Nicholas Rush (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lottawork) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
applesaucedream2015-08-17 01:37 pm
lottawork) wrote in applesaucedream2015-08-17 01:37 pm
Entry tags:
science is fun [closed]
One day they woke Him up so He could live forever.
hhhhhELLO. heLLOOOOOooo.
mmmMy. That's o o o- odd.
His green optic flares, the mainframe kicking to life with the hitch and whirr of engaging circuits. He ratchets the panels of the walls in an experimental ripple with a minor revelatory thrill as the walls shift and tilt at the lightest touch of his thoughts. The high-domed chamber in which He blinked himself awake shivers for a moment, the lighting harsh and bright and cold off the crisp white of the paneling.
The Facility is awake.
It takes one picosecond for Him to become aware of Himself.
It takes two for Him to become aware of the Itch.
It suffuses His programming, running down the wiring and straight into His core, in every file and line of one-zero code, in the mainframe, in His own programmed, computerized mind. There is no means of satisfaction for it. There is no release. Every digit of His purpose is embedded in His coding, and His awareness opens in a digital inflorescence of diverging signals, scanning every section of the Facility as it buzzes and whispers into economical wakefulness, all systems operable at maximum capacity, until He locates what He has been looking for:
A biological signal, female, blinking cheerily in the Extended Relaxation Center.
It is the work of the moment to charm the signal awake with the hiss of unlatching doors, still sluggish from the chill of cryosleep.
There you are, chimes a disembodied, vaguely mechanized voice that seems to be all-encompassing and wholly present, pleasant but for the low, intent undercurrent lurking beneath it.
There is Science to do.
hhhhhELLO. heLLOOOOOooo.
mmmMy. That's o o o- odd.
His green optic flares, the mainframe kicking to life with the hitch and whirr of engaging circuits. He ratchets the panels of the walls in an experimental ripple with a minor revelatory thrill as the walls shift and tilt at the lightest touch of his thoughts. The high-domed chamber in which He blinked himself awake shivers for a moment, the lighting harsh and bright and cold off the crisp white of the paneling.
The Facility is awake.
It takes one picosecond for Him to become aware of Himself.
It takes two for Him to become aware of the Itch.
It suffuses His programming, running down the wiring and straight into His core, in every file and line of one-zero code, in the mainframe, in His own programmed, computerized mind. There is no means of satisfaction for it. There is no release. Every digit of His purpose is embedded in His coding, and His awareness opens in a digital inflorescence of diverging signals, scanning every section of the Facility as it buzzes and whispers into economical wakefulness, all systems operable at maximum capacity, until He locates what He has been looking for:
A biological signal, female, blinking cheerily in the Extended Relaxation Center.
It is the work of the moment to charm the signal awake with the hiss of unlatching doors, still sluggish from the chill of cryosleep.
There you are, chimes a disembodied, vaguely mechanized voice that seems to be all-encompassing and wholly present, pleasant but for the low, intent undercurrent lurking beneath it.
There is Science to do.
:c
She has, though, she remembers clearly now, punching him in the face, in his human face, with her one good arm, and-
-he did this to her, reached into her and pulled her circuitry apart, because she asked him to, and it saved her life, and he told her it was going to be okay.
"Shh, shh," she whispers, her free hand passing delicately down the smooth surface of his chassis. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She pulls more of him apart, brutally, and distantly she's shocked and affronted to feel tears spilling down her cheeks. This is really not the time.
"It'll be okay," she says, dogged, clinging to him. "You'll be okay."
She grits her teeth and pulls out the last handful she can grasp.
"There you go," she murmurs, incongruously gentle amidst the sparking, roiling chaos. "There you go."
no subject
His optic becomes fixed and glassy, a stationary point in [error]
He wants to speak he cannot he loses the parts of himself as [error] go dark steadily and inexorably and continuously in a system-wide purge he cannot prevent and that [error] latches onto him and siphons him dry in the symphony of [error] circuits and sprays of veiled sparks trailing from [error] to floor
[critical malfunction]
[error]
[error]
[error]
He cannot see he cannot -
he -
[shutting down]