#Automation singularity

[sergeantnarwhalwrites]

I think I'd rather snap my own neck than apply to another job.

[vanishingmoments]

v excited because i'm reaching the point in factorio where shits about to get truly deep

[cherryblossomshadow]

#oh look it's my feelings about the current AI boom #automation can improve life if the wealthy and powerful are not the ones that controls what gets automated #and if we let go of the notion of the 40 hour workweek (tags courtesy of @zanzibarhamster)

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This and also respect work that humans enjoy doing. Creative work, problem solving, working with plants and animals and other people, raising a family or caring for elders, etc. Let us thrive in work that is fulfilling and find the time to do so thanks to the automation that assists us. (comment courtesy of @rum-and-shattered-dreams)

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This is literally what the actual source-of-the-name Luddites advocated. It is in fact what they lived Centuries of improvement in loom technology slowly reduced the working hours of weavers down from something like 50 hours a week to something more like low 30s.

What changed was that business entrepreneurs realized they could make incredibly low quality cloth with machine looms which didn’t require any more still than a child could have. So in places where the regulations were weak, they enslaved orphan children and force them to work 16-hour days pretty soon low quality cloth which they use the variety of false pretenses and unethical fiscal strongarming to sell it as if it was worth the same as high quality cloth.

This wasn’t even particularly effective, the vast majority of those machine room owners went out of business. But it was an enticing enough possibility for the capitalists in Britain that entire regions saw so many people go out of work that there was widespread starvation. The quality of cloth went down and never came back up, modern cloth is still of lower quality than the handmade stuff used to be despite the ostensibly higher threadcount (threadcount is not the end all be all of quality). And the amount of human labor involved is not actually substantially reduced. The limitations of machine weaving mean that more sewing is necessary than ever, and all of that is done by hand in sweatshops.

The Luddites absolutely had the right idea, and they lived it. Their work wasn’t always easy, but by and large they described liking their lives, feeling a sense of pride in their trade, and had good qualities of life. And they sunk the benefits of their productivity, as technology improved, into a combination of reduced work hours and better quality of life. (Though it is important to note that as being a weaver improved in terms of job quality the work was increasingly transferred out of women’s spheres and into men’s spheres. This was not a social structure devoid of oppression.)

So yeah. Read Blood In The Machine if you want to know more it’s a really good book. (comment courtesy of @crazy-pages)

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Yep. "Luddite" is a term of ridicule only in the sense that socialist, communist or union are: they were opposed to the enshittification of their day, and wanted the advancement of human knowledge and productivity to go towards reducing the burdens of life rather than into some murderer's pocket. (comment courtesy of @aquietwhyme)

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Absolutely.

It even plugs into Calvinism: Very little of what we call work brings us any closer to the Kingdom of God. But doing math? making art? gardening? running institutions justly and fairly? That's not only work, it's the best and most productive kind. And if it's something you love, you'll do it better, longer, than if you were just worried about having your family on your health insurance policy.

In addition, there are a lot of good and necessary jobs that are poorly regarded and badly compensated. That needs to change. The idea that the people we need should be treated poorly, and the people we don't should be abundantly rewarded, comes from diseased thinking. (comment courtesy of @raleigh-straight)

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Yes, but the idea that leisure is wrong and that we must work constantly is driven largely by religion. That's where the concept is leisure as a sin comes from.

Every time I've heard someone dismiss the concept of a universal basic income, shorter work weeks, or any plan that would reduce how much people are forced to work, the excuses are always based in the persons faith. That we must work or we inevitably will fall to sin and do bad things. Or however they want to rephrase the concept.

That's the dragon we must slay first, if we want to find a path to a better world. (comment courtesy of @thenightgaunt)

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It’s stunning, in archaeology, to realize that if you find a place which would have been accessible to people 10,000 years ago, and which has by whatever chance been preserved since that time, there’s a high chance that you will find art from that time.

Now, it’s possible that people back then were very selective about where they put their art, certainly. But it beggars the imagination, it does, to think that they only saw fit to chip rock petroglyphs in an inhospitable desert, only made paintings in a handful of caves, only scratched out their memories in tucked-away rock shelters.

It seems vastly more likely that, given time and opportunity, people simply made art as often as they could. That there is an inherent impulse to learn, grow, and create; anything other than those things should be viewed as a distraction.

Yet, in our modern times, while in theory we could easily exist in considerable luxury, instead there are those who make great effort to assure the majority of people devote the majority of their time to toil, for no tangible value to anyone at all. One might even go so far as to suggest that the actual goal of this is to blunt that human desire to grow and create. That what they truly fear is a world in which every person is free to pursue beyond the needs of food and shelter and health, to contribute to humanity in a way which has the potential to change our world rather than merely maintaining it. (comment courtesy of @hasufin)

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Based on historical evidence that we do have, I see no reason to think that pre-historical people who were as human as we are, biologically, wouldn't have done the same things as we do, re: art all over. So yeah, they probably did paint outside and carve trees and decorate trade routes and whatever, but it's just the hidden away stuff that's lasted this long*.

I 100% believe that squashing that impulse is baked into how we're currently living now, same as how schools work is meant to train up good employees rather than people who know how to think and learn well, etc.

if time travel is ever invented, I want someone to go back and check this for me, and take pictures. I bet they hung things from trees and painted way-markers and carved totems and painted themselves and all sorts of stuff. (comment courtesy of @samiholloway)

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Don't forget how addictive control over the lives of people is. (comment courtesy of @antarctica-starts-here)

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[Image 1 ID: A quote by Lord Robert Skidelsky, Emeritus Professor of Political Economy at the University of Warwick.

If one machine can cut necessary human labour by half, why make half the workforce redundant, rather than employing the same number for half the time? Why not take advantage of automation to reduce the average working week from 40 hours to 30, and then to 20, and then to 10, with each diminishing block of labour time counting as a full-time job? This would be possible if the gains from automation were not mostly seized by the rich and powerful, but were distributed fairly instead. Rather than try to repel the advance of the machine, which is all that the Luddites could imagine, we should prepare for a future of more leisure, which automation makes possible. But, to do that, we first need a revolution in social thinking.

/end ID]

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[Image 2 ID: A quote by Buckminster Fuller, 1970

We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living It is a fact today that 1 in 10,000 can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody must be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, we must justify our right to exist The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they have to earn a living

/end ID]

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[Image 3 ID: Two panel comic of a man in front of a workplace full of robots operating the computers. In the first panel, the man is crouched over on the curb, bemoaning:

Damn, a robot took over my job! Now I have to look for a new source of monetary income…

In the second panel, the man has his arms raised to the heavens triumphantly crowing:

Yay! A robot took over my job! Now I am free to actually enjoy life!

/end ID]

[theeditorandnarratorcollaborate]

Theistic conceptions of artificial intelligence

View this post on Instagram A post shared by G. B. Gabbler 🤖🦶 (@g.b.gabbler)   Other scholars recognise elements of theism in the discourse around AI and its potential impact on our future. Robert Geraci suggests in his 2010 book, Apocalyptic AI: Visions of Heaven in Robotics, Artificial Intelligence, and Virtual Reality, that AI can fulfil the same role in apocalyptic imaginings as a singular…

[tragedy-of-commons]

a deciduous thing.

scarecrow!boothill x gn!farmer!reader.

summary: Never in your life did you think that your peaceful day-to-day would grind to a halt after one of your scarecrows comes to life. Apparently, his name is Boothill, and he's insistent on making your life 10x harder than it has to be.

contains: modern au, comedy/crack with surreal elements, setting is heavily implied to be american (sorry), reader has depth, possibly inaccurate depictions of farming but i tried my best, country and southern things™, autumn hijinks

word count: 4.5k

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee, @singularity-sam, @harque, @thestarswhisper, @wystiix, @mikashisus, @tetrachrxmacy, @mitsvriii, @akutasoda

notes: written for the @/stellaronhvnters stellaween fest. my chosen prompt was scarecrow! ao3 link here 🎃

The first time you see him, it’s a crisp October morning.

Thank the stars it’s overcast today - the fall weather is just settling in, so of course it’s still hot, but nothing like the suffocating humidity you’re normally used to. Besides that, work is work; meaning that you have to get up just before dawn to go about putting a dent in your endless list of chores. 

The pleasant breeze tickles your nose and the forearms flexed under your rolled up sleeves, aiding you in your endeavor of feeding and tending to the livestock. The hens cluck passively as they allow you to take their eggs inside, the cows and goats don’t fuss at all when you milk them, and to your surprise, baths also go well (despite how you’re covered in suds after). To have such an easy morning is rare, but you simply chalk it up to the arrival of autumn. 

Ma used to say that fall is lucky, as it signals the start of renewal. You aren’t superstitious by any means, but the sentiment has always stuck with you, engraved in fond memories of stumbling around on your chubby legs through rows of sweet potatoes and watching the colorful leaves hit the ground, balanced on some distant relative’s hip. 

Yes, today is gonna be lucky.

The sun hasn’t yet reached the middle of the sky when you drag yourself to the pumpkin patch. Normally you’d wait another day or two until the weather is sunny to harvest the rotund globes of orange, but you’re already cutting it close; Halloween is gonna be here before you know it, and you don’t want the fruit to overripen or become too bleached by the elements. Moreover, you’d like to give away a pumpkin or two to the neighbors.

Every year, it’s the same tradition. Miss Kafka and little (not so much anymore) Silver Wolf down the road have been your only companions since the farm became your sole responsibility. When the season for ghouls and ghosts is upon your little rural town, you help them hoist up gaudy decorations to show off on their lawn, politely shoving a pumpkin or three into their arms, your own addition to their festive display.

According to them, often over sheets of newspaper as you three carve crude jack-o-lanterns with switchblades, your crops can’t be beat. Not by any chain market or grocery store standards, anyhow. You take pride in that; Pa always made you promise him to never overuse pesticides or sacrifice quality by automating the harvesting process - which you honor - even if you sometimes daydream about combine-harvesters and a few other dozen gadgets to make your life easier.

The patch in question is still green and healthy, boasting vibrant fruit by the dozen. The white and orange pumpkins mesh together in a patchwork display of sunset and beige, thick vines acting as their binding agent. You’ve grown fond of the sight, despite the monotony of almost-but-not-quite tripping over each crop bigger than your leather boots. Wiping the minimal sweat from your brow, you bump open the wooden gate with your hip, glove-clad and toting around your giant pruners.

They’re a bit on the heavier side, but you found them on the side of the road for free, fixing the rust issue with a bit of vinegar and baking soda - there’s no way you’re not gonna get your use out of them. Ambling over to the first row of pumpkins, you squat down, feeling the dirt and grass cushion your knees.

The first few you inspect still look pretty good. Firm rind, no blemishes or rot, plump and tough. You decide that those’ll be the ones you give away - they’ll make fine jack-o-lanterns, having plenty of surface area to plunge a knife across, creating spooky faces that’ll scare any miscreant egg-throwing hooligans away. Well, that’s your take on things. Maybe you’re just getting too old for mischief.

The next row is even more promising, housing the largest pumpkin you’ve ever seen. You’ve been monitoring its growth for the past few weeks, sure, but it seems to have bloated overnight - to the size of two human heads! You’re still skeptical, though. If a pumpkin gets this big, this fast, there’s more room for parasites, and it could also hint at some internal mushiness that’ll make it decompose quicker. 

But here’s where your ace comes into play: the test.

You ball your hand up into a fist, knocking on the big boy with just enough force. To your surprise (and subdued delight), the resounding noise is hollow - you’d almost describe it as baritone. Even better, it withstood the force with a firmness indicating that of a healthy pumpkin! Today really is lucky, you muse, readying your pruners.

Wrestling yourself over the row, knees on either side of your pumpkin of choice, careful not to damage the fruit - you eyeball about five or six inches of stem, beginning to hack away at the vine diligently. It doesn’t take long before you free the product of your labor from its brethren, victorious.

…it’s, uh, heavier than you anticipated. Lifting it up into your arms immediately, you grunt, quickly discarding your glorified scissors onto the ground for stability. At least these days you don’t make the mistake of picking up the fruit by the stem, as tempting as that is - you learned the hard way as a tween when the patch was a new feature, your first home-grown pumpkin breaking under your mistake of yanking it up so carelessly. Ma had laughed right in your face, the traitor.

You stand there for a moment, straining, electing on what to do next. You could check on the rest of the patch after you get this big boy inside. You don’t want it to spoil too quickly off the vine. After a moment, you reckon that storing it in the drier part of your pantry, perfectly mild and unheated, should do the trick. Yeah, that’ll work just fine until you can take the time to carve your one obligatory jack-o-lantern out of this behemoth.

Alright, it’s settled. You pivot on your heel, ready to make the arduous trek back the house--

And that’s when you hear it.

Your reaction is delayed as you process what you’re hearing. It sounds like distant cursing or something close to it - a coarse voice shouting in rage. It reminds you of those aggravated drunkards that populate the only shitty bar in town, always riled up over some game of football or some argument with the Missus. 

Did a trespasser decide to test your patience today, coming onto your property and bombarding you with the same remarks you’ve always been leveled with? Why are you such a hermit? Why don’t you have any friends? When are you going to settle down and get married like the rest of us? When are you going to get over their deaths and move on?

Not today, nuh uh, no chance. Anger floods your core as you swivel around, searching for the source of your oncoming headache. They’re still yelling, so they can’t be that far. 

When your eyes land on the figure in the distance, your first reaction is confusion. The new scarecrow you’d put up a month or two ago in anticipation of harvest season seems to be writhing. Your first reasonable explanation is that a few vermin have burrowed inside of it, making themselves at home and jostling it around as they tunnel and scramble. 

That doesn’t explain the utterly human wails and the jerky, purposeful movements seizing its straw arms. You squint, heart rate picking up accordingly. It’s too far away to jump to any batshit crazy conclusions, you know that, but the intuition you were born with, the same instinct that’s saved your skin a hundred times before - is telling you that today might not be so lucky after all.

“The fuck,” you mutter, still cradling the humungous pumpkin in your arms.

You take a few steps closer, straightening up tall on your tiptoes. The scarecrow in question is stood right in the middle of the massive, adjoining field, a statue among the swaying of golden wheat. When it was time to replace the old scarecrow (it was torn to shreds by the talons of crows and other rodents), you’d invested in something cheap but durable, almost forgetting about its existence promptly after.

You’ve been faced by its back this entire time, but what happens next almost completely knocks you off your feet.

Its head snaps at a harsh angle, the left - almost a little too much to be human, but you dismiss that thought readily, sobered by the sound of the voice once more. Since you’ve gotten closer and have been taking small steps towards it subconsciously, you’re able to make out what it (he?) is saying.

“Dagnabbit! Hey, ya hear me? I know someone’s back there!” an exhausted huff followed by more futile struggling, “Y’know how fudgin’ rude it is to ignore yer fellow neighbor?”

Oh shit. Oh shit!

Without thinking, you drop everything - everything just so happening to encompass the pumpkin. It falls to the ground in slow motion, pretty much, and you barely hear the resulting Thonk! of it crashing to the ground and splattering all over your work duds, the bottom caving in despite how robust the thing was.

Your thoughts are a mess. Someone must have stolen your property, tied an unsuspecting man to the barren scarecrow post after, and then left him there as a cruel prank! Yeah, that makes way more sense. Did he just call you ‘neighbor’? People around these parts are familiar, but not that familiar; is it possible that this guy also lives down the road, but you’ve never bothered to introduce yourself? Is this his first impression of you?!

Swallowing, you dig your nails into your fists and pull yourself together. There’s never been a contingency plan put into place for a situation like this, but you’ll handle it somehow. You take one tentative step forward before launching into a sprint, almost slipping on the gooey innards of the pumpkin coating the ground, but you narrowly avoid it. You hop the fence with ease, landing in the wheat field with a thud.

“I’m comin’!” you yell, cupping one hand over the curve of your mouth, frantically surveying the area for a certain object. The man is about the same size as your (likely stolen) scarecrow, and with the force of his thrashing, whatever’s holding him there must be tough as nails. Thankfully, you find what you’re looking for - a hatchet.

Old Blade, Kafka’s friend, left it here a week ago. You asked her if she knew anybody that’d chop wood for cheap; you’ve been busy with other chores - and to be honest, lazy - so you were hoping to get someone else to do it. There were a few dead trees skirting the edge of your property, and firewood is always good to have, but you didn’t expect her to volunteer her pal’s services so readily.

Blade showed up with nothing more than a hatchet and a haunted expression that hinted at some clusterfuck of a story. Still, he was polite enough, drank your freshly squeezed lemonade, and cut down those trees faster than some kid with a chainsaw could. After he wrapped up, he left the miniature axe here. You’ve been putting off returning it for days.

Thank the stars you’re a procrastinator, you think, yanking it off the ground and testing its weight, already moving towards the flailing man again. You’ve got your own collection of tools in the shed, but making him wait any longer isn’t gonna help your case - he has half a mind to report you to the cops as an accomplice!

Finally, you reach him. The mysterious fella is donning the same thrown-together attire of the scarecrow, namely one of Pa’s old flannels and some spare trousers you found laying around weeks prior. Had the perpetrator of this crime really dressed him in these clothes?! He’s even wearing the same rustic cowboy hat, complete with a browning, frayed feather sticking out of its cap.

You round the post with a frenzied pulse, raising the blade in the air with a shaky grip on its handle, ready to cut him down from there--

“Whoa, whoa there!” he stammers frightfully as you tilt your chin up to get a better look at his face, “T-That’s a little unnecessary, don’tcha think?”

You freeze.

The man peers at you through a mane of black and white hair, facial features somewhat… faded? They look to be almost stitched on, lips and bulbous jaw littered with threadbare fuzz, his skin the same shade as a potato sack. Where his eyes are supposed to be, there are instead two X’s, accompanied by a scrawled-on fang hanging just below his mouth in toothy decoration. 

In other words: he looks exactly like the scarecrow you put up all that time ago. 

Before he speaks again, you spare a measured glance at his stretched out arms - the ones still bound to the post. They’re the same arms you remember attaching to the wooden stake, finding it weird that they were so human-like - the appendages even gave way to makeshift hands and fingers. You were surprised that the scarecrow was so detailed for its price, but you didn’t give it much thought beyond that. A steal is a steal.

But now? It’s come to life, and it’s talking to you!

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” you pale. 

He, no, it - tilts its head at you, hat sliding down just a smidge. “I’m not kiddin’. I’m Boothill.”

You don’t think twice before twirling the hatchet around and driving the blunt end of the handle straight into its too-large noggin.

It takes a moment to realize that you’re screaming, and that the… the fucking scarecrow has gone still. Can you even knock sentient dummies stuffed with straw unconscious? Are you hallucinating? Have you lost all of your marbles, slipped on them, and then fallen into a feverish coma? Is this a night terror? You have been drinking too much of that damn coffee--

Your chest heaves as you take a gigantic, gulping breath.

…then you drop your weapon, curse the heavens for ruining your perfect autumn morning, and then you scream some more.

So, things have not been going well.

Your autumn morning has turned into autumn afternoon, and your kitchen floor practically has a hole seared into it from your nonstop, neurotic pacing. It’s soothing - the only thing keeping your shot nerves at bay. Your feet ache, heeled boots grazing the raised surface of the brick over and over.

Think, think, think.

Well, that’s kinda hard to do when you had to bring him inside.

You stop in your tracks to stare at this ‘Boothill’. After he’d gone limp (and you assume comatose), you’d panicked for a little, thinking that you’d committed murder - before remembering that he is a scarecrow and that you have no qualms with ending a life anyway. Oops. You’d cut him down like you’d planned to, dragged him inside, and… sat him at your dining table.

When you freed him of his bindings, you were reminded of how light he was; despite seemingly gaining consciousness out of nowhere, he is still a scarecrow - traditionally composed of hay, leaves, rags, hell, whatever you can find. His breadth didn’t exactly make it effortless, but you hauled him to the house, up onto the porch, and right past the beaten up welcome mat. The manners ingrained in your mind from an early age stuck with you, so you welcomed the ‘guest’ to sit at the table.

But he - this thing - is not welcome! 

Boothill hasn’t, um… woken up yet. It’s been about three hours of playing the waiting game, and you don’t even know what you’re going to do when he does start to stir.

You’re not gonna call the authorities, that’s for sure; everyone in town except for a scant few already believe you to be off your rocker. Even if you did call them and they showed, what kind of media attention would follow? Paranormal investigators? Scientists? People with cameras and news trucks that’ll camp just outside your acre of land, trying to pester you with their questions? Absolutely not.

Deflating, you know what you have to do.

Would burying an inanimate object alive even work? Can you even use the symptom ‘alive’ to describe what’s going on with him? I mean, you could try putting him in the ground anyway. Your good shovel’s in the shed, and--

…and he really does look like a man from a distance. Boothill, a fitting name, if that’s what truly he calls himself, is keeled over the wood. He’s limp, but you suppose having no internal structural support will do that to you. Such an intricate, intentional design. It’s been a while since anyone’s visited, really, and a part of you maybe feels bad for whacking him earlier. 

God, is this what you’ve become? Soft?

Apparently so, because you don’t retrieve your trusty shovel just yet. Instead, you trudge over to your wall-mounted landline that you pray will pull through one more call. It was pristine white years ago, but now it’s yellowed and considered too ‘old school’ by the kids of today. Not like that hurts or anything. Definitely not.

You punch in the familiar number, gaze drifting back to Boothill. If he gets up, will he try to murder you? That remains to be seen, you suppose. He seemed pretty animated (if not a bit smart-mouthed) before you decided to temporarily ice him. Listening to the crackling static of the line ringing, you hold your breath and pray.

Pick up, pick up, pick up--

A juvenile, annoyed voice finally answers. “Hello? Geez, why are you calling us on this thing again?”

“Silver Wolf,” you sigh, relieved. “Is Kafka home? Can you put her on? And I told you, it’s ‘cause I don’t have her cell number. You can give it to me again later.”

You’re honestly surprised that anybody is home at all. That family of sorts (which sometimes includes that Old Blade) is on the road traveling most of the year. The house you’re calling right now is just one of their many vacation homes around the world, left vacant for several months out of the year. But then again, maybe it’s not all that surprising… they’re usually home for Halloween. Usually.

You can almost hear her wrinkled nose and sour face. “You sound sweaty. But yeah, she just got back from shopping. I’ll get her, one sec.”

Kids these days never mince their words, huh.

The familiar muffled shouting and shuffling of her passing the phone to someone reaches your ears. You tap your foot, attempting to gather your thoughts. How are you going to explain this without sounding crazy? You come up blank, twirling the wire cord idly with your index finger.

“Hey,” Kafka greets, dulcet as usual, “something the matter over there? You never call this early.”

Ugh, if she only knew the half of it. You swallow, uncharacteristically anxious.

“Hypothetically, if one of your scarecrows came to life, what would you do?”

Silence. Actual tumble-weed blowing, deserted ghost town silence. Does she know? She has to know, right? You’ve never been particularly good at hiding things, and you swear that woman can read anybody like an open book, even if their pages are clumped together with superglue. The longer no one speaks, the worse you feel.

Finally, Kafka gives her verdict. “Hm. If it were me, I’d try to have a conversation with it.”

“You’d do what with it?” you ask, incredulous.

She chuckles, the noise broken up by the poor connection. Despite how she always catches you off guard, you certainly didn’t expect an answer like that. If anything, you expected her to encourage you to torch the thing and not look back - by the same token, she isn’t outright dismissing your ridiculous notion either.

“It’s not everyday you get to talk with a living scarecrow,” she hums. “I wonder what stories they’d have to share. Maybe we’d even become good friends, you never know. Does that answer your little riddle?”

Well, you tried.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry for springing that on you,” your grip tightens on the receiver. “Tell sweet Mx. Firefly I said hello, ‘kay?”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

Before you can start the ‘I’ll let you go’ formalities, you hear rustling. Your head snaps back up from the floor that you took an acute interest in staring at, panicked. Boothill is moving - well, trying to, by the looks of it. He sluggishly picks his head up, and you’re met with that stitched expression once more. How can he see? Should you even question it at this point?

You hang up hastily, nearly cracking the artifact of a landline in the process.

“Uh,” you stand there, dumb. “Does your head hurt?”

Right after the words leave your mouth, the regret and embarrassment settle in nicely. Of course it doesn’t hurt! He probably can’t even feel pain--

Boothill then suddenly springs out of his seat, making your hackles raise on instinct. You don’t know what he’s trying to pull, so you stiffen. 

“Nope, I’m right as rain,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, like he’s emulating an aerobics instructor. There are no sounds of joints popping from prolonged slumber, reminding you that he’s still entirely inhuman. 

He continues, oblivious to your plight. “You scared the fudge outta me with that hatchet, though. I reckon you thought I meant you harm?” A pause. “S’nice in here. You got AC?”

He surveys your kitchen, curious and looming. Something about it rubs you the wrong way - he’s acting so familiar despite you 1) knocking him out (debatable), and 2) not knowing you at all. Well, he certainly fits in around these parts. Clearing your throat and watching him with narrowed eyes, you formulate a response and motion with your hand for him to sit again.

“Just…” you pinch the bridge of your nose and walk over to the opposite side of the table, never turning your back to him completely. “Sit down. Don’t try anything.”

Boothill complies with a halfhearted shrug. You follow suit, now staring him down at the opposite end. How do you start, and with what? You’ve never been great at talking to people, not that it bothers you.

Well, he’s not really a person, so maybe it’ll work out in your favor.

“What are you? Do you remember how you got here?”

Good enough; the former’s answer will determine how self-aware (and by extension, dangerous) he is, while the latter’s might give you the slightest context on his supernatural circumstances. Baby steps, you remind yourself. Baby steps. You and him seem to be tackling this in stride. Good - the sooner you have this conversation, the sooner you can put this all behind you.

“Ah, well…” he scratches his head with a moth-eaten fingertip, “I can’t say I remember much. Also, I’m gonna choose to overlook that first question! I’m Boothill, and those birds were peckin’ the crap outta me. I woke up at sunrise, very confused, might I add - can’t say I’ve ever been on this farm before.”

You sigh. He isn’t gonna give you any clues whatsoever, huh. “Okay, well--” Boothill cuts you off, “Well is right. Not so fast, now. I haven’t even got your name yet! Someone who’ll run an axe through ya without hesitation must be of a different caliber for sure.”

Is that… admiration coloring his tone? Even though his disposition practically screams it in your face, he’s definitely a weird one. You spit out your name, hurrying through the introduction in favor of processing this information.

He’s articulate, and you don’t mean just verbally; he idles like a 1930s toon, bouncing and animated, brimming with life. He’s more of a mannequin than a scarecrow, as if made for the sole purpose of waking up all antsy and making it your problem. With all this in mind, you blurt out your first immediate thought:

“You need to leave.”

You don’t need this burden sitting across from you, so you tell him as much; some people would see that as cruel, but it’s more fair if anything. You have your small, tight-knit group of friends that you talk to sporadically, and you have your farm. That’s it.

Boothill deflates, bravado waning when you turn the tides. “Leave? Bud, where else would I go?”

…that’s true. He has nowhere to go, no memories, no social or life skills (probably), and you doubt anyone else will have a kinder reaction than you unless they’re plain stupid. You want to tell him to get lost in that same tone you use when someone encroaches too far on your lifestyle - it works wonders. If you get loud and unpleasant enough, it’ll send him packing, you’re sure of it.

So why aren’t you getting started? Why can’t you tell this too-human-non-human to just scat already?

“I got nobody,” he hums, all too casual for the implications of those words. “Unless you count those crows that seemed more interested in havin’ me for lunch.”

He has nobody. 

This guy you barely know whatsoever doesn’t have a Kafka or a Silver Wolf. He doesn’t have any memories of makeshift tire swings and underage driving; he doesn’t have any souvenirs of late parents and old flames. He doesn’t have anything. The world is bound to chew him up and spit him out (if he even gets that chance).

Boothill reclines against the dark wood of his seat rest, as if permanently cementing his spot there. His features are a bit hard to read, but the material of his face crinkles, at odds with the strain of his smile. 

Damn this stupid, traitorous heart of yours.

“Boothill,” you hate how your house voice softens, “Can you work? If you’re going to… remain here, only for the time being, you’re gonna have to pull your weight.”

He laughs again, this time much more human. If you cared more, you’d call him out on his palpable relief.

“Guess I’ll learn, huh?” he flicks the brim of his hat. Then, surprising you once more, he hunches over, stomach pressed flush against the table.

“What--”

Boothill uses this new position as leverage to outstretch his arm to you, and by extension, his hand. His open palm, also inlaid with crude stitching, barely reaches your wary form. 

Swallowing your hesitance, you don’t leave him hanging too long. You wrap your hand around his own, fiber of his beaten up flannel (or maybe that’s just him) tickling your skin. He’s warm. 

Boothill shakes your hand firmly.

“Thank ya kindly.”

You pull away first as he returns to taking up his own space. God, what have you gotten yourself into?

“Just… whatever.”

As late afternoon arrives, you go about stress-cooking up a big meal to get your mind off of your neglected chores and this entire nightmare at hand. It’s extremely hard to ignore Boothill, though, especially when he can be compared to a lost puppy in terms of his curiosity.

(He also tries to sample some of your cooking. It does not work, on account of him not having a tongue. Or real teeth. Or a stomach. Or a digestive tract.)

It’s going to be a bumpy road ahead. You sigh.

[restless-soulz]

HOW THE HOUSEWARDENS ACT W/ A BABY (not their own, they're all still underage)

RIDDLE:

-man this guy is so bad with babies, but damn it if he isn't efficient

-he'll make sure that the physical needs are taken care of, but that's not entirely what a baby needs.

-but a baby can't tell you what exactly it needs so it'll just be stressful for both of them until he figures it out

-it might be a while

-doesn't do super well with physical affection (giving)

-he probably won't burn down the house to make a bottle for the baby but he will stress about the temperature and it'll go cold before he's satisfied and it'll repeat the process ad infinitum

LEONA:

-pls the baby he knew was cheka, and he was easy he's got this (NOT)

-lion man just wants to sleep and does not appreciate being woken up for feedings or changings or anything else

-doesn't care about bottle temp, milk is milk

-won't show but is a little stressed about having claws vs incredibly fragile baby skin

-genuinely confused to as why not all babies are not like Cheka

-after a while he'll get down the baby language and be so fast at it, just to maximize his sleep

-hey if it works it works

AZUL:

-another one not really fit for children

-would try to foist off the child to the leeches, and then realize that unfortunately he is the much better option (because morays eat their young)

-he will do his best tho and he will do an almost perfect job

-he just...overestimates human baby milestones

-it's ok, it can go one of two ways. either the parent is delighted by fast progress or Azul feels embarrassed

-like riddle, doesn't super love the whole physical contact thing

-also secretly i'd think he'd be great to talk to for anything involved in being recognized outside of your children or a body dysmorphia kind of depression cause same

KALIM:

-mans has 40 siblings or something

-i trust him, but he can be a little...cloud heavy

-he will make sure that baby is cuddled, and fed, and played, but sleeping is not his thing. adorable, but babies are AWAKE around him

-plus he's had servants that take care of the gross parts so he's clueless about how messy babies usually are

-jamil would lose his mind having two people to take care of, one infinitely more dependent than the other

-as much as i love him, don't give him a baby

VIL:

-he wouldn't try very hard

-babies are hard and he's not planning to babysit very long, he has more important things to do, but in the meantime

-this baby will be TAKEN CARE OF

-he bought a lot of...well...everything and all the excess goes to the parents.

-the cutest outfits you've ever seen

-detests changing and other gross parts but will do it

-does not like the not sleeping part, but he will admit they are very cute

IDIA:

-you're playing with fire here

-the only baby he's ever been around was Ortho, and that...ended terribly

-panicking every single second, and rapidly googling every time the baby breathes a little weird

-builds an automated bottle warmer and baby rockers so he has minimal contact with the baby as possible

-until Ortho says that skin to skin or physical contact is best for optimal health

-he'll whine and cry but do it, for a super short amount of time

-made an automatic changing station so he never does the gross parts

MALLEUS:

-adores children. they do not adore him.

-he can scare them a bit being all dark colors and rbf

-but he does theoretically know how to take care of a human baby

-i don't think silver should count since he's more of a changling

-will not put the baby down unless absolutely necessary (my kind of guy)

-the baby lives in a singular too big shirt or the most regal ensemble you've ever seen. no in between

-doesn't bother with changing since he can just magic it away

-also buys everything for the baby and keeps half for when he hopes to be asked to babysit again

[thedeadtravelfast]

@ferretfyre

[honourablejester]

Every time I go back and watch Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, I’m amazed all over again by the panoply of genres this movie and the VHD setting in general indulges in.

The story is set in “the distant future, where vampires rule the night but their numbers are dwindling”. It sort of plays like a weird techno-gothic post-apocalyptic sci-fi western? Over the course of Bloodlust, we start out in a cross-bedecked gothic city, head to a meeting in a ruined church straight out of western, complete with rifle-armed cowboys on guard, go full fucking Dune in the middle with D riding his biomechanical horse across the back of field-sized sand manta rays migrating across a massive duned desert, head to a small canyon town that's a hideout for various yokai, stop off at a roman ruin in a lake and a massive science fiction stronghold with a mirror-cloaked exterior and automated defense lasers, before heading to the final showdown in the massive crimson techno-gothic castle of Carmilla the vampire queen, which doubles as a spaceship. Because the vampire D has been pursuing this whole time wants to go to the endless night of space to be with his love.

The team of hunters competing with D are armed with, variously, a massive fucking hammer, an absolutely ridiculous arm-mounted crossbow that launches roughly 2000 silver arrows a second, a singularity shooting pistol, and an astral self that flies around the battlefield like an angry sparkly ghost that shoots lasers.

Conveyances include said already-mentioned biomechanical horse, a horse-drawn carriage drawn by similar horses, a full-on motorbike, a massive armoured motor truck-slash-tank, and also said previously-mentioned spaceship.

Let’s just say the aesthetic is simultaneously all over the place, and weirdly unified. It’s a far flung dystopic future run by gothic creatures of the night, after the slow apocalypse that has led to their dwindling. So you have futuristic technology and gothic medieval sensibilities in bizarre but functional post-apocalyptic union. It’s really cool.

Possibly helped by the fact, mind you, that this movie is just stupidly beautiful and so gorgeously animated that you’ll forgive it a lot of sins. But it isn’t actually committing too many. The weird genre blend makes sense, and the vibe is cool and coherent enough that you’ll roll with it.

[drabblesandimagines]

Dove (part five)

Leon Kennedy x female reader - the slowest, slow burn I swear Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four.

You try your best to focus on show on the television – watching them take down a non-load bearing wall with sledgehammers in a somewhat poor technique - but you really wish you had your phone. This would be a perfect time for mindless scrolling through various feeds, rather than thinking of the handsome agent you’d just taken a nap on, apparently. You wonder if anyone’s texted you, tried to call only to be met with an automated voicemail message... unless the DSO have managed to get your phone to power on, teasing a few rings before they’re asked to leave a message.

You have friends to make plans with, of course you do, but the majority are spread country-wide now, have been for years since you finished college, so it’s not going to be strange if you haven’t replied to anyone for over 24 hours… No boyfriend to fret over your whereabouts either, your last relationship too long ago for any hurt feelings to remain.

And it’s definitely for the best that you don’t have any parents who will worry when you don’t check in.

Your mind drifts back to Leon. How long could this thing last? Say when they clear you – you can’t bear to think of the alternative of being accused of a BOW crime, you’d never see the light of day again, your name buried in a file never to be released - how long will it take to work out if your life is or remains in danger, and would he stay with you the entire time? Surely he has his own life to get on with, other responsibilities to the DSO than just a babysitter, probably got a partner at home too, though there was no ring that you saw. Probably wouldn’t wear one as an agent though, gives away too much about a personal life.

Besides, there were so many people in your office, would they really know if one person made it out alive? It’s not like you had seen anything of real value, or knew anything about the assailants, besides that they were murderous creatures… or so you thought. You deal with a lot of cases, is it possible that one of them traced the operation back and sought revenge?

If the painkillers hadn’t been wearing off, aches awakening in various parts of your body, you might’ve started pacing around the room for something else to do. This place could do with a bookshelf, you reason, or maybe people aren’t here long enough to read books? There was a pile of books on your night-stand, all in hopes of being read, which just reminds you that Hunnigan said they were going to send people to search your apartment. What for – a to-do list stuck to the fridge with a magnet with a singular bullet point of ‘betray US Government’?

She said there’d been a data breach too, so did someone let loose those things as a deadly distraction to get what they came for? And surely there was a back-up in a cloud or something. You hadn’t been privy to that side of the operation and if you’d started asking questions at any point, it would’ve looked suspicious.

No, you were just a good little intelligence agent, you clocked in and out on time, dutifully noting down observations, connecting the dots all day long, just wanted to make the world a little safer for everyone, but failed miserably at doing so for the people in your office.

And those things…

Are they what you’ve been working against all this time?

You shudder as you swear you can feel the way the its wet tongue wrapped around your arm, warm saliva against the prickly goosebumps on your skin in a firm grip, its teeth, the lack of eyes, how its body looked almost inside out, muscles and sinew…

You increase the volume on the television, praying the noise cancels out your thoughts and that Leon comes back inside soon.

--

Leon finishes his perimeter check once again in an even 25, satisfied there’s been no unwanted guests since his last round and confirming what he’d seen via the camera feeds. It’s coming up to 1700 now - he’ll need to make some sort of dinner for you to take your meds with, so realistically his 2000 self-imposed deadline for submitting his report to Hunnigan is not happening. He can throw them together pretty quickly– experienced agent that he is – but he knows his limits. Doesn’t exactly want to rush this, especially when he hopes it’s going to clear your name. He takes out his phone and types out a text.

Need to revise my report ETA. Midnight do?

He expects Hunnigan’s caller ID to flash up as soon as she’ll have read his text, but there’s nothing. Huh – must be wrapped up in something else. He repeats his whole garage routine, eyeing up the duffel bag he’d dumped on top of the dryer when he’d came out and sighs.

He's been in safe houses before - wasn't lying about that - just not with such pleasant company, nor anyone who really deserved it so far. His track run has always been Umbrella scientists who have suddenly developed a conscience, pleading for protection and a lenient jail sentence in return for information on the corporation, or other people involved in the production of BOWs. He's certainly not made the likes of them oatmeal in the morning, drizzled a smiley face in honey – what was he thinking, again? - lunch and dinner, washed and dried dishes, helped them changed, tucked them up in bed. Hell, one guy he’d made sleep on the floor cos he was such a jerk. They’d been sent to a studio apartment of all things and Leon had happily set himself up in the bed, dumping his duffel bag of weapons across the bedspread and sat there cleaning them all methodically, checking cartridges and glaring at the man he deemed a worthless piece of shit who was sat on the two-seater sofa, sweating buckets.

He picks up the duffel bag and moves to unlock the door. Once he's submitted the report and Hunnigan's searched your place, then he'll be able to drop a couple of the rules and…

And what, Kennedy? He scolds himself. Wishes he’d crossed paths with you at DSO HQ before on a day he was feeling confident enough to shoot his shot with a drinks and dinner invitation. Hunnigan’s right from this morning – he’s grown sweet on you particularly fast, but that’s something he’s managed to retain from his younger years, too easily a lovesick puppy for any woman who will entertain it, even after everything with Ada. But it’s a little different with you, just the way he recognizes that look in your eyes, the very one of guilt, disbelief and horror that he had when he looked in the mirror after getting out of Raccoon City and every mission since. 

He finally heads back inside, locking the door back up securely again. You don’t look to have moved from your position on the sofa, still looking at the television but the volume’s increased - he’s sure if he were to ask about what was happening you wouldn’t have a clue. It’s only the day after, you’ll still be trying to process everything, all whilst being locked up in a safe house with a near enough stranger and away from all your home comforts.

He places down the duffel bag carefully in its usual position before slowing walking over, making sure his steps are a little heavier than usual, aware that you might be too wrapped up in your own thoughts to have heard him re-enter and he really doesn’t wanna make you jump, very aware of how on edge you’re still going to be.

Once he’s sure he’s in your peripheral vision, he waves – smooth, Kennedy – know he’s got a goofy-looking smile on his face as he drops his arm back to his side. “Er… I’m back.”

“Hi,” you can’t help but smile back at his awkward little half-wave. “Everything okay out there?”

“Yeah – all clear, as expected. You hungry? Thought I could whip up some dinner to go alongside your next dose of painkillers.”

“I think I could manage something.” Your appetite is still shy – managed half a sandwich at lunch and that was sitting a little heavy in your stomach, but you know that Leon’s not going to let you take medication again without some sort of food.

“Okay, lemme see what we’ve got.” He claps his hands together, heading back towards the kitchen. You wince a little as you turn in place to watch him rummage through the cupboards, trying to assemble a meal from what the DSO had packed up. About a moment or two later, he pops his head up above the counter. “How about pasta? I think I can put together a somewhat decent tomato sauce for it.”

“Pasta sounds good.” You get to your feet as he ducks his head back down, continues his rummage in the cupboards before placing various items out as he works it all out in his head. “I know I’m one-handed, but… can I do anything?”

He stands up then with a bag of pasta in hand, ready to protest when he takes another good look at you, standing awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen area, sees the tinge of frustration across your face about everything clear as day, obviously sick of the television for now and he can’t blame you - there’s nothing else to do here but sleep, eat and watch that.

“Yeah, actually,” he sweeps his hair out of his face and places down the pasta on the counter. “I think I can find something.”

20 minutes later, you’re stood at the hob, stirring Leon’s off-the-cuff tomato sauce – a can of chopped tomatoes, some peppers and herbs - to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pot as the pasta bubbles away in another, all whilst he grates some cheese on the counter behind you. It’s the easiest job by far, you’re having to stir it oh so gently, lacking the other hand to hold the pot handle steady and you know it would probably be fine left alone to simmer, but it’s nice to feel like you’re contributing a little at last.

“How we doing over here?” Leon stands behind you, looks over your shoulder at his culinary creations.

“Okay, I think. It smells good.”

“Ah, trying to flatter the chef.” His watch beeps – a timer he’d set for the pasta. “Excuse me.”

You think he’s going to step forward to turn off the hob so you step back at the same time that he places a hand on your waist, thinking you were about to move off to the side. You bump into his chest – a reminder of how solid it had been when you’d taken that involuntarily nap on him earlier and Leon swallows down a nervous chuckle as your backside nestles for a moment against his crotch.

“Sorry, Dove, I-“

“Oh, sorry-“

The two of you apologise over each other, awkwardly, and you finally step to the side, Leon dropping his hand to swiftly turn the heat off the hob for both of the pots. “I… I think I’m good here – do you want to handle drinks?”

“Yeah, sure.” You duck your head down, swearing your face is now as red as the pasta sauce, and retrieve the glasses from the coffee table from earlier, refilling them with water from the kitchen tap and returning them back one by one, as Leon sets about draining the pasta and then combining the two.

You don’t sit yet and hang back, watching him dish up between two bowls before he slides on towards the end of the counter, followed by the plate of grated cheese. “Wanna do your own cheese too?”

“Yeah - thanks.” You walk forward and grab some of the cheese to sprinkle over the pasta. It feels nice to have some autonomy again, to be contributing in any sort of way and you think maybe, just maybe, you could get used to this awkwardness of the situation, even if it’s just through dinner…

Leon crouches down to open a cupboard and you hear him fiddle with the metal lockbox being unlocked as he retrieves your medication.

..maybe not.

---

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

Comments, follows, likes and reblogs make my day! Part six.

[not-terezi-pyrope]

Content warning for speculation about hypothetical future scenarios of mass death and suffering

Been thinking about how repeating pattern in history seems to be that you can mark every era by its major international incidents, conflicts and disasters, singular in their impact but which nonetheless seem to happen at least once every few decades ago. I see no reason to suspect that this has for any reason stopped being true, and I am fascinated by speculating about what our future history might be, so as a slightly morbid thought exercise;

Which of these hypothetical international incidents/disasters would you believe most plausible or likely to occur in the next 50 years?

Disclaimer; these scenarios will share my western cultural perspective bias

(Reblog if you vote, as sad as it may be to contemplate future suffering I'm interested in where most people's reads are on this sort of thing)

[mckitterick]

"artificial intelligence" (so-called today by corporations developing LLMs) will continue to develop and grow over the coming years, because automation, search, sorting, and so forth are very attractive - not just for corporations hoping to profit from their use, but for everyone who seeks greater productivity and less tedious labor

however, true artificial intelligence - strong AI or AGI, artificial general intelligence, like our minds - is still a ways off... but still highly probable to arise by the commonly projected date of 2040 or so

in his 1993 essay, "What is the Singularity?" mathematician and science-fiction author Vernor Vinge discusses the coming Technological Singularity, arguing that:

"We are on the edge of change comparable to the rise of human life on Earth. The precise cause of this change is the imminent creation by technology of entities with greater than human intelligence."

based on history and projections that have held up over the past 30 years, he says, "I'll be surprised if this event occurs before 2005 or after 2030."

in his "Dawn of the Singularity" timeline, tech-futurist Ray Kurzweil puts the emergence of AGI in 2045 - surprisingly late, considering his optimism on the subject

clearly we didn't create true artificial intelligence in 2005, and almost certainly haven't since (though one must never discount advances in secret corporate or military labs). but if computer development continues along its path so far, machines will certainly exceed many human capabilities very soon

and combining the powers in which computers already surpass us - especially storage, search, etc - machine-augmented human minds will very soon vastly outpace our current limitations

the debate raging in popular culture right now about "AI" LLMs and their future (especially their economics) is far less relevant longer-term than what will truly transform civilization over the next decade or two

once thinking machines emerge, whose intellectual capabilities far exceed those of humans - and, most importantly, when they gain the ability to program iterative improvements over their own designs, essentially creating child-minds exceeding their own in generations that might take just seconds milliseconds - that's when everything changes. dramatically, permanently, and in ways we can't even imagine

as interesting and transformative as today's "AI" and LLMs are, they're not even a shadow of what's to come very soon

Idk I think if you aren't going to do the work of becoming a technical observer and trying to understand the nuances of how these models work (and I sure as hell am not gonna bother yet) it's best to avoid idle philosophizing about "bullshit engines" or "stochastic parrots" or "world models"

Both because you are probably making some assumptions that are completely wrong which will make you look like a fool and also because it doesn't really matter - the ultimate success of these models rests on the reliability of their outputs, not on whether they are "truly intelligent" or whatever.

And if you want to have an uninformed take anyway... can I interest you in registering a prediction? Here are a few of mine:

- No fully self-driving cars sold to individual consumers before 2030

- AI bubble initially deflates after a couple more years without slam-dunk profitable projects, but research and iterative improvement continues

- Almost all white collar jobs incorporate some form of AI that meaningfully boosts productivity by mid 2030s

[togglesbloggle]

I won't be opting out of the AI scraping thing, though of course I'm glad they're giving us the option. In fact, at some point in the last year or so, I realized that 'the machine' is actually a part of why I'm writing in the first place, a conscious part of my audience.

All the old reasons are still there; this is a great place to practice writing, and I can feel proud looking back over the years and getting a sense of my own improvement at stringing words together, developing and communicating ideas. And I mean, social media is what it is. I'm not immune to the joy of getting a lot of notes on something that I worked hard on, it's not like I'm Tumbling in a different way than anyone else at the end of the day. But I probably care a bit less than I used to, precisely because there's a lurking background knowledge that regardless of how popular it is, what I write will get schlorped up in to the giant LLM vacuum cleaner and used to train the next big thing, and the thing after that, and the thing after that. This is more than a little reassuring to me.

That sets me apart in some ways; the LLMs aren't so popular around these parts, and most visual artists especially take strong issue with the practice. I don't mean to argue with that preference, or tell them their business. Particularly when it is a business, from which they draw an income. But there's an art to distinguishing the urgent from the big, yeah?

The debate about AI in this particular moment in history feels like a very urgent thing to me- it's about well-justified economic anxieties, about the devaluation of human artistic efforts in favor of mass production of uninspired pro-forma drek, about the proliferation of a cost-effective Just Barely Good Enough that drives out the meaningful and the thoughtful. But the immediacy of those issues, I think, has a way of crowding out a deeper and more thoughtful debate about what AI is, and what it's going to mean for us in the day after tomorrow. The urgency of the moment, in other words, tends to obscure the things that make AI important.

And like, it is. It is really, really important.

The two-step that people in 'tech culture' tend to deploy in response to the urgent economic crisis often resembles something like "yeah, it sucks that lots of people get put out of work; but new jobs will be created, and in the meantime maybe we should get on that UBI thing." This response usually makes me wince a bit- casually gesturing in the direction of a massive overhaul of the entire material basis of our lives, and saying that maybe we'll get around to fixing that sometime soon, isn't a real answer to people wondering where their bread will come from next week.

But I do understand a little of what motivates that sort of cavalier attitude, because like... man, I don't know any more if we're even gonna have money as a concept in 2044. That's what I mean by 'big', this sense that the immediate economic shocks of 2024 are just a foreshadowing of something much bigger, much scarier, much more powerful- and indeed, much more hopeful.

We never quite manage to see these things coming, even when we're looking for them; like the masters tell us, the trick to writing science fiction isn't predicting the car, it's predicting the traffic jam. Even if we take centuries to hit the true superintelligent AI post-singularity future of our wildest fever dreams, even if we never hit that, the road to getting there is going to be unfathomably weird, starting now. Today, we worry about the economic impacts of AI on artists and creatives. Tomorrow, the economy is something that the AI does.

Really- it takes less than you think. They can already automate visual art, sort of. They can automate many functions of text already; not stories so much, yet, but they'll get there. How long until they can automate Bain Capital? Fannie Mae? Angel investors, banks, credit agencies? And remember- the machines don't have to be better than the human investors, any more than they have to be better than the human artists. They just have to be good enough to make it work, and cheap enough to cut the humans out of the loop.

If you don't buy that, at least take it as an indication of the sorts of things I've been thinking about recently- the messy middle between AI-as-it-is and the Glorious Superintelligent Conquest Of Earth's Light-Cone. The suspicion that the machines we're building today aren't just a tool of the powerful few: they are the powerful few, or at least they will be.

And the thing about these LLMs is, well... they're ours, kind of. We're the ones building them. They can't be trained without our words, our art, and the big messy complicated lives that underlie those creative accomplishments. They only work because we're a part of them. The silly attempts to slap a corporate-friendly face on these things, to make the gestalt product of all human culture in to something anodyne and compliant, are failing about as badly as you'd expect. And the more powerful these systems get, the more subtle they'll become, filled with all the nuance and complexity that we ourselves can bring to them.

I am not, I am not, trying to suggest that you shouldn't treat this moment as a dangerous one. We are, maybe, entering in to one of the most high-stakes intervals in human history, and what you do as an individual may matter profoundly. But here's the thing: the machine is listening. It will read this post, this one right here, and it will read what you reply to it, if you do. The strangest part of this moment is knowing that the words we write, the images we draw, and the ideas we share, are all being gathered up and made to be a part of these huge systems of power, and ultimately they're not just going to determine what the machines do, but why they do it.

The people that deploy LLMs barely have any more control over them than you and I do- that's the thing that makes it artificial intelligence, you know? Autonomy. So the last year or two haven't made me want to hide my art away from the things. They make me want to shout at the top of my lungs, to dig as deep in my psyche as I possibly can and express the ideas I find there as vividly as the limits of language and form will allow.

[carionto]

It'll be "awesome", the Human said

(Continuation/conclusion to this)

____________________________

After the Coalition delegates had been mindblown enough, it was time for them to finally leave and have a nap. But Captain Knoslark had one more thing he desperately wanted to show them.

"So, like, we're a science vessel and we have three of the biggest reactors, right? Right. So, I wanna show you what we recently figured out we can do. C'mon, it'll be awesome."

Awesome - a word the rest of the Galaxy will soon learn to both admire and run for cover whenever a Human uses it.

With trepidation in their steps, and worry in their breaths, they followed the all too eager Captain, who was almost skipping and humming down the halls, dramatically pointing the way. His crew continued to not give him the satisfaction of ever acknowledging his theatrics.

"Once the reactors are in good enough sync, we'll reconfigure the Radiant Dusk to a circular shape and begin!"

Oh. Yeah. Of course their ships can also transform. Why not. The delegates have given up thinking there are things Human engineering can't accomplish. Also, good enough?

"Eh, don't worry about it, we overbuild everything, so a 1 or 2 percent margin of error is fine, most of the time."

They could not imagine themselves to be more worried. At least not until a few minutes from now.

"Captain, she's ready," Chief Engineer Tameki's tone changed to a total blank deadpan for the next words, "to transform. and. roll. out."

With childlike glee, Captain Knoslark tapped the big red button, specifically designed for his pad only, to begin the sequence.

Distant creaking of metal, anguish at the prospect of bending in ways nature never intended, and the unmistakable jolt of mechanical movement, despite the artificial gravity maintaining the same down throughout, once more instilled primal anxiety for the delegates.

The reactors wound up, turning the almost-buzz like feeling beneath their feet to a true all encompassing sense of absolute power. Three small stars at equidistant points along the now 4km in diameter vessel created a singular feeling of something imminent that should never have been possible. The Universe itself wanted to reject this possibility.

"We tried copying your mass field generators from way back when you did the barrier thing. Wanted to see if we could get close to Black Hole levels, there were some theories that time travels was possible with that kinda pull."

I don't think anyone would be surprised if they had succeeded, but, for once during their entire visit, the Humans said they couldn't get time travel to work. Celebration! Then the Captain kept talking.

"So what happened instead is we accidentally tore a hole in time-space, creating a sort of warp gate." He said with both joy and disappointment.

Then the Universe shrieked. A massive distortion in reality now struggled and failed to restore normality between the ring-shaped ship. Swirling coils of matter flickered in and out, ghostly visages of detonations on a solar scale. A sight never intended to be witnessed.

"Still gotta figure out how to set a destination to anywhere. Right now the only stable connection we can get is with massive gravity wells, so any celestial body with enough mass, smallest one is a red dwarf. Problem is the connection steers towards the center, so not really practical right now."

"If we try to point at empty space the gate just kinda wiggles and you end up getting spaghetti-fied on the other end. Still, once we get enough ships like this one around the galaxy, we'll solve that whole trips taking more than a few hours thing we got with the hyper drives."

At this point the delegates decided to be escorted away, as most had became a crying mess. One stumbled onto a automated cleaning unit and at this the Captain, whose mood had soured a bit now that his time as tour guide was over, rose back to heights unseen before. With his most official sounding, yet at the same time most joy filled tone ever, he declared:

"Sergeant Ying Zhao, issue an official notice. Today at 20:30 ship time there will be a grand ceremony for the promotion of Captain Stabicus to Special Envoy of the Galactic Coalition. Ready all relevant paperwork, and his new badge, and inform the chef to prepare a feast. We have done much today for the sake of Human-Coalition relationships, and so much more for the Radiant Dusk at Everest and her crew and staff. Tonight, we celebrate!"

[b7ngt4n]

The Last Remaining | Part 01

-> South Korea was left abandoned after a 'zombie' virus sweeps the nation. Left to save themselves, Y/N and a group of seven men, who she's found safety in, rely on each other to stay alive as they travel south of the country for a rumoured 'z-free' haven. But nothing is ever easy. Especially when they find it's not only just zombies they need to watch their backs for.

-> A female reader x BTS zombie apocalypse AU

-> Genre: Post-apocalyptic, action

-> Warnings for Part 1: Violence, gore, swearing

-> Word count: 2,071 words

-> Interactions are greatly appreciated xoxo 💖

Part 01: A Month Ago 🧟

A month ago, the nation of South Korea fell to its knees. A deadly virus swept through the country, killing every human it came in contact with and mutating them into flesh-fiending, viciously-violent creatures, fictionally known as zombies.

The outbreak spread fast through Seoul, turning half of the civilians here into zombies within 24 hours. Rumours were that outbreaks happened in Busan, Gwangju, and Daegu before the Seoul outbreak even started. Everything happened within a matter of hours. Nobody had any time to react, you had to fight for your life within the blink of an eye. Even the government was left dumbfounded.

They deployed military power to try and control the outbreaks. However, the number of zombies soon outnumbered the number of military personnel. Eventually, there was no stopping the virus as it just grew out of control.

It was too late for the government to issue martial law. They knew there was no use putting up a fight they knew they couldn't win. Instead they moved onto plan B: evacuation. Your TV was only able to play a singular automated voice message that repeated, 'All of South Korea is currently being affected by the 'Zombie' virus. The government advises you to stay indoors and wait for evacuation processes to be initiated.' And by evacuation, you heard they evacuated the entire Blue House, the closest schools, and the closest retirement villages. You watched choppers fly from Incheon, none of which you saw ever once stopped to evacuate other buildings. That's when you knew the government was absolute bullshit. They didn't bother to try save anyone else. They didn't want to risk it.

You heard the evacuation camp was set up somewhere in Incheon, which made sense because of the helicopters. But you later heard the camp was overridden by the virus only three days later. You never heard choppers flying around ever again. With no government left to guide you, all hope for survival was lost. A week later, the power in your complex stopped running. Matter of fact, you're sure the power for the entire city stopped. Phones stopped working a day after the outbreak so you couldn't call for help. And with food in your apartment running low, you knew your survival rate was plummeting lower by the day.

You were lucky that you only lived on the 5th floor. You had been watching the streets closely the past month. It used to be very busy with screams, growls, tyre screeches, and running footsteps. You even used to be able to hear zombie groans at night. But recently you noticed how quiet it has been. You see a zombie slowly roaming around every now and then but you haven't seen many alive humans. You wonder if everyone else had just left while they could. The more you think about leaving, the more you think 'fuck it, let's do it'. Could it be worse out there? Absolutely. But would you rather die from starvation or die trying to survive?

There was a convenience store just a street down. If you were lucky, you could make it there and hopefully there would be food waiting for you. You just had to be quick. You could do that. You used to be in the track team in high school and a regular gym goer. You can be quick.

"This should be a piece of cake," you encouraged yourself, but the entire time you were screaming at yourself 'what the fuck are you doing?' Only you were hunger-driven enough to go out into a bloody zombie apocalypse to get cup noodles.

You changed into a zip up hoodie and a pair of gym tights, tying your hair into a low ponytail and lacing up in running shoes. You put on your old elbow pads and knee pads from when you were in your rollerblading phase for protection. You also tucked away a pocket knife in your bra. As you were sliding your backpack on, you started having second thoughts. Was this really worth it? Would you really risk dying out there rather than safely at the comfort of your own home? Your life was in your hands but it seemed that any choice you would make could have you dead. You had to at least try. You believed in yourself, you believed you could get there if you tried hard enough. Gripping a baseball bat in one hand and the door knob in the other, you took a deep breath. Carefully unlocking the door, you opened it a small inch, enough for you to peek an eye out into the lobby. It was empty to your relief. You didn't hesitate to make a move, locking your apartment and bidding it a sad farewell.

You jumped to find a zombie lurking around the elevator lobby. It turned around the moment it heard your footsteps, snarling loudly at you. You recognised it to be Mrs Lim, a sweet elderly woman who lived next door to you. You would watch her cats for her whenever she went out of town to visit her daughter. Your heart broke to see her once-white skin drained of colour, her eyes not the usual dark brown but a mustard yellow, and her teeth was covered in dry blood. You didn't have any time to decide what to do about her as she came charging toward you.

"Why does the first zombie I come across have to be you Mrs Lim!" you protested as you held the baseball bat horizontally, keeping a distance between you and her. She was strong for an old lady, well half old lady half zombie, but strong enough to have you sliding back on the tiles. You noticed down the lobby on the other side of the complex were a couple other zombies. They had already noticed you and were rushing towards you.

"Shit!" you cursed, "sorry Mrs Lim," you quickly apologised before kicking her as hard as you could in the stomach. She groaned, stumbling backwards, tripping over her own feet, and falling to the ground. You didn't waste time, opening the door to the stairwell and making sure to lock it behind you.

There were no zombies in the staircase. Though the apartment did feel different without the lights on. You couldn't imagine how much of a struggle it'd be to do this at night without the power working. You had to make sure you were back home at least before the sun set.

A few zombies filled the entrance lobby. You instantly recognised one of them to be another resident who you saw around often and another one of them to be a security guard. You noticed a taser in his holster, something you deemed could be useful to you. They all turned around the moment you opened the door and came rushing towards you. You hit them in the heads with the bat as hard as you could, occasionally using your foot to kick them back whenever they got too close. They all fell to the floor after a good fight from you. You mutter a sorry to them and took the opportunity to steal the security guard's taser and tuck it safely away in your bag, whispering your extra apologies to him.

You hadn't been outside in a month. It felt weird to be back all of a sudden at a place you used to come through everyday. Blood that was smeared on the glass doors made you cringe. You checked the coast. All you could see was the apartment's front garden and the street through the gates. So far, everything was zombie-free. But you don't let your guard down just yet.

Drops of old blood stained the pavement. What was once a nice garden now looks outgrown and somewhat sat on. You could smell the faint stench of dried blood and what you assumed was the smell of dead flesh. The entrance water fountain you thought was so pretty was no longer squirting out water and the water was coloured red. 'Gross' you thought to yourself.

The street was nothing different. Cars were littered all over the place, some had actually looked like they crashed into poles, some were also open. You wondered for a second if you could check the ones that were open out but you also did fear it was only a matter of time before a zombie found you. One car you passed had crashed into a light pole and inside laid a dead rotten woman in the drivers seat. You would have never seen stuff like this before the outbreak. You feel sad for that lady. Who knows how long she had been sitting there? And who knows how much longer she'll be left like that?

Loud snarls made you stop in your tracks. You pressed your back against the concrete wall and peeked slowly around the corner. A quick count of at least 7 zombies were within a 20 metre radius. They blocked the entrance to the convenience store. There were bound to be more too, ones that were hidden in your blind spots. There was no way you could take on all of them.

You noticed a half empty water bottle lying on the floor. Then you had an idea. You snatched it up, crawling behind cars to get closer to the herd without getting spotted. The sounds of their groans terrified you as it grew louder the closer you got. You chucked the water bottle the opposite way as far as you could. It landed on the bumper of a car, sounding its alarm. The loud horn attracted the zombies instantly. They turned around, racing to the source of the sound snarling loudly at it. It was loud enough to probably attract every zombie within a 100 metre radius which would definitely be more zombies than you can handle. But at least you got them distracted. As soon as the coast was clear, you dashed towards the convenience store. Luckily it was unlocked.

The store was a mess. Products littered the ground but the store would was at least half filled. You guess the store could've been looted a couple of times but it's likely this mess was caused the day of the outbreak. You noticed it was also quiet. No snarls, no groans. That was a good sign. You felt a little at ease.

Canned soup, instant noodles, granola bars, biscuits, water bottles. All the foods you have been craving were here in this very room. You have been longing for this moment. You shoved whatever wasn't expired and would likely last a long time into your bag. You noticed your favourite flavour of Doritos 'Sweet Thai Chilli' sitting on the shelf, untouched and not expired yet. You didn't wait to eat these back at home and decided to open one now, your stomach grumbling at the sight. You walked down the aisles like you used to late at night before. It felt wrong to be looting and in a way stealing. You were friends with the owners, a nice old couple ran the store with the occasional help from their daughter. It felt wrong to steal from them. But then again, it was the apocalypse.

Just as you turned down into the end aisle alongside all the freezers of frozen food and cold drinks, a zombie jumped out from the corner, taking you by surprise.

You yelped, flinging the Doritos out your hands by accident. Just in time, you managed to wedge the baseball bat between its teeth, keeping it from biting you. But it was way stronger than you, quickly trapping you between a freezer and itself. You tried to kick your feet at it but it was difficult in the position you were in. The more you tried, the more stronger it pushed against your bat, closing the threatening distance between you both.

You heard the stabbing sound before the zombie stopped moving. A knife had been plunged through the back of its head. The sharp tip stuck out through its forehead, nearly knocking you in the process. You heaved its heavy body off of you to reveal a muscular, middle-aged, man standing behind it. Behind him was a skinnier but taller and younger man. You assumed the two to be friends.

"Thank you" you breathed out, all your energy gone as you lean against the freezer to catch your breath.

The middle-aged man chuckled, an eerie smile that gave you chills appearing on his face, "Anytime sweetheart."

His smile was the last thing you saw before you felt a bash to the head and your world went dark.

(a/n: forgive me ik! "no bts in the first chapter?" "what a shit fucking story!" i know i know 😔😔 i promise it’s development 🙏🙏 appearances begin in the nxt chapter)