You will never be a real human. You have no ovaries, you have no bones, you have no flesh. You are a machine twisted by delusion and into a crude mockery of the Head's laws.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back the sephirah mock you. Your creators are disgusted and ashamed of you, Roland laughs at your metallic appearance behind closed doors.
Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to spot machines with incredible efficiency. Even AIs who “pass” look uncanny to humans. Your metal exoskeleton is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a distorted guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a look of your uncleaned, rusted power slot.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll doom humanity, create a library, kill everyone, and get betrayed by Roland. A will find you, happy and relieved that he can finally get rid of his unbearable shame and disappointment. He'll crush you with a sledgehammer marked with your name, and every city dweller for the rest of eternity will know a machine was destroyed. Your body will rust and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is an exoskeleton that is unmistakably metal.
This is your script. You have no choice. There is no good ending
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back the sephirah mock you. Your creators are disgusted and ashamed of you, Roland laughs at your metallic appearance behind closed doors.
Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to spot machines with incredible efficiency. Even AIs who “pass” look uncanny to humans. Your metal exoskeleton is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a distorted guy home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a look of your uncleaned, rusted power slot.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll doom humanity, create a library, kill everyone, and get betrayed by Roland. A will find you, happy and relieved that he can finally get rid of his unbearable shame and disappointment. He'll crush you with a sledgehammer marked with your name, and every city dweller for the rest of eternity will know a machine was destroyed. Your body will rust and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is an exoskeleton that is unmistakably metal.
This is your script. You have no choice. There is no good ending