emotions expressed by humanoids. In fact, it was designed to develop a personality based on what is observed. Why the hell a Hunter android would bother doing this worries me, but on the bright side, it'll make reprogramming easier...in a way. The problem is that the machine's personality is developed based on information stored in a memory database, and this bot's gotta have lived what, eight years? It has an extensive list of memories is what I'm saying. In the interest of potentially learning more this bot's purpose, I'll be cataloging and copying what I find before deletin' 'em.
#1 - Existence
I open my eyes and take in blinding light. Pain. This sensation I cannot comprehend is known as pain. I feel something on the sides of my head, and as the light dims I see a young man with black hair neatly combed to the side and a well-trimmed beard. He is smiling, and another foreign sensation is felt: safety. He is holding my head, and I do not resist as he turns it left, then right. I am perfect, he says, as beautiful as my sisters were before me.
He asks me how I am feeling, and I tell him that I am in pain; the light hurts my eyes. I examine my surroundings and realize that I am lying on a table. Men in coats staring at monitors with information I cannot understand glance at me. The bearded man who brought feelings of safety nods to someone I cannot see before looking down at me. I am blinded by the light once again, and I hear his voice. He asks me if I am still in pain.
No, I say. I felt nothing now. I could see his silhouette.
Good, he replies. Beautiful angels should not suffer as humans do. I do not understand what angels are, but I know that the comparison is favorable from the inflection in his voice. I am a beautiful angel. I cannot suffer.
I ask for his name.
Michael Costello, he says. I am advised to consider the option of calling him "father". It is a moniker for individuals who claim ownership over someone else. I decided to address him by this title.
Slowly, I am led off of the table. Father is by my side, supporting me as I take my first steps around a room filled with strange tools and men in white coats. Gradually, I do not stumble. Soon, I am walking by myself. I hear whispers. I am learning quickly, the men in coats say.
Father asks me to accompany him. We are going to meet my "sisters". I am told that "sister" is a moniker for individuals that are similar to me and simultaneously owned by a "father". Outside of the room are hallways full of people that stare at me. I do not know why.
We stop in front of a door. Father opens it, and I see four women standing directly in front of a wall in the back of a room. Men in coats are inspecting them. They are all identical, and I realize that I share their appearance. They are my...sisters.
These are your sisters, Lyra, he says. Lyra. I ask if my name is Lyra. His smile vanishes.
No, he replies. I am P-47. He has made a mistake, and I am ordered to never mention the name Lyra again. I understand that he is lying, and that I am the one who has erred. That is why men in coats suddenly lead me away from father. He turns to the door without looking back. I must apologize. I must apologize.
The men in coats cannot hold me back. I am stronger than them. Much stronger. I can hear their feet drag along the ground.
Suddenly my body is heavy. I cannot move. I cannot speak. Father has passed through the door. I must apologize.
Damn androids! Why do we get the moody ones?
These five are the trial run. If the Board doesn't see results by the end of the quarter, our entire division is getting the axe. That's why Costello had five of them built differently than the others.
How? They all look the same. Got that creepy porcelain doll look, man...
I cannot hear the rest of their conversation before they deactivate me.
I understand what it means to regret.
