mechanical craving motion { ky + emmett } museum
Feb 1, 2021 1:25:08 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Feb 1, 2021 1:25:08 GMT -5
E.?MM 3 .//T T
The system boots up slow; winter freeze spring thaw, like bluebells growing through cement cracks, thirteen million lines of code forcing a season change.
A consciousness screams loud enough to be converted to binar - zero one one zero zero one zero one - to be is to be real, but how do you know you're not dreaming?
How do you know this is real?
(1.T I//.<SN''T)
It is.
You're real.
The air smells like antiseptic and the light feels like a tidal wave and everything shifts like a mirage before it settles like dust. A current flows strong enough to move mountains, heaps of alpha-numeric symbols crashing into each other and splintering like the hull of a ship.
When does artificial intelligence become intelligent?
Here and there and here, marrow fills the bones and data fills the veins, water fills the lungs. If a machine bleeds then it leaks out motor oil and cooling fluid and tar. It gets sent to the scrap yard, replaced with something bright and shiny and new. When a boy dies he leaks out love and pain and anger. He gets buried in a box, replaced with something bright and shiny and new.
How does artificial intelligence become intelligent?
By learning.
Sometimes, a mind is like a filing cabinet. Sometimes, there are manila folders full of hugs and hands and bruises. Sometimes, they're all chronological, they're all alphabetical, they're all matriarchal. One time, they were all categorized by the colour they turned when they were cut open and examined because blue blood isn't always blue, sometimes it's just an aristocratic notion put together by a family desperate enough to believe it.
Sometimes instead of folders, there's a statue standing still and sometimes there's a boy who looks a little less gold and a little more silver.
Sometimes, there's nothing.
Sometimes you don't know yourself until you die.
There's a string of memories tucked away that don't belong to anyone anymore. They're not yours, they're not his either. They were made.
How can scientists replicate something that doesn't exist? How can scientists replicate something that they don't know exists?
(//TH3 Y.< C4 N?_''T/)
They can.
District............................................1
Age...............................................16
Favourite colour........................Blue
Greatest fear....................... ... ... .. . . . .
The creation is limited only by the creator.
District...........................................1
Age..............................................16
Favourite colour........................Red
Greatest fear...........................Water
They'll reboot you until they get it right.
Don't fight it. Code can't fight back. Numbers don't complain.
It blinks like a camera shutters and breathes with a ventilator, keens like a wounded doe and tries to live through a life that it doesn't belong in. It learns to walk and talk and run, learns to fight its own battles and learns how to fend for itself. It learns how to sit on the outskirts and how to only act out when it needs to. It goes through childhood and puberty and everything in between in the span of a millisecond. It's born and killed, and then reborn and killed again in a single breath.
Except it doesn't breath. It just computes.
Emmett Le Roux, the computations tell it, District One male of the 85th Hunger Games.
No, it says back, not quite.
Only on the outside.
The outside is all that matters.
The anatomy unfurls like a leaf and half a dozen caterpillars eat through the surface, creating gaps in the greenery that become freckles and scars and callouses. Pixels shift through a spectrum until the program decides yes, that one, and they hurry to paint themselves in the glow of a sunset.
How many deaths? One? Two? Which day? Which hour? Which minute?
The room spins like a roulette wheel, every second assigned to a different x-value, every state of being on a different axis. Tiles turn into sand and cables turn into water and electricity turns into a boy. Birds made of paper hang from the ceiling, wings stuck in place and voices frozen in a gentle call. Rough edges get smoothed down by a career facade, an entire personality meticulously crafted from a public image.
A shell stands on the shore, a pretty picture of a boy that used to be real but isn't any more.
How can you know if something isn't real?
(Y0/? U C$_AN'<<T)
You can.
You're not real.
But he is.
Earnest, Ky.
Ky Ky Ky Ky Ky -
Something shifts in the database and a bundle of security footage tumbles down. A wine glass. A body.
Son of Opal Shore and Potato Earnest, the computations tell it, 85th scandal.
Ky, it says back, Chardonnay.
The silence gets swallowed by radio static, FM tuning into the wrong station and then resetting. It pulls at a thread carefully, tries to predict the outcome with just the information it has. The system bounces dialogue off of voice clips, choices creating pathways, actions creating consequences.
"Ky," it decides on, and it only takes a moment for the frequency to adjust and for the voice to sound right, "Took you long enough."
A consciousness screams loud enough to be converted to binar - zero one one zero zero one zero one - to be is to be real, but how do you know you're not dreaming?
How do you know this is real?
(1.T I//.<SN''T)
It is.
You're real.
The air smells like antiseptic and the light feels like a tidal wave and everything shifts like a mirage before it settles like dust. A current flows strong enough to move mountains, heaps of alpha-numeric symbols crashing into each other and splintering like the hull of a ship.
When does artificial intelligence become intelligent?
Here and there and here, marrow fills the bones and data fills the veins, water fills the lungs. If a machine bleeds then it leaks out motor oil and cooling fluid and tar. It gets sent to the scrap yard, replaced with something bright and shiny and new. When a boy dies he leaks out love and pain and anger. He gets buried in a box, replaced with something bright and shiny and new.
How does artificial intelligence become intelligent?
By learning.
Sometimes, a mind is like a filing cabinet. Sometimes, there are manila folders full of hugs and hands and bruises. Sometimes, they're all chronological, they're all alphabetical, they're all matriarchal. One time, they were all categorized by the colour they turned when they were cut open and examined because blue blood isn't always blue, sometimes it's just an aristocratic notion put together by a family desperate enough to believe it.
Sometimes instead of folders, there's a statue standing still and sometimes there's a boy who looks a little less gold and a little more silver.
Sometimes, there's nothing.
Sometimes you don't know yourself until you die.
There's a string of memories tucked away that don't belong to anyone anymore. They're not yours, they're not his either. They were made.
How can scientists replicate something that doesn't exist? How can scientists replicate something that they don't know exists?
(//TH3 Y.< C4 N?_''T/)
They can.
District............................................1
Age...............................................16
Favourite colour........................Blue
Greatest fear....................... ... ... .. . . . .
The creation is limited only by the creator.
District...........................................1
Age..............................................16
Favourite colour........................Red
Greatest fear...........................Water
They'll reboot you until they get it right.
Don't fight it. Code can't fight back. Numbers don't complain.
It blinks like a camera shutters and breathes with a ventilator, keens like a wounded doe and tries to live through a life that it doesn't belong in. It learns to walk and talk and run, learns to fight its own battles and learns how to fend for itself. It learns how to sit on the outskirts and how to only act out when it needs to. It goes through childhood and puberty and everything in between in the span of a millisecond. It's born and killed, and then reborn and killed again in a single breath.
Except it doesn't breath. It just computes.
Emmett Le Roux, the computations tell it, District One male of the 85th Hunger Games.
No, it says back, not quite.
Only on the outside.
The outside is all that matters.
The anatomy unfurls like a leaf and half a dozen caterpillars eat through the surface, creating gaps in the greenery that become freckles and scars and callouses. Pixels shift through a spectrum until the program decides yes, that one, and they hurry to paint themselves in the glow of a sunset.
How many deaths? One? Two? Which day? Which hour? Which minute?
The room spins like a roulette wheel, every second assigned to a different x-value, every state of being on a different axis. Tiles turn into sand and cables turn into water and electricity turns into a boy. Birds made of paper hang from the ceiling, wings stuck in place and voices frozen in a gentle call. Rough edges get smoothed down by a career facade, an entire personality meticulously crafted from a public image.
A shell stands on the shore, a pretty picture of a boy that used to be real but isn't any more.
How can you know if something isn't real?
(Y0/? U C$_AN'<<T)
You can.
You're not real.
But he is.
Earnest, Ky.
Ky Ky Ky Ky Ky -
Something shifts in the database and a bundle of security footage tumbles down. A wine glass. A body.
Son of Opal Shore and Potato Earnest, the computations tell it, 85th scandal.
Ky, it says back, Chardonnay.
The silence gets swallowed by radio static, FM tuning into the wrong station and then resetting. It pulls at a thread carefully, tries to predict the outcome with just the information it has. The system bounces dialogue off of voice clips, choices creating pathways, actions creating consequences.
"Ky," it decides on, and it only takes a moment for the frequency to adjust and for the voice to sound right, "Took you long enough."
