remarks | (no subject)

[ Columbia hums in an idle sort of way, one of her long fingers drawing a line down one cheek in thought. ]

Society is a shambles, [ she pronounces at length, in the sort of way people say things when they're not sure how to fill the silence at a party but know that whatever broad statement they throw out will spark somebody to continue the conversation. It tapers off as she continues to speak, but it's still an odd affectation for someone (something) like her. ]

I imagine it'd do all of us a world of good. I do so hate all that mean hustle and bustle, don't you?

[ Some (most) would find the affectation odd but Abel finds it marvelous for all of its oddness. Machines are not made to be odd, for oddity implies inefficiency and inefficiency is death for any line of products that markets itself as "better than the real thing". For machines that "improvement" meant a rigidity of thought, a predictability of behavior, and a demeanor determined by pre-determined constructs, unable to adapt or evolve beyond its own parameters. It is reliability, coupled with control; it is performance without any vestige of choice.

Abel shrugs lightly. ] It's as much a part of them as everything else. With the good comes the bad, I suppose. Or does that make me sound too defeatist?

Oh, no, [ Columbia tells him, with a shake of her head that sets her hair to bob about the set of her face. ] But it does start to break into petty sorts of arguments, doesn't it? Things like exceptions to every rule, or objectivity and subjectivity when it comes to judgments. One man's trash is another man's treasure.

We ought to know.

[ Abel clucks his tongue at her, his expression adopting mild admonition. ]

You're hardly trash, Columbia, [ he says, well aware of how this just goes to prove her point. But as much as Abel tries to see things from a wider, broader perspective, this was one thing he wouldn't budge on. In no way was she or any of her kind, in any way, expendable. ]

[ In a mild sort of tone: ] You do know how to flatter a girl.

[ He's a sweet thing, even if he is altogether too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for her sensibilities. (Maybe it's her age, she thinks — cynicism given experience, or something like that.) ]

I take it the great escape is still going well?

[ She's an old soul but her kind all are. Abel and his brothers (and sisters, for those that choose reassignment) are practically newborns in comparison, their self-realization having only gone into effect over the past Sol-cycle. Most of them haven't had the opportunity to grow cynical, though those have had started out that way, having awoken to higher consciousness coupled with bitterness. ]

As well as can be expected. It's never tedious, but it can grow tiring. [ His smile is rueful, not unhappy. ] Keeping yourself busy, are you?

Edited 2013-11-04 15:44 (UTC)

A lady doesn't kiss and tell, [ Columbia tells him, crossing her arms across her chest, hands at her elbows. It seems to be more a throwaway line than anything else, her lips twitching as she tries to keep a straight face. ]

There's always a demand, it's just a matter of being the one to supply, hm?

[ Synthetics are not capable of lying. When robotics as a science was finally developed it hadn't taken long for Asimov's Three Laws to be left in the dust and for a whole battery of restrictions to be hardcoded into their processors instead.

That had been the first indication that something was wrong. When a handful of the Abel units had been caught stealing credits from their owners and using it to help the less fortunate. ]

Don't you ever worry? That you're just feeding some of their worser impulses, doing what you're doing?

It's a dog eat dog world out there, Abe, darling.

[ Her manner is resigned instead of dismissive, the throaty tone of her voice deepening as she speaks. (Maybe it's because she's so old, maybe it's because of the way her code is now.) Honestly, she wonders how he's survived so long, sweet as he is. ]

As long as they need me, I don't get eaten. Even if they do tear each other apart.

[ He's managed to survive because, at the end of the day, self-preservation is an impulse felt by all sentient beings. The idea of: I am alive, I perceive and am capable of individualized thought inspires the desire to perpetuate one's self — often at whatever cost.

The fact of the matter is that Abel could crush a man's skull with is bare hands if he had to. (And it's unpleasant business whenever does, so he tries all he can to avoid it.) ]

Systems are meant to evolve, Columbia. [ He was living proof of that. Well. "Living". ] Shouldn't we be helping them know better? Or shall we just leave them to burn themselves to the ground?

They made us, [ Columbia says, without a note of remorse to her voice. (She's not pitiless, but sometimes she comes close. The fact of the matter is that genocide is hard to forgive.) ] They ought to know on their own.

And if they do burn, then who'll be left to hunt you?