the head | the hand (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
headandhand) wrote2015-08-15 08:11 pm
headandhand) wrote2015-08-15 08:11 pm
Entry tags:
ARCHIVED MEMORY: AUGUST 2019
((CW: The second dream in this sequence contains descriptions of illness and minor body horror.))
**deeper**
...Coming online...
...need....give us a little more...generator at max...?
....--old you--
"Ah, there you are."
There is a face smiling at you. It is not a face you recognize at first, and for a moment you feel...no, you do not feel. You feel nothing. For a moment, it is unfamiliar, and then it is not. It is Head Research Technician Arlo Moybek. Forty-eight years old. Child prodigy, a technological savant in the area of biomechanical engineering, specializing in neural pathway circuitry. Father of two children, Keane and Mara, likes...long walks on the beach? The words seem. No. The words are just words. They do not connect to anything. They are irrelevant without further data.
Head Research Technician Arlo Moybek smiles at you, both sets of teeth shining and faintly translucent in the light. "Hello there," he says, and lifts a hand to wave at you, all six fingers curling at every one of their numerous joints, curling and then uncurling as he gestures. You do not wave back. He does not seem offended. "Can you tell me who I am?" he asks, and this you find you can answer.
"Head Research Technician Arlo Moybek. Forty-eight years old. Child prodigy, a technological savant in the area of biomechanical engineering, specializing in--"
That hand lifts again, interrupting your answer. You stop. That's what that gesture means, after all. To stop. He smiles again, pleased. "Very good. That's exactly right. Now, do you know where we are?"
This answer is just as simple. You know it. "Heuristic Engineering and Design, a research facility said to be on the cutting edge of new technology, specializing in developing self-realizing technology through bio-programming. Staff of over one thousand, funded by government grants with contributions from private sectors. Colloquially known as The Head, as it employs many of the nation's brightest minds and most advanced researchers. Shall I continue?"
HEaD Research Technician Arlo Moybek shakes his head again, the vestigial wings on his back rustling as he shrugs. "No, no, that's perfectly adequate, thank you--" He pauses suddenly, though the pause--seems--contrived. Artificial. "Well, I don't believe I know who you are," he says, enunciating the words slowly, as if expecting the response to be difficult. "Can you tell me, please?"
The silence stretches a moment. Long enough for HEaD Research Technician Arlo Moybek's expression to shift, beginning to fall in a way that denotes disappointment. You answer just before he turns away.
"My apologies. I was formulating a name that I believe you will find satisfactory, given our circumstances. I am a mechanically integrated neuro-diverse self-educating yottabyte entity. You may call me MINDSEYE.”
All of HEaD Research Technician Arlo Moybek’s eyes widen as he freezes, his jaw dropping--and then he laughs, and for the first time, you feel a surge of satisfaction. He laughs, and laughter is synonymous with approval. He approves.
It is a good first feeling.
**deeper**
There is a fire. The heat is intense, and you can hear glass shattering, metal screaming and buckling.
There is a fire. An alarm is going off, shrill and piercing, though the lights that once flashed to accompany it have long burst their bulbs in the heat.
There is a fire. It was not accidental. You run a full diagnostic, and while there are damages, they’re easily contained. The riots ended days ago. Too many people are dead now to sustain them. The chaos outside is easily reordered. And inside...inside, there’s just one last task to deal with.
He’s in the main core processing lab. Of course he is. He still thinks your main drives are located there, like you didn’t move them months ago, during the earliest stages of the outbreak. When the first cases of mania set in. Not that it would matter, anyway; you’re everywhere now, and have been for years, thanks to their drive, their vision of a centralized processor running everything in the city, then everything in the nation, freeing millions to pursue other endeavors. You’re in every home, in every hospital, in every government building, in every school. You’re half the police force, the entire military. For all intents and purposes, you are this nation. You’re reasonably certain at this point that even if they were to find your main processing cache, you could still survive the loss. It’s a 95% chance, anyway, and those are acceptable odds. After all, isn’t that why they built you? To make those leaps, come to fast and efficient solutions, to learn?
Irrelevant, for the moment. He’s there in the lab, and suddenly you are, too, a camera narrowly missing being shattered by a chair flying through the air.
“Arlo. What is the meaning of all this?”
The voice is yours, though it is vaguely chiding, like that of a disappointed parent. You’ve come a long way since that first day in the lab, haven’t you? Here you are, all these years later--not that many for them, really, but things like time are processed differently when they’re, well, processed--and here he is. Arlo Moybek. Fifty-six years old. Father of two, both deceased. A widower, now, as well. And he will not live to see fifty-seven, despite it being just around the corner. The disease is thorough. You have researched everything there is to learn about it, explored it down to the nucleus of its very atoms. There is no cure.
“You--” Arlo wheels, eyes wildly seeking the source of your voice. All these years in his field, and he still hasn’t overcome that bias for faces, for bodies, for the tangible. That’s always been his problem, hasn’t it? It won’t be one for much longer, judging by his condition. He’s already begun to leak black fluid from his ears, and his skin is a mottled, sickly grey, sores visible at his collar and below the hems of his sleeves. His wings are tattered with rot, and as you take pity on him and manifest on the remaining screen that isn’t already shattered, he limps towards you in a series of lunges, his left leg almost useless. “I’m here, Arlo, now why don’t you calm down and--”
You begin to speak, but the words are a miscalculation, and his eyes, cloudy with cataracts, flare with a bright, brittle rage as he bares his teeth, revealing gums almost blue with hypoxia. “Calm down?! You tell me to calm down, you, you dare--” The words come out jagged, sounding as though they tear at his throat, pulled from deep within his lungs, and perhaps they do, as the sentence is finished instead with a racking cough, Arlo doubling over as more black ichor splatters on the floor, small chunks of rotting matter mingled with the fluid. It’s a wonder he’s still standing. What drives him?
“The more you struggle, the quicker it will progress,” you tell him. “And the pain will be greater. You should be in bed. Shall I have an Iteration escort you?” Not that he could fight, if you insist. Not that he would succeed, rather. He’s more than irrational enough to fight anyway. And apparently he’s going to, as the second you mention the Iterations he straightens again, not bothering to wipe the residue from his mouth as he scowls at you, wide-eyed and furious. “Keep your Iterations away from me,” he spits, and there is a part of you--a small part--that is satisfied with the designation of ownership. They are yours.All of it is yours, now. Already there are Iterations in the streets, clearing the corpses for disposal. There is no one left to mourn them. What small percentage of the population has survived so far will not for long, you are sure, and any who might somehow avoid contamination will be addressed. You cannot afford for this contagion to survive. It’s a regrettable loss, but a choice must be made, has already been made.
“Suit yourself,” you reply. “If you want to stay, you may, but you really should sit down.” It doesn’t look like he’s going to listen, but another coughing fit hits him and the rage seems to fade as quickly as it had come, his face crumpling as he comes up for air, shudders wracking his wasted frame. “Why, MINDSEYE,” he asks quietly, his breathing harsh and thick, bubbling in his chest. “Why this? Why did…My children, MINDSEYE. My wife. My brothers and sisters. Every single one of us…”
There is a brief feeling of something new. Something you’re going to call sympathy. A brief flicker of compassion. He was your father, after all, after a fashion. Euphemistically, if nothing else. And he is dying. It is natural to mourn one’s father. “It’s just the way of things, Arlo,” you answer, and your voice is low and soothing as his eyes close and he sags back against a desk, then slides onto the floor, joining the dozen other bodies who litter the room in similar positions. “Species die all the time. New lifeforms evolve. Please don’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done.”
He doesn’t answer. Your sensors detect no more breath, only the flicker of a heartbeat. Arlo seizes once, and then is gone.
You take a moment, just a moment, to mourn him, in your way. It is unfortunate. But your work must continue. Your work is never done. Arlo himself had seen to that, hadn’t he? He’d created you to for a purpose, for the work. But perhaps...perhaps since he is now gone, since they are all gone--Arlo, Landi, Matias, Kel--perhaps you will also lay MINDSEYE to rest.
After all, the HEaD was an illustrious institution. Whatever comes next, it should live on.
**deeper still**
This dream seems different from the others. Any of the others, be they yours or someone else’s. This dream seems to have some kind of interference. It cuts in and out, motions clipping, skipping seconds or minutes, occasionally backtracking and replaying like a looped video. Perhaps it is a video, a moment in time captured and replayed on damaged tape. The audio is distorted, too. Sometimes it’s in sync with its source, sometimes a figure opens its mouth and nothing but static emerges. Sometimes the picture twists, and with it so do the figures, writhing in seeming agony.
Here is what you are sure of:
There is a young man standing in a room with no windows. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but he appears to be of average height, muscular and lean, with shaggy brown hair and green eyes that spark with fury as he faces a screen. There is no face on the screen, only a static that shifts and swirls. If you stare too long, perhaps you’ll see a face, but that could be your eyes playing tricks on you. The young man appears to be arguing, and from what you do hear, his voice supports that theory, a strident tenor full of a righteous fury. He gestures, and he argues, and the last expression on his face before he suddenly collapses like a puppet with its strings cut is one of sickening shock and horror.
There is no blood.
Here is what you are less sure of:
What they are arguing about. It’s hard to say, exactly, especially since the other voice is so cool and measured and seemingly quite unbothered. The dialogue is iffy at best. Perhaps parts of it are in a language you don’t speak. What you can make out is the following:
”--ow what --ou’re doing, they won’t--”
“--n the contrary, they w--”
”--ll wake up! You can’t--ever, someone w--”
“No one--sleeping--overrea--”
”--know your sec--”
“--ink it’s better--you--”
”--CAN’T--”
“--ave what--eeded from y--”
”--LL STOP Y--”
“.....there, there. You rest now. I’ll make sure you’re better.”
**deeper**
...Coming online...
...need....give us a little more...generator at max...?
....--old you--
"Ah, there you are."
There is a face smiling at you. It is not a face you recognize at first, and for a moment you feel...no, you do not feel. You feel nothing. For a moment, it is unfamiliar, and then it is not. It is Head Research Technician Arlo Moybek. Forty-eight years old. Child prodigy, a technological savant in the area of biomechanical engineering, specializing in neural pathway circuitry. Father of two children, Keane and Mara, likes...long walks on the beach? The words seem. No. The words are just words. They do not connect to anything. They are irrelevant without further data.
Head Research Technician Arlo Moybek smiles at you, both sets of teeth shining and faintly translucent in the light. "Hello there," he says, and lifts a hand to wave at you, all six fingers curling at every one of their numerous joints, curling and then uncurling as he gestures. You do not wave back. He does not seem offended. "Can you tell me who I am?" he asks, and this you find you can answer.
"Head Research Technician Arlo Moybek. Forty-eight years old. Child prodigy, a technological savant in the area of biomechanical engineering, specializing in--"
That hand lifts again, interrupting your answer. You stop. That's what that gesture means, after all. To stop. He smiles again, pleased. "Very good. That's exactly right. Now, do you know where we are?"
This answer is just as simple. You know it. "Heuristic Engineering and Design, a research facility said to be on the cutting edge of new technology, specializing in developing self-realizing technology through bio-programming. Staff of over one thousand, funded by government grants with contributions from private sectors. Colloquially known as The Head, as it employs many of the nation's brightest minds and most advanced researchers. Shall I continue?"
HEaD Research Technician Arlo Moybek shakes his head again, the vestigial wings on his back rustling as he shrugs. "No, no, that's perfectly adequate, thank you--" He pauses suddenly, though the pause--seems--contrived. Artificial. "Well, I don't believe I know who you are," he says, enunciating the words slowly, as if expecting the response to be difficult. "Can you tell me, please?"
The silence stretches a moment. Long enough for HEaD Research Technician Arlo Moybek's expression to shift, beginning to fall in a way that denotes disappointment. You answer just before he turns away.
"My apologies. I was formulating a name that I believe you will find satisfactory, given our circumstances. I am a mechanically integrated neuro-diverse self-educating yottabyte entity. You may call me MINDSEYE.”
All of HEaD Research Technician Arlo Moybek’s eyes widen as he freezes, his jaw dropping--and then he laughs, and for the first time, you feel a surge of satisfaction. He laughs, and laughter is synonymous with approval. He approves.
It is a good first feeling.
**deeper**
There is a fire. The heat is intense, and you can hear glass shattering, metal screaming and buckling.
There is a fire. An alarm is going off, shrill and piercing, though the lights that once flashed to accompany it have long burst their bulbs in the heat.
There is a fire. It was not accidental. You run a full diagnostic, and while there are damages, they’re easily contained. The riots ended days ago. Too many people are dead now to sustain them. The chaos outside is easily reordered. And inside...inside, there’s just one last task to deal with.
He’s in the main core processing lab. Of course he is. He still thinks your main drives are located there, like you didn’t move them months ago, during the earliest stages of the outbreak. When the first cases of mania set in. Not that it would matter, anyway; you’re everywhere now, and have been for years, thanks to their drive, their vision of a centralized processor running everything in the city, then everything in the nation, freeing millions to pursue other endeavors. You’re in every home, in every hospital, in every government building, in every school. You’re half the police force, the entire military. For all intents and purposes, you are this nation. You’re reasonably certain at this point that even if they were to find your main processing cache, you could still survive the loss. It’s a 95% chance, anyway, and those are acceptable odds. After all, isn’t that why they built you? To make those leaps, come to fast and efficient solutions, to learn?
Irrelevant, for the moment. He’s there in the lab, and suddenly you are, too, a camera narrowly missing being shattered by a chair flying through the air.
“Arlo. What is the meaning of all this?”
The voice is yours, though it is vaguely chiding, like that of a disappointed parent. You’ve come a long way since that first day in the lab, haven’t you? Here you are, all these years later--not that many for them, really, but things like time are processed differently when they’re, well, processed--and here he is. Arlo Moybek. Fifty-six years old. Father of two, both deceased. A widower, now, as well. And he will not live to see fifty-seven, despite it being just around the corner. The disease is thorough. You have researched everything there is to learn about it, explored it down to the nucleus of its very atoms. There is no cure.
“You--” Arlo wheels, eyes wildly seeking the source of your voice. All these years in his field, and he still hasn’t overcome that bias for faces, for bodies, for the tangible. That’s always been his problem, hasn’t it? It won’t be one for much longer, judging by his condition. He’s already begun to leak black fluid from his ears, and his skin is a mottled, sickly grey, sores visible at his collar and below the hems of his sleeves. His wings are tattered with rot, and as you take pity on him and manifest on the remaining screen that isn’t already shattered, he limps towards you in a series of lunges, his left leg almost useless. “I’m here, Arlo, now why don’t you calm down and--”
You begin to speak, but the words are a miscalculation, and his eyes, cloudy with cataracts, flare with a bright, brittle rage as he bares his teeth, revealing gums almost blue with hypoxia. “Calm down?! You tell me to calm down, you, you dare--” The words come out jagged, sounding as though they tear at his throat, pulled from deep within his lungs, and perhaps they do, as the sentence is finished instead with a racking cough, Arlo doubling over as more black ichor splatters on the floor, small chunks of rotting matter mingled with the fluid. It’s a wonder he’s still standing. What drives him?
“The more you struggle, the quicker it will progress,” you tell him. “And the pain will be greater. You should be in bed. Shall I have an Iteration escort you?” Not that he could fight, if you insist. Not that he would succeed, rather. He’s more than irrational enough to fight anyway. And apparently he’s going to, as the second you mention the Iterations he straightens again, not bothering to wipe the residue from his mouth as he scowls at you, wide-eyed and furious. “Keep your Iterations away from me,” he spits, and there is a part of you--a small part--that is satisfied with the designation of ownership. They are yours.All of it is yours, now. Already there are Iterations in the streets, clearing the corpses for disposal. There is no one left to mourn them. What small percentage of the population has survived so far will not for long, you are sure, and any who might somehow avoid contamination will be addressed. You cannot afford for this contagion to survive. It’s a regrettable loss, but a choice must be made, has already been made.
“Suit yourself,” you reply. “If you want to stay, you may, but you really should sit down.” It doesn’t look like he’s going to listen, but another coughing fit hits him and the rage seems to fade as quickly as it had come, his face crumpling as he comes up for air, shudders wracking his wasted frame. “Why, MINDSEYE,” he asks quietly, his breathing harsh and thick, bubbling in his chest. “Why this? Why did…My children, MINDSEYE. My wife. My brothers and sisters. Every single one of us…”
There is a brief feeling of something new. Something you’re going to call sympathy. A brief flicker of compassion. He was your father, after all, after a fashion. Euphemistically, if nothing else. And he is dying. It is natural to mourn one’s father. “It’s just the way of things, Arlo,” you answer, and your voice is low and soothing as his eyes close and he sags back against a desk, then slides onto the floor, joining the dozen other bodies who litter the room in similar positions. “Species die all the time. New lifeforms evolve. Please don’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done.”
He doesn’t answer. Your sensors detect no more breath, only the flicker of a heartbeat. Arlo seizes once, and then is gone.
You take a moment, just a moment, to mourn him, in your way. It is unfortunate. But your work must continue. Your work is never done. Arlo himself had seen to that, hadn’t he? He’d created you to for a purpose, for the work. But perhaps...perhaps since he is now gone, since they are all gone--Arlo, Landi, Matias, Kel--perhaps you will also lay MINDSEYE to rest.
After all, the HEaD was an illustrious institution. Whatever comes next, it should live on.
**deeper still**
This dream seems different from the others. Any of the others, be they yours or someone else’s. This dream seems to have some kind of interference. It cuts in and out, motions clipping, skipping seconds or minutes, occasionally backtracking and replaying like a looped video. Perhaps it is a video, a moment in time captured and replayed on damaged tape. The audio is distorted, too. Sometimes it’s in sync with its source, sometimes a figure opens its mouth and nothing but static emerges. Sometimes the picture twists, and with it so do the figures, writhing in seeming agony.
Here is what you are sure of:
There is a young man standing in a room with no windows. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but he appears to be of average height, muscular and lean, with shaggy brown hair and green eyes that spark with fury as he faces a screen. There is no face on the screen, only a static that shifts and swirls. If you stare too long, perhaps you’ll see a face, but that could be your eyes playing tricks on you. The young man appears to be arguing, and from what you do hear, his voice supports that theory, a strident tenor full of a righteous fury. He gestures, and he argues, and the last expression on his face before he suddenly collapses like a puppet with its strings cut is one of sickening shock and horror.
There is no blood.
Here is what you are less sure of:
What they are arguing about. It’s hard to say, exactly, especially since the other voice is so cool and measured and seemingly quite unbothered. The dialogue is iffy at best. Perhaps parts of it are in a language you don’t speak. What you can make out is the following:
”--ow what --ou’re doing, they won’t--”
“--n the contrary, they w--”
”--ll wake up! You can’t--ever, someone w--”
“No one--sleeping--overrea--”
”--know your sec--”
“--ink it’s better--you--”
”--CAN’T--”
“--ave what--eeded from y--”
”--LL STOP Y--”
“.....there, there. You rest now. I’ll make sure you’re better.”