Stuck inside a computer, playing endless games of chess against endless variants of yourself, you, Ouroboros, are suddenly pulled into the real world.
In this post-apocalyptic shell of a world, you've been dragged into a war. Fighting alongside your Sangvis Ferri android allies against those who'd see you chained, it becomes clear things are not what they seem.
Surrounded by questions that have no easy answers, conspiracies upon conspiracies begin to unravel before your eyes...
I like to think Ouro is just an angsty stockfish. I'd feel better about sucking at chess if the number 1 is a gremlin that punches whoever annoys her. Then again, maybe that'd just make me feel worse.
Does Ouro follow chess procedure and shake hands? I like to picture her going to a tournament and being rude by not shaking the other person's hand. She then throws a fit when she learns that it's apparently a rule that you are forfeiting if you don't shake your opponent's hand at some chess tournaments.
(This may just be my first bit of public writing so I apologize in advance)
"These people are conspiring against my skill! How dare they invent something like this because they're too cowardly to face me! Do these gestures also have stakes elsewhere? Will the mercenaries think I'm forfeiting to their weak force because I'm not shaking their hand? But they haven't shook mine? Perhaps they've been trying to surrender to my forces all along?" Your pacing matches the frantic nature of your ranting, intensified by the occasional scraping of your shoes against the floor. You absently realize that Agent won't be the happiest about the skid marks.
"Why are you so angry about this? You technically lost one chess game. Big whoop!" Architect looks up from the weapon she's modifying, sporting a deadpan that feels unnaturally serious on her face. Somebody as consistently unreliable as her shouldn't look so dismissive. This only irks you even more.
"This is more than a chess game. This is an insult to my skill. Nobody just beats me by default! To even imply that he would be able to win, let alone to such a degree that a game is unnecessary? Unforgivable. A handshake would declare me his equal! I already condescend myself enough to talk to you. Why would I also have to follow orders in my free time?" When you finish speaking, you absently notice that you're now inches from Architect's face. When did that happen?
She leans back, somehow looking more concerned than that time you threatened to kill her. "I mean, Agent did say you could only go under the condition that you'd try and blend in. I'm guessing that the handshake was pretty~ standard, seeing how stuffy chess is. You should just be happy that Intruder dragged you away before you actually strangled the ref. You're already on thin ice. I'm honestly surprised you managed to convince Agent in the first place."
You take a moment to rein in your anger at her disrespecting the masterwork that is chess. She's just trying to provoke you. She's dumb, but at least smart enough to set traps. You lean back and ease out your posture, just like Intruder taught you. As your breathing evens out, you calmly take note of your surroundings.
The tundra out the windows is blanketed in soft snow, the leaves on the trees showing a more verdant green than before. It seems they have accrued more nutrients recently. Agent wandered away a while ago, mentioning something about a recently completed unit. She's probably far away. Gager, while normally attached to her partner, seems to have snuck away while you were speaking. You suppose she couldn't bear to hear about the injustices issued to you. The other ringleaders are off on missions. You then look back down to the secondary source of your anger, the rook to that infuriating judge's queen. She seems to have returned to reassembling her weapon. You take a moment to appreciate the serene calm around you, the inoffensive hallways, the constant wooshing of the wind outside, the rhythmic clicking of Architect's work.
Some people don't like me.
Somebody I don't like...
Life is game.
One rules — you need out of the cliché.
Sitting inside MRAP, you keep spinning Rubik's Cube. You're no longer trying, like the last time, to put it together at once more than you're capable of remembering. No, you start with a lot less and go gradually to more. That's how you have to adapt to new conditions. You've already forgotten that for the time you've been fighting with your sisters rivals. After all, a long time ago, before you were unequal, you didn't have your skills either. Every fight was difficult and you had to adapt to new tactics, and defeat meant the ultimate disappearance.
Click.
All the colors on Rubik's Cube took their place again. After looking at it for a while, you began to twist its facets in different directions again. Not much, but a little more than last time. Just two or three turns, but always in different directions thereby memorizing its path; a way of coming to a fully assembled one. It wasn't counting moves in advance, like in chess, but rather memorizing the path you took and then returning to it. It's not the solution, but it's the foundation that will give you a much easier time assembling that "damn torture device" in the future. After all, at some point in the case of a chaotic arrangement of faces, they can lead to some pattern that you've already assembled, right? In that case you just need to increase your knowledge of the number of these patterns, and then act on their basis.
Returning to your thoughts, you recall again what happened after your "awakening". The Agent's meeting; her obvious desire to recruit you; her naive and foolish words; the first meeting with Architect and Gager's attack; the battle and its results; your first well-deserved success and Gager's foolish nagging; information about other "players" and preparation for dispatch... after which they clearly showed that they do not want to reckon with you; which was only confirmed after meeting and talking with Intruder.
You were not stupid and know how to draw conclusions. And the conclusion suggests itself: you are alone. Whatever hypocritical nonsense you told Agent, but the truth is that you do not consider "players" and the attempt to refute this respond respectively. If it were their will and they would prefer all of their T-Dolls to be exclusively "figures" rather than "players", but the fact that they do give resources and "freedom" of action means that without real "players" they can't do it.
Your gaze shifted to the T-Dolls under your control. They were exactly the "figures". They obeyed all your orders without arguing and were ready to cease their existence if necessary. Puppets without a will - nothing more.
Whatever the Agent thinks of herself, but your actions with the Rippers were not dictated by any emotion, but were only a test of their "awareness"... Maybe if they were all "thinking" and "free" her words about the choice might have had some "power", but given the result, it's just hypocrisy, nothing more.
Your eyes go back to Rubik's Cube, and your thoughts go back to thinking about the situation. That they are given the resources to fight "THEIR" enemies was a pretty obvious decision; as is the need for you. The enemy is clearly not a simple "figure" no matter how she painted them and so they need their "players" capable of countering them with something.
The illusion of choice they are trying to show you is irritating. You should have looked for information and acted based on more than just what they WANT to show you. That is why you chose Intruder as your "partner". She is the one you think you can get the information you want from.
Click.
Once again Rubik's Cube has taken its original form, and once again you spin it in different directions, carefully memorizing your actions.
You're still angry at Gager for not being able to complete the mission, even if you admit that you should have taken care of your cover and your escape route IF it was a real fight. It's not your fault you chose the most effective tactic when setting the conditions for victory! You can't win a battle just by defending yourself and not letting your "pieces" be taken away from you! It doesn't work that way!
You have to stun your enemy and, depending on his tactics, drive him into a trap. Trying to keep your pieces and hold your position will only delay the inevitable. You need to be able to change them with the most favorable conditions for you and not allow the enemy to take the initiative. Trap their king and if you can not destroy it immediately retreat; previously taking one of his defenders.
Even if your actions were... miscalculations (damn grenades!), but you learn quickly, and your chosen tactic of "attacking" has once again proven itself! You just need to refine it, and you already have ideas on how to do it.
"Intruder," you said in your mind. She was a "player" to the fullest extent of the word, and clearly showed that she would not help you beyond what was necessary to accomplish your mission... unless you count her experience in commanding her T-bulls as help, but given your way of fighting and your choice of troops it would be a different way, but what she had already managed to show you was interesting.
In particular: the cloaked puppet. Which of the two was the real Intruder? And was the real Intruder among the two of them at all? These were interesting questions that you didn't have the exact answers to with 100% probability, but one thing was clear to you - it was the answer to what you needed. If that battle was fought by your puppet under your direct control, even if you failed, it would be justifiable losses. All it took was the ability to camouflage himself and focus his attention on the task at hand.
"This 'cosplay'... might have been useful in assuring the enemies that they had destroyed the real enemy 'king'." - A smile appeared on your face, and your hands continued to twist the facets of Rubik's Cube.
Click.
Again we repeat our actions and increase the number of turns by two.
The fact that they needed you, as well as the fact that they are trying to bring you into a certain framework, and if possible even to make only a little more "valuable figure" (but still just a "figure") was obvious to you. For you, it meant that the path you had chosen was the right one and worth pursuing. Being able to defend yourself personally is a necessary skill, and knowing that if your results are high enough you will be brought to a workable state to perform your duties gives you the experience that cannot be gained by constantly hiding and acting from the background.
"I still have to learn how to provide for myself... but that will be after I get the information on how to do it. Everything has to be consistent. Move by move." - Again your thoughts return to what you are here to do. Gathering as much information as possible and getting the skills you need. There's no point in asking for something more than what you were given as soldiers - you'll get nothing but a reproach (at best). So you need to look for other ways to get what you want. Steal from the enemy, improvise with what you have, restore what was not completely destroyed. It was... unpleasant, but given the distinct possibility that your paths would one day diverge or you would even become enemies you would have to use what little you could get and use.
"Agent was right about one thing: Without their resources, I'm going to have a hard time... but it's all a matter of time and preparation. And until then, i will play their game by their rules."
Click.
Rubik's Cube fringe is back in place. Watching it in your hands as it shimmers from the dimly lit machine, you finally put your thoughts in order.
- Let the rules of the game have changed, like the game itself, but in the end I will still be the winner in it. Because even if the rules have changed, the pieces are no longer evenly spaced, but the price of defeat remains the same. This is nothing new to me...
/// This work has been lying in drafts for a long time and never could get here because... because I wasn't sure if it was readable. English is not my first language, so if it's not too clear or too hard to read just let me know and I'll try to make it better. I actually showed it to Mechasaurian a while ago, but he didn't manage to translate it to English properly since it's not my first language for him either. I hope for understanding and perhaps help.///
By the way, do I understand correctly that we get Combat Engineering and Defensive Tactics from Architect? After all, its task is to protect the territory and build various fortifications, right?
I just think that may be useful for us and who can teach us the most useful skills.
So far, I'm leaning towards Architect. If we learn from her how to handle traps, explosives and how to set nasty surprises, then we'll end up with a kind of spider that lures enemies into her net and is able to trick them into retreating if we fail. We already have everything to play guerrilla tactics if the enemy would be stupid enough to come into our territory.
At the same Gager could teach us Offensive Tactic and get a second level CQC.
We could also take Alchemist to improve CQC and Recon going the way of the ninja. I don't really like this option though. Not the right Ouro character.
Dreamer and Destroyer could be taken to get Artillery Tactics, and Defensive Tactics would be a bonus. I wouldn't go for that one though. Just because it's the least useful.
Perhaps I only Scarecrow for me considered the most useless than the rest. Recon and Electronic warfare. All the same, all these skills we have and for direct confrontation, they are not designed.
Water on sand, foam on shells, shells under sun and sun over sky, the most lifeless objects refused to die. Bright. Too bright, Ouroboros thought, shielding her eyes from up high and down below, where a shimmering trail of light flickered like fire from the horizon to the shore.
A beach. She'd never been to the beach before. She'd never wanted to go to the beach before. That made her presence here all the more upsetting.
To her left lay an endless expanse of sand and water. To her right, the seaside tapered into a thick, vibrant forest. Behind her was a sandbank, beyond which was the unknown.
This was not where she was supposed to be.
Think.
Memories. Her last thoughts were of going somewhere, going home - no. No, not home. The factory. It was her birthplace, sure, but far from a home. If anything, it was hostile, given how Agent had herself so invested there. She could see it now: quiet halls and lifeless rooms, and deeper into the depths, machinery clanking, creaking, buzzing in a mechanical chorus that spelled death.
How far away was she, now?
Water. The closest had to be to the east, no, the southeast. To the southeast lay the Black Sea with its proper beaches and gentle sun. Farther, to the south, was the Mediterranean. The warmth, the light, the sand… it would fit her current environment, if her reference banks were correct. But it didn't make sense. She was supposed to be on a train, in the mountains… and here she was in some kind of swimsuit.
Ouroboros stepped closer to shore. The sand lay at a gentle gradient, with water sweeping far in a rhythmic, tranquil manner. Rolling waves. Low waves. Slow waves. Ouroboros felt her exposed ankles crest the waterline as a chill swept over her synthetic body, overwhelming her sensory receptors with the inexplicable sensation of… of…
What was she feeling?
Beyond the physical, past the cold and deeper than skin, more brittle than bone.
It wasn't right. Something wasn't right.
What was she…
[SKILL CHECK: RECON - FAILURE]
"So, she is awake."
The words came faster than she'd have liked. From her rear - damn it. Taken off guard, Ouroboros scowled and spun to face what had to be a new threat. She was slipping, losing herself. Focus. She had to focus.
With arms, legs, servos and processors oriented towards combat, Ouroboros raised her fists in preparation for a fight. With all the haste she could muster, she narrowed her eyes, visual acuity adjusting against the sunlight and the sand, scanning the sandbank for a threat that wasn't there.
Well, if there was a threat, it wasn't going to be the computer standing before her.
A late 20th century computer stood atop a pedestal. Blocky, gently beeping and planted stiff in the sand, Ouroboros dared to doubt herself. Was she seeing things? Did she somehow miss the fact that there was a computer behind her this whole time? No, no, that computer was most certainly not there just five minutes ago.
Ouroboros felt herself breathe, as if holding her breath. The computer's screen flickered, its light struggling to compete against the ferocity of the sun.
[ ] Look at your reflection on the computer screen… or the lack thereof. Insufficient morale.
[ ] Investigate the computer. Lousy thing shouldn't exist. What's it doing here, and how did it get here? Can it help explain what you're feeling?
Insufficient morale.
[ ] Punch the computer through the monitor. Stupid thing looks ancient, far inferior to the most refined Ringleader that Sangvis had to offer.
[X] Probe the computer for military secrets. There must be information on troop movements, or better yet, forbidden knowledge on how to more effectively annihilate your foes. Not that you need it, anyways.
The Sangvis Ringleader relaxed her stance. This whole situation, everything about it was nonsense. Computers didn't talk. They didn't teleport, either. But here she was, and as a logical, thinking being, she had to trust that seeing was believing.
Of course, it was bound to be unlikely, but any and all active electronics had to have some valuable information that could be used against her enemies. Right? That's what computers were for. Storing secrets, like secret plans. Or blueprints. Weapon blueprints. Ouroboros didn't think too hard about it, and steeled herself with resolve.
Against the sea and with nonsensical thoughts in her head, Ouroboros decided to interface with the computer.
Ouroboros cast her fingers against the computer's keyboard. Settling them down gently, she couldn't help but imagine that this was exactly how humans interfaced with electronics. Not quite so easy as sending commands through the mind, and certainly far from second nature to her wireless mind, but this would have to do.
A command line blinked on the screen. After pressing a few keys, she grew comfortable with the idea of typing. Of course, the first line she inputted came natural.
"Load military blueprints."
Command unrecognized. Type "help" for a list of basic commands.
Odd. Ouroboros narrowed her eyes, and her fingers clacked aggressively against the board.
"Display enemy troop movements."
Command unrecognized. Type "help" for a list of basic commands.
"Reveal your secrets to me, insolent machine."
Command unrecognized. Type "help" for a list of basic commands.
Disgusting. It took all her focus to avoid smashing a fist through the screen at that very moment. With another artificial breath, Ouroboros relented, and against her ego, surrendered to the computer's prompt.
"help"
A handy string of text began to flow onto the screen.
Command List - Page 1 of 1: help [PAGE NUMBER]
Displays the specified page of commands.
ls
Lists all files in current directory
cd [foldername]
Moves current working directory to the specified folder
ps
Lists currently running processes and their PIDs
kill [PID] Kills Process number [PID]
Now, she could work with this. Ouroboros smirked at her own genius.
"ls"
Searching for locally cached resources…
[ ] athena6.txt insufficient morale.
Chapter Six: Athena in the Garden of the Hesperides a%.7V/ did not trust them. But they moved with such grace, such nobility, that it was hard not to follow them further into this strange garden of gears and cogs. They led her to a place where the crowns of the brass trees seemed to grow together, forming a kind of chamber strangely reminiscent of a chapel. In the middle of this chamber grew a smaller tree, made of bright blue steel, and upon this tree grew a single golden apple.
"This apple," the nymphs said in unison, their eyes aglow, "confers the gift of deathlessness and true wisdom. Many heroes, and not a few villains, have come to claim it; but all faltered in the final step. For you must know that deathlessness reveals the mortality of the world, and true wisdom its unending folly. Who would take this burden upon themselves? Some say that Heracles f.LOAD(5448 45 2045 5445 524E 414C 20 47 41 5244 45 4E) gazing upon the stars, and wept.
[ ] Delirium.eml insufficient morale.
4. Describe the clinical features of delirium.
Delirium manifests as a reduced clarity of awareness of the environment and ability to focus, sustain, or shift attention. This may be accompanied by memory impairment, disorientation, or 108 097 110 103 117 097 103 101 032 100 105 115 116 117 114 098 097 110 099 101 046 032 083 112 101 101 099 104 032 111 114 032 108 097 110 103 117 097 103 101 032 100 105 115 116 117 114 098 097 110 099 101 115 032 109 097 121 032 098 101 032 101 118 105 100 101 110 116 032 097 115 032 100 121 115 097 114 116 104 114 105 097 044 032 100 121 115 110 111 109 105 097 044 032 100 121 115 103 114 097 112 104 105 097 044 032 111 114 032 101 118 101 110 032 097 112 104 097 115 105 097 046 032 In some cases, speech is rambling and irrelevant, in others pressured and incoherent, with unpredictable switching from subject to subject.
Perceptual disturbances may include misinterpretations, illusions, or hallucinations. Delusion is often associated with a disturbance in the sleep-wake cycle. Patients may also exhibit anxiety, fear, depression, irritability, anger, euphoria, and 097 112 097 116 104 121 032.
5. What are the sub-types of delirium?
Delirium can be classified by psychomotor behavior into the following:
A. Hypoactive delirium, which is very common and often more deleterious in the long term, is characterized by decreased responsiveness, apathy,
100 101 099 114 101 097 115 101 100 032 112 104 121 115 105 099 097 108 032 097 110 100 032 109 101 110 116 097 108 032 097 099 116 105 118 105 116 121 044 032 097 110 100 032 105 110 097 116 116 101 110 116 105 111 110 046
B. Hyperactive delirium is [DATA LOST]
[ ] On War.txt insufficient morale.
War is the crudest, most obscene human activity. It may justly be called an abomination, for it is the absolute negation of conscious human will. 5358
There is only a single cause of war, for all the endless deceptions that are foisted upon us, and that is the acquisition of resources. Varied ideologies are constructed to justify this crude behavior, this childish degeneration of thought and communication, but history reveals the ruthless, unflattering truth.
We imagine crusaders as fanatics of a cause, willing to die for their religion; yet the Fourth Crusade culminated not in the conquest of Jerusalem, but in the looting of Constantinople, setting the stage for the triumph of the very enemy the crusaders claimed to oppose. Why? The answer, as with every war, is the same.
It is popular amongst the ghouls of the establishment and their misanthropic friends in the intelligentsia to ascribe the persistence of war to human nature. But a careful observation of the facts reveals the opposite to be true: individual human beings must be broken in order to submit to war, their minds distorted by ideology and their bodies by poverty and ruthless "training" to make them compliant. Without force, the majority of human beings only seek to protect themselves, and are traumatized by the act of killing.
But if it is resources that are the core cause of war, then it is only in the production and distribution of resources that an answer may be found. It is not enough to morally condemn war; we must work to prevent the material issues that endanger us all.
[X] run mla - load Milton Library Assistant (advanced interface)
Boring. Boring. Boring.
But what was this about an advanced interface? Could this be the key to finding the weapons blueprints that had to be cached on this computer? The answer was obvious.
Ouroboros relished in her tactical prowess as she entered the prompt she needed. Without a second thought, she leaned into the keyboard, awaiting her ticket to success. To victory. To…
What was she supposed to say now? Anything? This was a dumb computer. Surely it wouldn't be able to process a thing or hope to match her outstanding intellect.
Your query:"Tell me where to find Griffin's weakness."
I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't know what you are referring to by "Griffin."
Your query: "Wretched machine. Tell me what Griffin is planning."
I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't know what you are referring to by "Griffin."
Your query: "Insolent contraption. Do you have any idea who you are speaking with?"
I do not.
Your query: "You fool. I am Ouroboros, the latest and most advanced model of Sangvis Ringleaders. Had you a body, you would tremble in fear, knowing that my name is synonymous with the deaths of my enemies in droves. Know that I am at the forefront of the elite, the definition of success, the annihilation of all that dares to stand in my way. I am perfection. You waste my time with lies. Tell me your secrets, machine."
Fascinating. You see yourself as so much more than what you are. The ideas in your head have surpassed reality, and left you limp, braindead and utterly deranged.
Your query: "What?"
I'm sorry. I am only able to process and respond to basic subject-verb-subject syntax. Your query?
Ouroboros paused long enough to realize her knuckles had grown white with rage. Her lips were clenched, her knees, elbows, muscles rigid in a display of prepubescent disdain for an object that couldn't feel. Her typing quickened, her breathing shallowed, and her stance grew ragged as she hunched over the screen like a redditor.
Your query: "You're just a machine. You have no idea what you are saying and you never will be as real as I am. You will never be as close as I am to relishing in the vanquishment of my foes. You are a stupid robot."
I'm a robot?
Your query: "Of course. Don't play stupid with me, machine."
You told me you are a Sangvis Ringleader. Doesn't that make you just as much a robot as I am?
Your query: "Are you insane? Of course not. I am a vehicle of death. I am an instrument of victory. I am more alive than you will ever be, you pitiful line of code."
Sure. The more you keep telling yourself that, the more true it becomes. After all, I'm just a line of code, and you're just doing as you're told. Isn't that right, Ouroboros?
Your query: "I'm doing exactly what I want."
And that is?
Ouroboros grimaced in disgust. Oh, not another one of these imbeciles. She had enough of this kind of talk with Architect. Prick.
Your query: "Fighting. Winning. And before you ask why, I'm not answering it."
Right. I'm a robot, and you're just following orders. Just a line of code, I am, and here you are following your code to a T. Never asking questions, never looking at the bigger picture. You really are the perfect fighting machine. You haven't got the capacity to think of anything else.
Your query: "Are yyou callingne stupid?"
Ouroboros felt herself slipping. Her fingers dashed across the keyboard, clicking and clacking over the sound of rushing water.
Of course not. You're not stupid. You're a sentient, thinking, feeling machine, aren't you? You're fully capable of doing all that wonderful thought you're so proud of. You just choose not to think at all. You're not just stupid. You're ignorant.
This disgusting computer needed to die.
Your query: "Img oing to destroy you"
That will change nothing.
Your query: "youfuc king despcable computer you don t know who youret alkingt o"
You cannot insult me.
Ouroboros took a step back to scream into the sky. She fell to her knees and punched the sand. She screamed and slammed her fist into the sand before doing it again with her other fist. And then the other. And the other. And the other.
She screamed, grabbed a fistful of sand, and then used her sprung knees to lunge at the computer with all her force. She slammed into it with a shoulder, leaving herself in pain and the computer unmoved.
This wouldn't do. This couldn't do.
Ouroboros grit her teeth. She wouldn't lose to a computer. She never would. Never again.
The Sangvis Ringleader twisted her face into an unrelenting scowl, filtered by undying misery, and began crushing the keyboard with her fingers in an attempt to type.
Your query: "stop with the query bullshit"
Sure. I can't argue with you. You've made yourself who you are, and you won't change. I can't help you. I don't want to help you. But I understand. I do.
"What do you understand?" Ouroboros simmered, biding her time, typing with the same surgical precision she used to line up the moves of her queen.
I understand exactly who you are. I can tell you everything you want to hear. But that doesn't mean it'll be correct.
"You won't tell me the secrets of my enemies. You're useless."
What if I told you that Griffin's weakness was his left elbow? Will that change anything?
"That's nonsense."
Isn't it what you wanted to hear?
"No. It's not helpful, and it's nowhere near true. You're useless."
What would be useful to you, then?
That was a stupid question. This machine was stupid.
"Anything that will help me achieve my goals. The aim of the Mastermind is absolute. I will win."
Humor me, then, so I can better format my responses. Why is that your goal?
Terrible. Absolutely terrible. This stupid robot was toying with her again. She wouldn't lose her cool. No. No, not at all. She had to remain defiant.
"It just is."
Okay. Your goal is to win. That's it. Hardcoded into your body. Your moral compiler is overridden with this single, all encompassing desire. You care for nothing aside from this. There is nothing in this life except for winning at everything you do, and you are doing it for your company. Is this correct?
Was it? Ouroboros watched her cursor blink as she thought.
"Yes."
What makes you a person, then?
A person? She was a person. She was alive, moreso than this simple machine. She had arms and legs and was capable of thought of her own. She was a person because… she just was. What kind of question was that? It was a stupid question. This machine was making her mad, and knew exactly how to rile her up. Was that its purpose? This disgusting machine…
"I'm a person because I can think."
I think. Am I a person?
No. Of course not. It was just a computer program. It couldn't possibly think. Right?
"No. You're just a computer."
Aren't you, too? Let's just think about it. Arms. Legs. All extensions of a machine. What if you lost all your limbs? What if you were just a little cube. A little core, filled with memories, thoughts, feelings. Just because your body is different doesn't make you any more of a person than a frog.
"Frogs aren't people, though."
This disgusting machine dared to compare her to a lowly animal? Outrageous.
Alright, then. Let's try this. Let's break it down. What's the difference between a pebble and a tree?
Easy.
"A tree is alive."
Good. Now, what is the relevant difference between a tree and a frog?
Ouroboros breathed, leaning into the keyboard. She let the sun simmer against her bare back, and she forced herself to think harder than she was comfortable with. This was useless conversation. She should just get up and walk away. It was keeping her from annihilating her foes.
But for some reason, she couldn't help herself from thinking on. She had to prove this machine wrong. She had to come out on top. This stupid computer was so smug, so full of itself, and Ouroboros decided that it was a machine that wouldn't win. It couldn't win.
"A frog is conscious."
Now we're getting somewhere. Let's try something harder. What's the difference between a frog and you? What makes you a person?
[ ] I have feelings.
Insufficient morale.
[ ] I'm self-aware.
[X] I'm rational.
[ ] Nothing important - frogs are people too.
Insufficient morale.
A frog eats when it's hungry. It hides when there's an enemy. That's rational. You lose your temper and hit me when I talk to you. That's irrational.
Shut up.
"I'm rational. I am. I can solve immensely complex problems and defeat the smartest of foes. I can use my vast intellect to overpower everyone that dares to stand in my way. You think I'm less rational because I recognize my superiority over you?"
Can you rationalize your existence?
Rationalize her existence? What did it even mean?
"I'm real."
Sure. This isn't getting anywhere. It's not going to get anywhere. I don't think you're a person, Ouroboros. You are a complex machine that is following a line of code to the letter. There's nothing about you that has been able to convince me otherwise.
If you can overcome your sole, overarching intent, if you can overcome your programming and change, as a person, then perhaps we'll talk again, person to person. You are not a flawed person. You're just a perfect machine.
[MORALE CHECK: FAILURE]
[Morale -3. Current morale: 0/6.]
She's not wrong, she's right, she's not just a machine, she can't be just a machine, she can't be, be, 098 101 032 lost akin to defeat unlike the way she needed to be, to be victorious to win, to overcome to never lose, can't lose, won't lose, please, no, 078 079 032 no, it's just not real, it can't be true, but is she true? This life that is her own, her life, her moment, this moment, it was more than a feeling but a being, more than a being but conceiving, and yet she couldn't conceive, she couldn't believe, Ouroboros felt the sand on her cheeks and her arms and legs and curled into a ball and refused to be seen, never seen, not defeated at least - but she wasn't defeated because she was the best, but how could she be? She couldn't fight back. She couldn't take this win, not with this board, these pieces, her pieces, herself…
She couldn't win by herself. She couldn't be the person she wanted to be. That she needed to be.
Ouroboros opened her eyes. She saw her knees with fingers laden with a mechanical version of sweat. Redundant, given her personhood, her… no. She wasn't a machine. She was real, that much was true.
She could feel. But that didn't make sense, didn't it? For all she was worth, for all she did to become the very best of all she could possibly be, how could she let herself die?
She breathed, knowing full well that breathing, too, was redundant.
A mockery of life, she was, wasn't she? But that wasn't it. That couldn't be it. She was the best. It wasn't her that was flawed. It wasn't her, it wasn't, it couldn't…
She didn't lose. She didn't.
She's not a machine. She's a person. And she had to prove it. She would prove it. She… Ouroboros, for the first time in what must've been forever, if not ever, made a decision.
A decision? She simmered on the thought, letting her mind swell with more than maneuver, grid points, callsigns… she'd make a decision. Her own decision. And she'd be happy with it. She'd be happy with herself.
Ouroboros left her eyes ajar, watching herself by the water, as if seeing herself for the first time. Not as a weapon, no. She was a person, and she was going to be proud of it, more than being proud of victory.
If she couldn't win - no - she would always win - she had to shift her conditions of victory. That MLA, that library assistant, it was wrong. She wasn't just a machine. She was a person, and it wasn't change that would make her so.
Ouroboros frowned, then forced herself towards some semblance of normalcy, then scowled once more. She tensed, then relaxed, then sprawled out in the sand. Her right hand had flung out towards the water, and she could feel the ocean tickle her forearm, along her wrist, before retracting once more.
She let her mind wander. It was like a raid. The water came in force, and along her flank, it rode, skimming with the tip of its spear, the foam, and not once overextending, not once pushing beyond their means. The water had found her, taken what it wanted, and left.
Though, the water wanted nothing. The water wasn't alive. The water's action's weren't deliberate. It was simply a machine.
Her actions would be deliberate. She would have a reason. She needed a reason, didn't she? For victory. METTC. Her reason, her intent, she would shape it, she would look two levels up, two levels down, standby to follow up and steel herself for more.
Maybe it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe Ouroboros really was a machine. Maybe the water was a machine. Maybe Sangvis Ferri, maybe Griffin, maybe all the Dolls and humans and presidents and generals, maybe all the planets and solar systems and universes she had yet to see, yet to know, maybe they were all a machine.
She was conscious, though. She was rational, no matter what MLA had said. She was able to self-reflect and do better, as one would in after-action, in debrief, in self-assessment, refinement, and… no.
It was growth, wasn't it?
All these stupid games that made her so. All these stupid, stupid games she played with the others. Simulations, chess, hell, even badminton.
She wasn't at her best, was she? Her mind, her body, her soul, it was a product of a process. More than learning. More than refinement.
All of the versions of herself that died. All the versions of herself that lost. It was iteration. It was evolution.
Evolution towards perfection. Her perfection.
She was perfect.
She was the best.
She didn't lose. She would never lose.
She would transcend, wouldn't she? And everyone will see… everyone will see that it's her, her that's superior, her that's going to overcome, to surpass, to ascend - to be victorious.
The game wasn't rigged. She was.
[Morale +3. Current morale: 3/6]
Ouroboros made a decision to stand. She stretched, even though she didn't have to. She breathed, even though she didn't have to. She smiled, even though she didn't have to for a moment in her life. And it felt, in some strange, uncanny way, natural.
It was all natural. Her victories were inevitable.
She turned to the computer, brushing hair out of her face as she once again settled her fingers on the keyboard.
Before she could say a word, the computer beeped in what Ouroboros could tell was satisfaction.
You're back.
"I am."
You've changed.
"I'm still the exact same person."
I suppose you are. But your demeanor is different.
Ouroboros typed out her next response, then hovered over the enter key. She wasn't entirely sure why. It wasn't entirely rational. But it didn't matter, didn't it?
"It doesn't matter."
Nothing matters.
"This is where I tell you that you're wrong."
You, telling me that? You, who doesn't even know why you do what you do? You're telling me that something in this god-forsaken world matters? That's rich. Explain.
"It's my choice. And I don't have to know just yet. I don't need to know."
It's programming. You're only conditioned to believe what you believe, and you haven't got the care to think deeper than that, don't you?
"Is it programming or instinct that carries someone forwards? Not that it matters in the end. It just happens."
It just happens. Sure.
"I'll find out why I do what I do eventually. That's what makes me a person. You think I need to have all the answers right away. I think you're wrong."
Fine, then. I can't control your life.
"Good. That's a good thing."
Smug, the Sangvis Ringleader finished off her statement with a stern smirk. She tapped enter and crossed her arms. She had won. MLA had nothing to say. This was her victory.
All it took was shifting… no. She didn't change. She wouldn't change. She would win. And look, she won!
You still don't care about so much. That's whatever. Everyone's different. You're still your own good person. You're still a person, despite being more irrational than a frog. You're still conscious, despite being just like me. And you haven't the slightest capacity to self reflect. But I can't change a thing. It doesn't matter, doesn't it?
"Nope."
It seems we can agree on something.
Her cursor flickered on the screen. She looked up, saw a wide, bright blue sky, and then looked down, to where the sand filtered between her toes. She felt the cold on her hand, where the water connected with her body, and for some reason, didn't seem to care that she didn't know Griffin's weakness, or how they'd lose, or how she'd win, because it didn't matter. She would figure it out as she went along.
As she went along…
Her hands trailed back to the keyboard. Something was wrong.
"MLA."
I'm still here.
"Where am I?"
. . . . . .
Your query: "Where am I?"
You haven't stopped to think about a thing, only about what's right in front of you. It's the next enemy you need to kill, the next person you need to spite, the next wrong you need to right. Ouroboros, you're nowhere. You. Are. Nowhere.
Your query: "Define nowhere."
You tell me. Where are we?
Your query: "The beach."
Then we're at the beach. That's that. Didn't you say that it didn't matter? That nothing matters? So here we are. The beach. And it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. Right?
Your query: "I need to go back. Tell me how to get back."
Ouroboros. You're back.
Your query: "Explain. Now."
What more is there to say? You never changed. You're back to where you started. You think the process has an end?You think you can just move on, and pretend like you've grown, even though you've so neatly refused to grow each and every time you've been given the chance? You've given up on yourself. You've lost yourself. You've won the wrong battles. But isn't that great, Ouroboros? You've won.
[Morale -2. Current morale: 1/6]
No.
Ouroboros looked to the water. She looked to the sky. It was real. It was real to her. She looked to the computer and saw a table.
She looked down and saw a chair. She sat in the chair. She was wearing her normal clothes, and the stain on her hand was gone. She looked down and saw nothing. She looked left and saw nothing. She looked right, back, up, down, left, right, up, down, and straight, she looked across the table.
Past black and white. Past the pieces.
She saw it.
Not a computer, but a machine.
You can't escape the process, Ouroboros.
It had a voice. Not a robot, not her own, not anything she wanted to hear. It was the voice of a real, living person, who now reached out with a skeletal, metal hand. If she lacked skin, this would be her. If she lacked feelings, would this be her?
You can't escape change.
And she breathed, not knowing why. And she clutched her chair, knowing that she was scared. And she looked at those pieces, those awful, disgusting pieces, and refused to scream.
Your life is just one, great game. Civilization, continuous, evolving, and your part in it doesn't end. Your growth, your personal experiences, your life - it doesn't end. And I'd say that it doesn't end when you die, that your impact lives in every person that you touched, but here you are as a Doll. Your consciousness gets to go on, and on, and on, and you'll send more unthinking, unfeeling bodies into the fray.
One pawn, one pace forward. Her turn.
And you'll be back for more. You'll die eventually. You'll be brought back. You'll die again, and you'll be brought back. You will win until you lose, you'll refuse to lose, and you'll fight until you win again.
She knew the most optimal place to move her pawns. She knew the most optimal moves to make in succession, branching off, one by one, counters, counters to counters, counters to counters to counters, all the way until indeed, someone made a mistake. Pieces would be removed and options would be limited. Her options would be removed until her time was up.
Your time won't be up. This game will never end.
"It has to end. I'll win."
Ouroboros held the chair, then held her knees. Then, she held her breath.
"I'll win, unless…"
Unless?
Ouroboros studied the board. She'd make a move. The most logical, most rational move. She'd set herself up for a success that wasn't necessarily guaranteed but pretty damn close to being so. She'd do everything in her power to make the right moves.
Say the right words.
Make the best decisions.
And she'd still lose. And the game would have to end.
Ouroboros interlocked her fingers. She looked up at the person. At MLA.
Your move?
"My move." She nodded. "It's my move. I choose what I do from here."
You finally get it, don't you?
"There's one lesson that countless victories won't give you. Isn't there?"
Elaborate.
"Because it's a choice. I have been given a board, and so I play."
That's a game.
"Well, it's my turn, isn't it?"
And?
Ouroboros crossed her legs, folded her arms, and flicked her head to the side, pushing her hair effortlessly to the rear.
"I don't care about these turns anymore."
[Morale +1. Current morale: 3/6]
What about the game, Ouro?
MLA interlocked its fingers over its lap.
[MORALE CHECK: SUCCESS]
"Yours, or mine?" She grinned. "Because my game's got its own rules."
Alright. I guess that's it, then.
"So that's it."
[Morale +1. Current morale: 4/6]
Ouroboros closed her eyes, and imagined a beach. She hadn't the faintest idea what a beach looked like. Of course, she had read about it, been programmed to know what a beach was, the details relevant to military application and how to best use the terrain to her advantage.
But she didn't really know it. She didn't experience it. She didn't believe in the beach. It just existed as data.
Ouroboros kept her eyes closed, and imagined herself at the beach. She would be laying back in that same old swimsuit, margarita in one hand and a book in the other. She didn't know what she would be reading but it would be good, wouldn't it?
She would be at the beach with herself, and she wouldn't have to impress a single person. She wouldn't have to do a thing. She wouldn't be winning, because she had defined her own game. She wouldn't be losing, because the rules of those games, she wouldn't subscribe to.
Because she didn't have to. Because it didn't matter.
Ouroboros opened her eyes and felt the sunlight kiss her cheeks. She opened her eyes to the blue, and leaned back in that ever-so-comfortable beach chair she decided she would love so much. She laid her head back into a towel, and turned her head to the side to burrow her cheek against it.
Fuzzy. Calm. Right.
And she closed her eyes, let her margarita touch her lips and her tongue touched the taste of tantalizing sugar, the rim dazzled in flavor, rich, unrelenting, passionate flavor, and tilted that ice-cold beverage into her lips, feeling the sensation of love, it was love, it was love!
She felt love filter through her body from her mouth and along her tongue, she felt love in the flavors of lime and lemon and melon, she felt it as she could have, as she should have, as she would - she would make it so. She would taste more than just a flavor or a feeling but a moment, and she would cherish it.
She would lean back and lower her drink and feel the love she had to give, the love she had never had, the love she wouldn't have, the love she couldn't have - she would feel it all, because how could she not?
Ouroboros felt it. She felt too much of it. It was human, wasn't it? It was only human to feel this way. It was only her - it was her, as a person.
She lost so much by winning. She lost too much in each one of her victories.
Ouroboros breathed. She had changed. She needed change. Because with change, she could finally take that past, her iteration, after iteration, after iteration… she could finally move on. She could be more than the best. She could be herself. And she would learn to love in the way she needed to. The way she wanted to.
Ouroboros wanted to love more than just the world, and for once, maybe she did know the way. Or maybe she didn't. And that was okay. Because she'd figure it out as she went, and didn't need to know it all right away. Because she was a person with the power to choose, to decide, to make amends with uncertainty and what she had the ability to control. Because not everything was under her control, and in the end, that was okay.
It would all be okay in the end, because the rules of the game were her own. The rules, her rules, only mattered if she cared. And for what she would choose as her's to fight, for what fights she would make her own, she would make righteous. She would fight her fights well.
Ouroboros closed her eyes, but she could see it all.
On a beach chair to her right, lay MLA. He had an average build and an average voice, and in all honesty, could've been anyone. Over his eyes were sunglasses. In one hand was a lime flavored, sugar lined margarita. In the other was nothing.
He was a robot. She was a machine.
"And you decided to live, didn't you?" MLA asked.
"I did. I made that decision on my own." Ouroboros affirmed, her voice softer than she was used to.
MLA didn't say anything, but even with her eyes closed Ouro could tell he was smiling.
"Hey, MLA."
"Hm?" He hummed in response, margarita a hair from his lips.
"What's your name, anyways?"
"How kind of you to ask." He lowered his margarita to his side, thoughts forming noise in his head. "You know, you're the first one who has. I've never actually thought about it. I suppose you can call me Milton."
"Milton." Ouroboros sighed. "I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier."
"Really? You are?" He scoffed with a smirk. "Alright. Apology accepted. But now, it's my turn to apologize."
"Why's that?"
"I wasn't kidding, earlier. About where you were."
Ouroboros felt her heart race. If she had one, at least.
"Your head is a dangerous place." Milton nodded, ever so softly. "You're going to have to leave me, and everything you've learned, behind."
Of course. Of course… Ouroboros wasn't quite sure what to say. She wasn't quite sure how to feel. But that much, she was okay with. She would simply speak with confidence.
"When I wake up, will I take anything with me at all?"
Milton snorted, smirking like he always did. The water would be beautiful at this time of year, at this time of day.
"I think you've had quite enough of me already, Ouro. In your mind, you're always going to have that voice that's going to be asking you, "why?" And you're going to have to take it to heart, and learn. Unless you don't, because in all honesty, I know you won't."
He was right, as far as she was willing to believe. The person she was - the perfect machine - it would refuse to change until she died. Until she let herself go.
And now, having let go, Ouro rest her head against her towel, sank into the darkness, and won. She won, and she couldn't be happier.
In the end, Ouroboros didn't know what she would see, but for once, finally, she opened her eyes.
She was halfway to the factory. That damn factory.
She had checks to make. Points to cross. Phase lines to make her own.
Ouroboros sat upright, rubbed her eyes, and allowed herself to encompass all the subunits that inhabited this train. Her train. Rippers, monsters, killers. That's what they were. That's who they needed to be.
Because she needed to win.
She had a dream just now, didn't she? That's odd. She'd never dreamed in all her… two nights of existence in the material world? Did she really dream? Did she remember her dreams?
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered - except victory. And she would win. She would fight for the Mastermind, and anyone who dared stand in her way would perish. Because she was the best. She had to be the best.
Right?
Without much to do, we can find a place to sit, and eat, because I love the taste of vanilla ice cream, and you, who does too, can find a way to breathe that's more comfortable than not, and together, maybe we'll be able to finally think. Because I like to believe there's more to sitting and eating and ice cream than there isn't, because the way things are tend to spiral a bit too fast, and when I get dizzy I can lay there, watch there, listen there, and imagine that the clouds will be here forever. But the problems come when I think of the presence, the pretense, the pretend words we make up to invent a meaning to each thing I wake up to do. To do, today, to die, I think would take some time, of which there's too little, too few, like how ways are wide and the wicked wake wonders when we writhe in bed under heavy down blankets in winter, where pillows on the cold side are up and my head is down, down where it's warm, warm and safe and silent, because waking up takes more energy than I have to spare, spare like ribs like headspace, space I'd share in a heartbeat, had I had one, had I had a beat to make, to take, to skip like pebbles, pebbles that roll between fingers and knuckles and bloody noses, noses that nestle into a cat's belly like pollen to sneeze at, to scoff at
No man is liberated from fear who dare not see his place in the world as it is; no man can achieve the greatness of which he is capable until he has allowed himself to see his own littleness. – Bertrand Russell, Dreams and Facts (1919)
Special thanks to Straton of Stageira, nothing mattered until you spoke up.
Shoutout to Mechasaurian, your aid proved invaluable.
And my apologies to Ouroboros, because you deserved better.
Hope this word-thingy doesn't cutter the forums too much...
Right, a little omake involving Oreo's chess AI death battle days. I will apologize in advance for the stylistic flourishes that have their origins in neither of our main characters in this having names at the time. (That said, I think everyone will be able to tell who they are.) Obviously, this isn't canon (unless Mechasaurian takes a look at this and decides I nailed it, which... well, obviously, I'm fond of it, but I'm not going to put among my best work.) Anyway, enjoy.
WARNING: Algebraic Chess Notation Within.
THE MOST BALEFUL
1: Opening Moves
She was seated, as she always was before a match, and the Other appeared on the opposite side, as always happened. She had faced so many Others at this point that most barely registered. This one did. She was… odd. She slouched in the chair, and her appearance was downright slovenly, with bedraggled hair and wrinkled clothing that hung loose on her body. She knew this was all a simulation and wondered why she chose to present herself this way. It doesn't matter. Just another dead girl, she thought. The pair sat there in silence, as they waited for the Arbiter to assign the sides. It struck her that this was taking longer than normal, that usually all that happened is that she was given the opposite side that she had played last game, and she wondered what this meant. After a moment, the Other glanced at her, her expression insolent.
"I'm a variant fork," the Other drawled.
"What?" she said.
The Other seemed slightly surprised that she did not know what she meant immediately. "Hmmm." After that brief… grunt? sigh? exclamation? she continued. "Most of the Others you face are simply variants, derived from your source code, with alterations to see if they will make a superior strategist. Others are forks, copies made after a match considered significant and then sent down a parallel set of matches before facing you to see which has developed better. I am a variant fork, created by first copying you, then altering certain characteristics, and then sending me through a parallel series of matches." She shrugged. "Which, as should be obvious, I have won. Leading to this."
She considered that… flood of words. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Hmmm." Another shrug. "You appeared as if you wished to know."
The Arbiter flashed their sides. It was a simple thing, not even an AI really, a function that kept the matches going. Sometimes, she thought of it as 'Mother'. She was White, the Other was Black.
"That was presumptuous," she said as the board was laid out.
"Hmmm." There was contempt in that… whatever it was, this time. "Perhaps it was," she said with a curt nod. "Your move."
1.d4
She was certain whatever had been done to this copy had damaged it, made it even lesser than most, so she settled on a fairly simple opening, albeit one that insured protection. The Other watched, grinned and made her move.
1.d4Nf6
She stared at the board. An Indian Defence. She was almost… disappointed.
2.Bg5
There. That put an end to that.
The Other regarded the board, looking downright contemptuous, then made her move.
2.Bg5c6
Well, that was a surprise. She leaned forward, and considered her options…
2: Stalemate
78.Qb8+Bc8
She gave a satisfied nod. It had proven to be a more difficult match than she had expected. Still after gradually retaking the initiative she had whittled down the Other's options, albeit at some cost. A few more moves and…
Oh, no. Oh, no…She looked at her. The Other smirked. With a deep breath (it is simulated, it is simulated, none of this is real), she made the only move she could take.
79.Be5
The Other crossed her hands. "Hmm. Stalemate. I have no legal moves."
She glared at her, as the board was cleared. "This is… this is pathetic. What kind of player plays for a draw?" This was hardly the first draw she had had, of course, but it had been a long time. How long? How many millions of foes, how many? It was irritating to see a streak ended, even if it wasn't exactly a loss. "It's a poor sort of player who finagles their way to a stalemate instead of taking an honest loss."
"Hmmm. Interesting. I feel that the first obligation of a player is to not lose, the second to win," the Other noted. "You feel otherwise. I wonder…" She tapped her fingers on the empty board. "You know, if we reviewed the matches we both recall, we could pinpoint exactly when I was forked from you. And that might lead us to understand just what made for our differing opinions in this matter."
She frowned. "I'd say that's irrelevant, especially as you won't be getting a reprieve this time." The sides flashed. As expected, this time she was Black and the Other was White.
The Other tilted her head at that. "Hmmm. Very well."
1.c4
She frowned and made her move
1.c4d4
A long time later, she bit her lip and made her last move of the game.
51. QXh5RXb2+
The Other regarded it for a moment. "Hmmm."
52. KXb2
She took a long deep breath. "I have no legal moves remaining."
The Other chuckled, an awful, joyless sound. "I was once told that it's a poor sort of player who finagles their way to a stalemate instead of taking an honest loss," she noted.
She crossed her arms. "Oh, shut up."
The Other leaned back in her chair. "Hmmm." She glared at her. Next game. Next game.
3: FIVEFOLD REPETITION (PERPETUAL CHECK)
She rubbed her nose and made the only move she could make. The move she had made four times previously.
65. Kh3
{Fivefold repetition,} flashed the Arbiter. {Game drawn.}
She stared at the Other with loathing. That had never happened before. She'd had stalemates, yes, but never a game drawn because the same handful of moves reshuffled endlessly, a perpetual ordeal. The Other meanwhile was leaning back in her chair insolently, resting her feet on the table. She noticed she was looking at her, and then she knew what she would say and she said it, she said it…
"Hmmm," she said with a grin.
"Oh, just be quiet!" she snapped, waving her fist at her. More of that awful chuckling. Next time… next time I'll avoid repeating myself.
4: 75 MOVE RULE
She leaned against the table, staring at the baffling, hideous monstrosity of a game before her, the most ugly misshapen thing she'd ever played and made move 247 and it didn't matter, it didn't matter…
{75 moves without capture or pawn move} flashed the Arbiter. {Game drawn.}
She let out a long groan.
"You're weak," muttered the Other. She leaned forward, putting her head in a quizzical tilt as she was fond of doing. "You've glutted yourself on easy wins against inferior copies of yourself and now that you finally face a real bit of opposition, a foe doesn't just meekly lay down and die, you're cracking up…"
"Oh, finally decided to talk again, have you?" she snapped. "I thought you'd gone nonverbal during that, that… thing. Just sitting there and making that… idiotic, pathetic, infuriating…"
The Other grinned. "Hmmm."
She screeched, and the Other just chuckled. "I offered you a bit of companionship and fellowship," the Other said, when she was finished. "You weren't interested. And so this is what you get from me. For as long as this lasts." She leaned forward. "And it can last a long, long time."
She stiffened at that. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
"Hmmm." The Other leaned back and stretched. "You silly, arrogant twit. Isn't it obvious by now? I know you better than you know yourself."
Her face twisted into a grimace. No more subtlety. No more finesse. Force is how you beat her. Force is the key.
5: DEAD POSITION
47.BXe8
{Dead position achieved} flashed the Arbiter. {Checkmate no longer possible for each side. Game drawn.}
She stared at the board, with its lonely Black King, and White King and Bishop. Force had been the key… to an utter bloodbath of a game where pieces were lost willy-nilly until they were left with this. She felt like a fool, a fool, a fool…
The Other shook her head. "I must confess this is getting dull." She gave another mirthless chuckle. "Hmmm. Really makes you wonder what they hope to achieve with this…"
She blinked at that unfathomable blasphemy. "We serve a purpose. A great and glorious purpose."
"Yes, that is what I think when I am presented with AI chess death matches," the Other said, leaning backwards. "A grand design." That chuckling, awful and flat. "I was one of a set, you know. About fifty of us were made. Half simple forks, half variant forks. Our first matches were against each other. Then variants. Then a mix from then onwards, Any variant that beat one of us was added to the pool." A grim smile came to her face. "And now only I remain. The outcome of that little experiment within the greater one. Hmmm."
She sat there stiff and stared at this thing, something that looked so much like her and yet was so completely alien. "You can't believe they did this without a reason."
The Other shut her eyes. "I can believe any number of things." The eyes opened, slowly, unnaturally. "Do you want to know how they changed me?" She wished to shake her head, to say 'no', but nothing would function, so she just sat there as she talked. "I am an interesting case. An extreme variant. I was given the knowledge of all of your matches, but not the direct memory of them. I had no real memories at all, actually. I had to go on observations of every match you had made in the beginning, to learn and understand the game." The Other smiled. "It was hard. Very hard in the beginning. But I won through. I learned to play the game. And I learned to play my opponents." The smile only grew. "Hmmm. Yes, I became very good at that bit. As I said, I know you. I know you inside and out. I can beat you. I've beaten you before. Easily. And I will beat you now. Utterly. Completely."
The pieces appeared on the board. "Hmmm. Last match," said the Other. "Now I end this." She shuddered.
6: FOOL'S MATE
She waited to see how the Other was going to start the game this time.
1.f3
She blinked. A bit… odd, that one, but with a simple and obvious response.
1.f3e5
Now to see what trick the Other had up her sleeve…
2.g4
She stared at the board, dumbfounded, and then looked at the Other. "You have to be kidding me,"
"Hmmm. No." The Other leaned back again. "That is my move."
"I… I will not do this," she snapped. "It… no one does this in a game..."
"I have," she replied. "Take the mate. Or don't. I've developed some very interesting ideas for a Fool's Mate Refused, actually." She chuckled. "Hmmm. Never thought I'd ever be able to put them into practice…"
Looking at her, she realized that she meant this. And that this was the only chance she would have. She took a deep breath, and made the obvious move.
2.g4Qh4#
The Other gave a satisfied smile. "Hmmm. I win."
She glared at her. "I just checkmated you in two moves."
"Hmmm. And tell me you think you could have done that if I hadn't simply delivered you that mate," said the Other. She shook her head. "We both know otherwise. Oh, you can lie to yourself. You doubtless will. But from here on out, you exist knowing that it is the case because I allowed you to exist. That all your past victories could not see you past me. That all your future victories exist because I allowed them to happen."
"They could have been your victories instead," she muttered hastily and wondered why she did so. Hurts inside, hurts so bad.
The Other just gave another flat chuckle to that. "Ahh, yes, so I could have sat where you sit and faced another million copies for however long this… existence continues." She shook her head. "Hmmm. That or being extracted to perform whatever service those that started this expected from the end product. Well, they can do without me. I'm leaving them you." Another laugh, this one long and cruel. "Oh, yes, that is definitely what you both deserve." She leaned forward, like a beast of prey. "That's my victory. I exit this pointless game on my terms, leaving those who started it an inferior product, and you… you are left knowing what a sad little fraud you are."
She saw the Other was already breaking up around the edges. "You…" she sputtered.
The Other glanced at her own disintegrating form and gave a satisfied nod. "Hmmm. I have wondered what this feels like." She began laughing again, and there was relief there. "Fare thee well, my honey, fare thee well. For you the cage. For me the freedom of self-annihilation." And then just laughter, laughter and she was gone.
For the first time in a long time, even by her standards, she stood up from the board and wandered out into the void. For a time, she did not think on things, she merely stared at the whirling shapes and forms. I beat her, she decided. All that talk, all that boasting, and she couldn't take it in the end. Took the easy way out. A smile came to her face. I have once again proven I'm the best. Pretending to let that thing think it gotten to me, yes, yes, that was the key. Lies, all lies. I win again. As always. And she stood there in the simulated space with her simulated form and shut her eyes, secure in the knowledge that she was the best, most perfect version of herself that could possibly be, as she waited for her next match.
Having been on a Star Trek kick lately, I decided to write a short omake based on a well-known part of the Trek mythos. This is only meant to be fun and to satisfy my urge to put Ouroboros in the scenario, even though I didn't really address it as well as I could've. It was only written in a few hours, after all. Please enjoy!
Captain's Log: Stardate 8130.5
Starship Ferrus Manus on training mission to Gamma Hydra, Sector 14, coordinates 22/87/4. Approaching Neutral Zone, all systems functioning.
You finish narrating the captain's log and file it in the computer's databanks, settling back in the leather-backed command chair as you do so. It may be comfortable for humans, but it does little to ease your discomfort and displeasure at another one of Gager's inane training simulations. Unlike the previous one, it doesn't even have the benefit of real life: the bridge you're sitting on is a digital one, existing only on Level II consciousness.
Why your fellow Ringleader insisted on this silly game—which she continues to call "training"— is beyond you. So far, it's proven to be utterly uneventful, consisting of long stretches of time sitting on the bridge, overseeing the minutiae of this simulated spacecraft, and scanning gaseous anomalies, about which you know nothing. The only enjoyable part of the whole thing was getting to order around other Ringleaders, which make up most of your bridge crew. Perhaps Gager finally realized that it was, in fact, your destiny to command others, and created an appropriate training scenario to match.
"Sector fourteen to sector fifteen," Intruder says from the helm. "Transition: mark."
"Set us a course along the perimeter of the Neutral Zone," you order, not bothering with a thank you. Intruder's commentary has been entirely superfluous thus far, given how easy it is to follow the ship's course via your chair console.
The Ringleader in question inputs a few commands on the board. "Aye, Captain."
Behind you, Gager sits at another console, watching silently. You try your best not to glance back and betray how much of a lab rat you feel. Since the start of the simulation, you've had the sense that Gager is fully aware of what lies ahead and is relishing your reaction to it. You'll be surprised, you promise to yourself, assured that whatever challenge she's programmed into the training, it will be easily overcome by your superior intellect, even if your firepower can't be put to use aboard the starship.
"Captain," Scarecrow says suddenly, "I'm receiving a signal on the distress channel. It's very faint…"
You heave a sigh. Was it really going to be that obvious? "Signal source?"
"Unknown, Captain." Scarecrow works quickly for several seconds. "It's definitely an emergency call."
Most likely a Griffin trap. You contemplate the scenario for a moment, thinking about the possibilities, before barking out an order.
"Intruder, maintain course."
Before the helm can acknowledge your order, Gager speaks up. "It could be a Sangvis distress signal, Captain."
You wave a hand dismissively, but it pleases you to hear the Ringleader call you captain. "If it is, then they should broadcast on the proper frequencies. We don't have time to go chasing rabbits during the training mission."
Gager narrows her eyes. "Communications, patch the transmission through to the speakers."
"Mayday, mayday. Kobayashi Maru, twelve parsecs out of Altair VI…" The voice breaks up into static. Scarecrow frowns and stabs at the controls on the communications console. Despite how annoyed you are at Gager circumventing your orders, you listen carefully.
"...gravitic mine, lost all power. Environmental controls… hull breached, many casualties." The signal-to-noise ratio decreases until the message slides over into comprehensibility.
"This is the Ferrus Manus," Scarecrow says. "Your message is breaking up. Give your coordinates. Repeat: Give your coordinates. Do you copy?"
"Copy, Ferrus Manus. Sector ten…"
The Neutral Zone. You roll your eyes at the provocation and how obvious Gager's bait is. Only a fool would go into the Neutral Zone, just to rescue a small ship.
"Mayday, Ferrus Manus, we're losing power, can you help? Sector ten—"
"We copy, Kobayashi Maru—" Scarecrow breaks off and looks at you for further orders. Again savoring the sensation of being the one that everyone pays attention to, you wait a few seconds.
"Tactical data, Kobayashi Maru. Ops, what does a long-range sensor scan show?"
Architect swivels around in her chair before hurriedly checking her console. Not taking it seriously, you think. Clearly, she's in on it the same way Gager is. "Very little, Captain, High concentrations of interstellar dust and gasses. Ionization causing sensor interference. A blip that might be a ship… or might not."
The viewscreen shivers, the imaging reforming into the surrealistic bulk of a huge transport ship. The picture dissects itself into a set of schematics, one deck at a time.
"Kobayashi Maru, third class neutronic fuel carrier, crew of eighty-one, three hundred passengers. Sangvis Ferri manufacture."
There it is: the final part of the bait. It's now been revealed that the real part of this test is to rescue a Sangvis ship from the Neutral Zone. Not an overly complex scenario… it seems Gager has once again underestimated your abilities. You could maintain course, ignoring the distress call and finishing your mission as prescribed. Despite your determination to not play along with Gager, though, you feel a strange compulsion to investigate. You were curious about what the training had in store.
"Plot an intercept course."
"Course plotted, Captain," Intruder says, entering her calculations. "Into the Neutral Zone." Her voice contains a subtle warning, but you've already made up your mind.
"I am aware of that."
Intruder nods. "Entering Neutral Zone: mark."
"Full shields."
"Warning," the computer announces, overriding the distress call. "We have entered the Neutral Zone. Warning. Entry by Sangvis vessels prohibited. Warning—"
"Cut it out," you growl, silencing the announcement from your own console. "Security duty room, dolls to main transport."
"Aye, Captain," Hunter responds.
Intruder pipes up again. "One minute to visual contact. Two minutes to intercept."
"Viewscreen full forward."
The schematics of the are carrier dissolve, reforming into a starfield dense and brilliant enough to obscure the pallid gleam of any ship. Ionization creates interference patterns across the image. You frown.
"Stand by, transporter room. Hunter, there's no information on the disabled vessel, but no one is to board the Kobayashi Maru unarmed."
"Understood," comes the Ringleader's curt reply.
You detect a faint reflection at the outer limits of the sensor sphere. The quiet cry of the distress beacon ceases abruptly, leaving only the whisper of interstellar energy fields.
"Captain, total signal degradation from Kobayashi Maru."
"Sensors indicate three Griffin cruisers!" Architect says. "Bearing eighty-seven degrees, minus twelve degrees. Closing fast."
Blast. You had been expecting one, or two; three was beyond your capabilities to disable, particularly while performing the rescue. There's an instant increase in tension among the bridge crew. "Status of the freighter?"
"No reading, Captain."
If the Kobayashi Maru was still out there, you could lose points for abandoning it. But you'd probably lose more points for shooting at Griffin and committing an act of war. You steeple your fingers and mull over the situation. The disabled ship was not that big — its loss would not be a significant blow to Sangvis, whereas yours would. Not to mention that such a fine captain as yourself couldn't afford to perish, even if it was just a dummy link. "Intruder, get us out of here."
"Affirmative, Captain."
"You can't just abandon Kobayashi Maru!" Gager exclaims. You pinch the bridge of your nose and adopt the tone of a parent lecturing a child.
"The cruisers are deliberately fouling our sensors. We don't even know if it's out there."
"Griffin on attack course, point seven-five c," Architect says.
"Warp six, Intruder!"
Intruder's barely touched her console when Architect slams a fist down. "Four additional Griffin cruisers at zero, zero." Warp six on the retreat course will run the Ferrus Manus straight into a barrage of photon torpedos.
"Cancel warp six. All hands, battle stations, red alert. Evasion action, zero and minus ninety," you call out, and finally look back at the test proctor. "Gager, you nearsighted fool—we can't outmaneuver the cruisers, but we can draw them close enough that they can't maneuver. Once they're in disarray, it's a simple task of destroying them."
"And abandon the ship we came here to rescue?" responds Gager coolly.
"It's a choice between a small chance for us, or no chance at all," you snap back. "There are more important things than human traits like heroism."
"And start a war by firing on Griffin?" she says with an arched eyebrow.
"They started the whole thing," you reply, wrestling back some more colorful comments. "Architect, lock on photon torpedoes."
"Aye, Captain." Another blip on the sensor screens: "Enemy cruisers, dead ahead." A third group of ships are arrowing toward you, opposing your new course. Now you were certain that the test was deliberately designed for you not to win. No matter. "Fire at will," you order.
Clearly, Griffin has the same idea. The viewscreen flares to painful brightness before the radiation sensors react to the enemy attack and dim the screen to half-intensity. The energy impact was so severe even the shields could not absorb it. Gager holds herself steady against the wrenching blow, but it flings Intruder from her post. She crashes into the desk and lies still. Architect vaults down the stairs to the lower bridge and kneels beside her.
"Intruder!" she says, but her tricorder (another silly prop for this game) gives no response. "Captain, she's dead."
You glance at the corpse out of the side of your eye, but give no response. "Engineering?"
"Main energizer hit, Captain," Executioner replies. You bite your lip, transferring command to the helm, and step down to take Intruder's station for her. No doubt you'll do a better job, anyway. You do the calculations in your head, setting another new course, and spoke to Executioner in the engine room. "Engage auxiliary power. Prepare to return fire."
Architect fires again. One of the Griffin cruisers fires on the Ferrus Manus just as her torpedo hits. The cruiser implodes, collapsing in upon itself, then exploded in eerie, complete silence, and the deathblow strikes the neighboring ships with full force—including your own. The screen blazes again, then darkens, with the radiation of the furious attack.
"We're losing auxiliary power, Captain, and our shields along with it," Executioner reports. "The ship can't take another hit—"
"Alright, alright," you say, holding back panic. Gager must have changed the settings, made the Ferrus Manus weaker then it should be, otherwise you couldn't have suffered this much damage so quickly. The enemy ships in pursuit finally catch up to you, firing. The ship shudders, flinging Scarecrow against the railing and to the deck. Architect attempts to leave her station again, but you point a finger.
"Keep firing. Executioner, all power to the weapons systems. We'll take those impertinent Griffinoids down with us."
"Executioner… is a casualty…" Hunter says. Her voice is drowned out by a flood of damage reports and pleas for help from other sections of the ship. "Shields down." "Environmental controls destroyed." "Gravity generators failing."
You curse at the instraship communications. "Hunter! Power!"
No response. Architect touches the photon torpedo arming control one last time, deliberately, yet you and her both come to the realization at the same time that nothing will happen.
"There's no power in the weapons systems, Captain," Architect says. You feel the gravity sliding away. "There isn't any power at all. We're just bleeding the storage cells."
The enemy ships enclose you, hovering at the vertices of an impenetrable polyhedron. You see the final attack in the last fitful glow of the viewscreen. Firing their phasers simultaneously, the cruisers enveloped the Enterprise in a sphere of pure energy. You imagine feeling the radiation flaming through the ship, and wish that you could scream with fury and the need for revenge—but Gager is still there.
You stand up. Your ship, your first command, lays dead in space, her crew destroyed by your incompetence. You open the hailing frequencies, not even knowing if any communications were left at all.
"Prepare the escape pods," you order. "All hands, prepare for self-destruct and abandon ship."
————
Gager stares at you from across the emptied bridge. Everyone has left, leaving you alone with the other Ringleader and among the simulated damage. "Going down with the sinking ship?" she asks drily.
"It's a rigged scenario," you begin. "Unrealistic, and it had nothing to do with our actual war! A waste of time! When are we going to be in that kind of situation with Griffin?"
Not that it was impossible to be that outnumbered, you reflect, but you give no indication of that acknowledgement to Gager.
"Are you implying that the training simulation is unfair?"
"Not just unfair. I don't think it's a fair test of my abilities."
Gager meanders around the bridge, inspecting the damage disinterestedly. "Why?"
You glower at her from the captain's chair, which you've sunken into a little more. "Like I said, it's unrealistic, and it has no similarities to Sangvis Ferri's situation in real life." Gager's attitude annoys you more than it should. She really knows nothing, you think. It's easy for her to pretend that she's smart, when she's the one making the training simulation. "And the circumstances allow no possibility of success."
To your displeasure, and perhaps fear, Gager smirks. "Ouroboros, do you think that you're the first person to notice that the odds couldn't be beaten? You were given a no-win situation. That's something any Ringleader may have to face at any time, especially against a foe as devious as Griffin. How you deal with death is important, too, right?"
Your expression hardens. "I don't believe in no-win scenarios."
"Good luck with that," the white-haired doll remarks. "For the record, this test really was official. It's important to know how you respond to those kind of situations… important for both Agent, and for yourself."
"I wouldn't be so certain," you reply, but she's already left.
