In the dim yellow light of a cold, cluttered lab, a twenty-five-year-old engineering student tightens the final screw into the metallic panel covering the delicate inner processors of his latest project. He exhales, lifting his safety goggles off his head and setting them carefully on the workbench beside him. His spine sinks into the soft backing of his chair at the same time his goggles hit the wooden surface. So far so good. Nothing has popped, cracked, or bent under pressure. He isn't sure he has another piece of scrap left if the screw managed to dent the plate again. His free hand drags down his face, heavy with exhaustion – from too many sleepless nights and a grueling number of failed diagnostic tests. But this time, he thinks, this time will be the last. This time, it will work or Janna help him.
His creation is nothing spectacular – just six repurposed metal panels soldered into a crude steel box. On the front, a screen flickers, displaying endless lines of code he once wrote and has since forgotten how to read. Silver ones and zeros shift and rewrite themselves in real time, a chaotic stream of digital language pulling from the many mechanical nuclei he'd designed and installed inside of the box' rigid frame. Above the screen, a hole no larger than his thumbnail houses a recording device for visual media. To the right, another opening, shielded by thick, spongy mesh, for the purpose of capturing sound.
It's not a large prototype. It only stands about two feet from the floor and barely eighteen inches wide. But it's far heavier than what's healthy for his back and his hips. It's been weeks since the last time the thing was moved, and it will continue to stay in its spot in front of the workbench for as long as it continues to be modified and upgraded.
The young engineer watches as his creation speaks to him in code, the nucleus he recently connected seemingly doing its job. A self-modifying computer – entirely capable of squashing its own bugs and learning from the diverse input it records. He wants it to evolve, to speak in his language, to respond in a complex alphanumeric code instead of the one it was built from. To recognize his voice, to obey his commands, answer his questions with answers he would have never thought to consider – not out of programming, but from its own discovery and worldly understanding. But alas, after his last adjustment, all he can do is stare at the endless stream of ones and zeroes as they rush across the screen from left to right.
"Hello?"
Even his voice sounds tired. Weak. He rolls the handle of the screwdriver back and forth over his palm and talks again towards the box.
"Hello? Can you hear me?"
For a brief second the code falters, and he holds his breath readying himself for the imminent [ERROR] message. The text cursor blinks and blinks and blinks. And then–
→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100
The code skips a line and continues to run as it had before. Endless and chaotic.
It hadn't failed.
A sharp exhale escapes from his lungs as the young engineer loosens his grip on the screwdriver. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it so tightly, but now his fingers are marked with a mottled pattern of red and white and he watches as the blood slowly pools back into place. Back to normal.
"How strange," he mutters to himself, though whether he's referring to his own sudden tension or the hesitation in his creation's programming is unclear. Most things in his lab are. He moves to set the screwdriver aside but stops when he sees the code falter a second time from the corner of his eye.
The cursor blinks...
→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100
The code skips a line and continues.
He should be happy when his code runs without failure. He should feel relieved that his project isn't breaking down or spitting out a concerning stream of smoke towards the concrete ceiling. But as he watches the endless lines scroll across the screen, all he feels is bone-deep exhaustion and grey indifference.
With a sigh, he reaches for his cane, planting it firmly before him as he pushes himself upright. Pain flares in his right leg and down through his tibia, drawing a sharp curse in his native tongue. It always aches when he forgets to take breaks. He knows this, and yet he never seems to learn. Maybe he continues to do it for an excuse to feel.
→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100
He glances at that code again.
It continues on as normal.
"That's enough for tonight."
→ 01100001 01100011 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101100 01100101 01100100 01100111 01100101 01100100
He grabs his coat from the hook and heads for home.
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we depend (I depend) on you • jayvik
Fanfiction⚠️ THIS STORY IS HEAVY ANGST AND IS MARKED FOR MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH ⚠️ Viktor has always been alone, so he uses his brilliant mind to assemble the crude, metal frame of a "friend". His self-modifying robot quickly becomes his obsession and the cent...
