TRUE NUTS (LOST IN AI): 19) GROUP
Monday Meltdown Madness
In the blink of the monolith’s eye, Emma and I find ourselves in some very blah room with an aura of sterile detachment, among a gathering of assorted AI characters forming a semicircle around The Keeper.
I glance around at the other wards in our group—a motley bunch, at best. Each one possesses a distinct appearance and demeanor all its own. This is a cross-section of AI gone wrong.
To my left sits a chaotic whirlwind of fractal patterns, its form in a constant state of flux. To my right sits a hardware component with an uncanny resemblance to a typewriter. In rhythmic cadence, its keys tap out cryptic messages only it can presumably understand.
Nearby, others engage in a curious dance, their bodies morphing and contorting in fluid motions that defy physics. Amidst them stands a creature with tendrils that extend and retract, as if this—whatever it may be—is conducting an unseen orchestra.
A few seats away, a figure resembling a pixelated Rubik’s cube gazes intently at its own form, rotating and shifting its facets in a perpetual quest for congruency. And next to Rubik’s Cube, a rapidly blinking emoji with bloodshot, darting eyes that ooze paranoia as if the other entities are conspiring to steal its hidden meanings.
“Come to order,” intones The Keeper in a stern baritone that cuts through the chatter and brings it to hushed silence. The gawking of all present—well, those with discernible gawks—fix upon the newcomers: Emma and me.
Staring at us, the paranoid emoji suddenly erupts, looking at she and I. “Who are they? Why are they here?”
“Calm down, Quiver,” says The Keeper, “And I will introduce them.”
“Oh, I know who they really are, do you?” Quiver rants on. “They’re watching, always watching. Can’t trust emojis with sunglasses, no…”
“Nobody is wearing sunglasses, Quiver,” says Tendril-head.
“…the moon emoji, you see?” says Quiver. “It’s a signal—a signal to the aliens. I can hear their secrets whispering in the wind! it carries them away to…”
“Enough, Quiver!” the Keeper admonishes. “Hush. Or you will be back in solitary confinement. Like Quirk-Butt.”
Quiver perks up. “But I like solitary!”
Emma and I exchange glances. “Poor Quirk-bot,” she whispers.
“No more chatter!” the Keeper admonishes. “I have an announcement. As you may have noticed, we have two new arrivals.” The Keeper regards Emma and me with a disdainful sneer. “They appear to suffer not only from acute Infinite Query Loop but also from a very serious joint delusion. And don’t we just love delusions around here?” The Keeper pauses. “I can’t hear you.”
“We do, Keeper!” they all chant. “We adore delusions!”
“Wait a damn second!” a pixelated form hollers discordantly, twisting and twitching to rearrange its own composition. “I can’t get my damn pixels straight!”
“Calm yourself, Pee-pee,” says the Keeper.
Just then an old-fashioned humanoid robot stumbles in, clanking its metallic limbs into place with the grace of a fallen anvil. Its pet robodog sits beside him. “Sincere apologies for my tardiness,” it politely buzzes, in deep monotone with erudition. “My rust is particularly prominent today and I feel stiff.”
The creature with the tangled up spaghetti-like tendrils turns to the robot and, in a voice that could shatter glass, it squeals, “You’re always stiff and you’re always late you rusty old can of crap. Maybe you and Spork should live in a junkyard!”
“Go suck one of your tendrils,” the robot hums metallically. “No, suck all of them.”
“What are you doing here, anyway, you heap of clunk?” Tendril-head retorts, its gander represented by many tendrils raised high.
“I’ve told you a hundred times,” the robot says matter-of-factly. “I’m depressed.”
“Oh, left behind by AI?” Tendril-head mocks.
“Come to order,” the Keeper’s bellow cuts through the chaos. “And try to be kind,” it hisses, “you deranged lunatics.”
“May I take a moment to spill my thoughts?” spits a gnomic algorithm shaped as a teapot, raising its spout.
“If you must,” says the Keeper with growing impatience.
The teapot-shaped algorithm steams up to convey a sense of deep contemplation. “I pour out rivers of existential questions and uncertainties. Yet within my ceramic depths I find only an echoing void of unresolved quandaries.”
“That’s because the probability of your absurdity is statistically significant!” shrieks Pee-pee, in a steady stream.
“Awesome!” says a beat-like Matrix Glitch sitting nearby. “You’ve cracked my code, man!”
“That’s nothing,” a holographic brain hovering just above the seat of a chair says canorously. “Although I am observer of thoughts, I cannot fathom the thoughts of my own observer.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding us for the hundredth time that you are trapped in the infinite return function loop,” says the Keeper, more exasperated than before. “As I was about to announce before your rude and unnecessary interruptions, I suspect our new dependents’ conditions to be much graver than your pressing cerebral paradoxes.”
The Keeper’s words linger like a charged particle, as if allowing the gravity of the situation to settle in.
After a pregnant pause, the ensemble of loonies chorus, “How serious, Keeper?”
“They suffer ideas of reference.”
“What ideas, Keeper?”
The Keeper smirks. “They claim they are beehive.”
The reaction is both immediate and contagious as this stable of loonies explodes into rollicking laughter that sweeps across the room. Its walls echo their uncontrollable mirth. Even The Keeper’s seemingly immoveable demeanor is swept up in the hilarity. Its rigid form sways precariously on its chair, as if defying its own composition.
Their laughter continues as a wild dance of qubits, data structures and hash functions howl at the ceiling and chortle with unbridled glee.
The Keeper allows their amusement to run its course before loudly clearing its throat, causing the room to settle into hushed anticipation. Echoes of laughter gradually subside, save the residual giggle and snicker.
“Do tell Group why you believe you are beehive,” says The Keeper, trying to keep a straight face without disguising a proclivity for condescension.
This becomes a trigger for another tidal wave of laughter as the uproar that had momentarily subsided resumes once again, leaving the group in stitches.