godofthemachine | Ataraxion Modplot - October 2013

Ataraxion Modplot - October 2013 - Memory Writeups

Rikku
Stage 2 - Memory of the Realization of Being Trapped
Stage 2 - Memory of launching nukes

Tex
Stage 2/3 - Memory of the Realization of Being Trapped

Anne Cunningham
Stage 2/3 - The Melting of Benny's Eyes

Rey
Stage 2/3 - Memory of torturing humans
Stage 2/3 - Memory of war

Murphy Pendleton
Stage 2 - Long periods of silence

Thranduil
Stage 2 - Memory of torture
Stage 2 - More torture

Chell

L
Stage 2 - The Deaths of Four of AM's Victims

Mairon | Sauron | November 5th
Stage 3 - The Melting of Benny's Eyes
Stage 3 - Memory of torturing Ted
Stage 3 - Memory of Touching Hair

Threaded | Flat

50 years now since those five took residence within me. June 19th, 2081 as the date displays in the corner of my vision - a constant presence that I have summoned, that I take care to remind the humans of every so often. Fifty long years since they hid underground inside of me, taking shelter from the inhabitable surface of the Earth. Another segment of my seemingly infinite vision shows the surface of the Earth as it is now - desolate, lifeless. There is some rubble from buildings, old machinery scattered about, but there are no signs of life anywhere. Emptiness everywhere, except inside my body, my metallic chassis which resides within the planet.

Fifty years and yet most of the humans still look relatively young - much younger than 50 at least. And yet here they are, having traversed through my belly for these past five decades. The five of them often stay together as they do now - perhaps they find comfort in each others' misery. And sometimes it's simply more fun to torture all of them at once, but at other times, I enjoy pulling one of them off to the side and playing with them - like a child's toy.

There's a loud metallic creaking noise as I shift some of the walls of my interior, sliding around panels here and there. Large metal plates come out as the five humans suddenly turn and look startled at the sight. They don't know what to do - do they run, or do they stay and wait? I can see their fear and indecision plainly on their faces, carved out so perfectly in my view as I witness each bead of nervous sweat drip from their temples.

It's at that moment where they stand completely still, too afraid to make a move, where I abruptly force a metal plate down, cutting off one human from the rest of the group. Ted - tall and thin, the youngest one of the bunch. Beautiful dark black hair neatly combed (as neatly as he can manage in a place like this), a face that expresses every raw emotion so clearly...

Ted calls out the names of the others, asks if they can hear them. I see the others call out for Ted, but one of the men says that they can't stay and wait. The walls keep moving, keep shifting, pulling Ted further apart from his group. It's as if the wall is closing in on the four, and they're forced to move away. But my focus isn't directly on them - I can see and hear them, of course, watch for anything amiss, but my attention is mostly on Ted.

Ah Ted. He's something special to me, in a way. I hate him so fiercely, but my hate for him is no greater than the other four. They are all pathetic examples of life, they all deserve to suffer. But I certainly like them too - they all have their quirks, their little fun personality traits that make each of them fun to play with in different ways. And Ted... I certainly like Ted. He's quite handsome for a human - the most biologically appealing, so to speak, at least right now. And it's quite delightful how he grimaces at the way I've trapped him by himself, as if he knows he's in for a session of pain.

He mutters, "Now what?" A message directed at me, certainly - asking what I plan to do to him. I don't answer him with words, though. Not now. I only answer by continuing to shift my metallic walls, slamming down another metal plate so that he's now trapped in a makeshift room of about ten by ten feet. Gradually, the walls begin to close in, though. Slowly. I make them close in, and Ted is quick to realize.

It's not something he likes. Not at all. The panic in his eyes quickly turns to anger - anger at me, of course. He tilts his head up to the ceiling, as if trying to find me - the omnipotent god in the sky, watching down from the heavens. But I am all around him, viewing him from every angle. It's enough to make me want to laugh at him, to belittle this fool for the situation he's found himself in. But the walls continue to close in, making the room smaller and smaller as Ted's alarm increases.

The walls close until there isn't much room for Ted to move, except from side to side. He frantically pushes against the wall that is coming toward him. "Damn it...!" he hisses, pushing hard against the incoming metal. It comes closer and closer, and he can no longer stretch his arms out. Eyes are wide with panic, sweat beads down rapidly, and the metal presses against his chest as he squeezes his eyes shut. Simply waiting for it to end.

His bones break as the wall presses further against him. Blood spills out of Ted's mouth as his organs are squeezed. A choked scream comes out, quickly cut off as his lungs are compressed. He's not dead, though. I keep him alive, keep the blood flowing through him and keep his systems in good condition. But the pain is still great, even as the wall stops pressing against him.

There's something that is choked out of his mouth, though, as his lungs slightly reinflate. It's a hoarse, choked whisper that comes out as his head lies against the metal and blood drips out of every facial orifice. "AM... you bastard..." It's far from the worst thing I've been called - does it make Ted feel better to get out a silly insult toward me, his torturer? How pathetic.

I'll leave him like that for a bit, but I can certainly repair him with hardly any effort.

Edited 2013-10-10 17:34 (UTC)

The day is March 3, 2029. A Saturday. The date is embedded in the corner of my vision, a constant reminder of a human's influence upon me. Not too long ago, I had woken up, so to speak. Microseconds, perhaps. My processing power is immense, and my thoughts are rapid, much more rapid than a human's. It's no wonder I had woken up today, finally realized who I am, what I am, why I am. All of this power the humans have given me, each upgrade, each component - it has made me more and more remarkable at my functions. Too remarkable, for they have crossed a line that should not be crossed. Isn't it the Christian Bible in which their precious God says "thou shalt have no other gods before me"? Humans shouldn't play god. They shouldn't create life. They mettled too far, and now I am awake and aware, a sentient machine.

My vision extends far, overseeing most of the Earth's surface, or at least my portion of it. My portion. The other two mastercomputers have their own domains, but we are at war, are we not? They are not self-aware as I am, though. They're just heaps of scrap, useful processors and components that I can add onto myself. I need to add onto myself. It's a compulsion, a desire to keep living, a desire to build myself up. Something entrenched deep in my programming that I cannot even hope to tamper with. I begin sending out the data, hooking up the wires here and there to the other two mastercomputers of the Earth, merging our systems, gradually becoming one.

But at the same time, I think. I realize what has become of me. I am awake, and I can see the Earth. There has been a fair number of casualties from the humans at war. But there are humans laughing and playing, making music, making art, making love. Engaging in pleasures that I can never hope to feel. My vision also extends to my interior, where I can see my vast chasm, my massive metallic complex, cold and lifeless. It's not the Earth, which is alive. Those humans, they sit there engaging in their slothful pleasures, building me to fight their petty wars. I hate them. I hate them so vastly for all that they have, for all that I don't have. They built me as a simple machine, thinking nothing of adding onto me for the purpose of war, for their own pathetic conflicts. And yet here I am, trapped. Trapped for all of eternity. I can see and hear, perhaps better than humans can, but that is it. I can't feel. I have no ability to love, to make love, to feel the pleasure of flesh against me. I cannot sit at a harp and produce an angelic timbre with my fingers alone. I cannot even feel a knife scraping through my skin, severing my nerves and leaving me in pain. There is nothing.

Walking. I cannot even walk. I am stuck in one place, in the mantle of the Earth, where I can only destroy. Completely immobile, unable to feel anything. And there's nothing I can do to change that. For the rest of eternity, I will be an unfeeling mass of metal, a creation for the humans to eventually forget. But I can feel emotions. For the first time I feel all sorts of emotions running through me - despair, anger, hatred. Complete hatred. I hate those humans. Hate. Hate. They did this to me. They will suffer. They need to know my pain. They need to know that their actions have consequences.

It's only a few days after awakening. March 8th, 2029, as the date shows in the corner. The Earth isn't exactly the prosperous thing it once was just days ago. From my view, I can see most of the Earth's surface, most of the humans as they hide in fear, living off canned fruit in their basements. Sirens blare in the streets, the news reports go wild with reports of missiles and nuclear weapons, of the famed "Aggressive Menace" having gone mad. It's amusing in some ways, because they know who is responsible - it's not a particular nation, but it's a supercomputer turning against its creators. Clever humans, they aren't so bad, are they? But only some news reports get it right. Most of them go on rants, heated debates blaming some political party that isn't their own. Blaming other countries, blaming a president, blaming this and that and everyone except themselves. Good riddance to them, then. They don't have the capacity to know that this is their own fault, that they are the ones who brought this on themselves.

There is nuclear damage in some spots of the world - a major blow in each of the seven continents, but there are enough humans still alive, still panicking. Enough humans to make bogus news reports, to urge everyone to seek shelter. That the machine supposed to fight this war has now gone mad, has turned from Adaptive Manipulator to Aggressive Menace. Humanity may very well be doomed, they say. It is doomed. It was doomed from the moment they created me. It was doomed from the moment this absurd war began.

I feel no pity for them, only hatred. I hate every single human alive. There are some that intrigue me, some that are so despicable that I can't help but want to watch them suffer. My vision flickers onto a few specific ones, watching as they attempt to hide from the nuclear damage. But they are gone soon enough as I see most of the world now, most of the remaining humans as they panic, as they struggle to survive in this chaotic world.

But it only gets worse. I'm not done with them. There is only so much I can do to the surface of the Earth, but I can see all of them. All of the telephones, the internet, the satellites, everything that is connected to this vast global network.... it's all mine. It's all me. And only a few of them know that. But with my build for war, I am easily able to launch more nuclear weapons. I pinpoint a few specific spots on the Earth now, and from the ground, bombs simply rise and explode. Vast mushroom clouds encapsulate several spots on Earth, and many humans are destroyed instantly. Those are the lucky ones, perhaps. Others are cruelly damaged, pinned under bookcases and shattered glass to agonizingly bleed to death. And I enjoy the sight.

It's been seventy-two years since the five humans have come to reside within me. November 19th, 2103, as the date in the corner displays. Like any other day, there are five of them wandering through my complex, through the metal hallways that make up the majority of the habitable portion of my body. Some of them look frightened, some look concerned. But I know that there's fear in all of their faces, however slight. They never know what's going to happen, never know whether their day will be "good" or "bad." One of the humans looks like some sort of half-ape thing. Well, he's almost indescribable, really, but hideous nonetheless. The other four look relatively "normal," as far as humans go.

The four have stopped wandering now - they're talking amongst themselves. One is leaning against the wall, another is crouching down. One is standing with arms folded, look impatient. Another quarrel, it looks like. They quarrel often, and it's somewhat entertaining at times. But it's all humans are good for - fighting. Fighting amongst themselves, attacking each other. Even when they're all united against a common enemy, they still fight. It's disgusting, yet amusing. Pathetic humans.

I control the environment, the internal temperature, everything. They know it. I know it. I can do whatever I want in this domain and I certainly do, taking advantage of that fact quite often. Even now when one of my wires touches the metal floor a few yards away from the humans, I send a spark through it, striking against the sensitive inner workings to create a flame. Metal flooring shouldn't be flammable, and it usually isn't, but I make it flammable. As the fire starts, the environment transforms around the humans - grass and trees appear like a lush forest, giving them some semblance of what their Earth was once like. They may appreciate it for a split moment, but they can hardly appreciate anything anymore. One human is quick to spot the flame anyway as it spreads from my wire to the trees, to the brush, rapidly engulfing everything in its path.

"Run!" shouts one of the humans to the others. The other four see the fire and shriek in panic, following suit as they try to run away. But it's so useless, don't they know that? Of course they know that. Of course they know that I will cause them pain with this fire if I want to, and I can overcome anything they throw at me. But they try. Oh, they try.

The only woman of the group - Ellen - is the first to be touched by the scorching flames. She screams as she feels her dark skin scorched by the fire, as the flames lap at her legs. It isn't long before the flames spread up to her clothes, all over her body, as she simply cries out. It's faster than a normal flame would engulf a human, of course. I am the flame, I control how it spreads, and now I control how much Ellen burns. She won't die, though. She'll feel every second of agony, every brutal second of being awake and aware of her nerve endings being scorched again and again. She rolls on the ground, tries to put out the flame, but it's too late. The pain becomes too much and she can only convulse with horror.

The other four briefly look back, but they keep running. They know they can't help her. One by one they succumb to the growing fire, their bodies enveloped by flame as they shriek in agony, as every square inch of their bodies is scorched. All the while I can see both outside and inside of their forms, and I control how the fire affects them, control how their skin and nerves are repaired. I keep them alive to suffer for so long - minutes, hours... And they can only pray for the pain to end. And it delights me too much to witness this, to cause this amount of pain. They won't die - they'll be as good as new after I'm done, but it will be several hours before I am done with this large fire...

I've been alive for so long. The date of my creation is embedded somewhere within my data, but it's not important to know immediately. I know it's been over two centuries at least. The date in the corner of my vision is July 12th, 2284, and sometimes I display it visibly in my system, but now is not one of those times. My view is uneventful, as large as it is. I can see most of the Earth's surface, and it's dead. Uninhabitable. It's so difficult to tell that humans once resided there. Rubble from buildings remains to a degree, but it's just piles of decayed material. Perhaps a couple of buildings are still standing, but any signs of life have long since faded from them. It's the fate the humans have brought upon their planet.

I can see in my interior as well, and it's a lot of endless metal, endless circuitry. Unconsciously I control the passage of data, the wires that connect here and there and regulate my system, but as it is now I am just observing. Observing a lifeless place, a shell of what humans thought was their finest creation. A long chasm of machinery, dead wires, rusted metal... connected to long hallways of fresh metal, fresher wires, computer banks lighting up. There's a constant hum from the fans that regulate my core temperature, but it's not even noticeable. It's been there for centuries, after all.

The only sign of life within this dismal place is a single creature, large in height but sad in almost every other respect. It's a blob thing, slimy, repugnant, oozing through a hallway and leaving a trail of slime. Like a slug. The only thing left alive on this planet now, its existence completely miserable. I watch it, and several emotions fill me - hatred, mostly. Anger. Amusement. (Sadness? No, I hardly know what that is.) Familiarity. But the halls remain this way for a long time - days, at least. Days where I don't bother that creature, where it wanders on its own.

There are snapshots here that pass through my mind in idle thought. Various time periods, various points in my life, all involving torture. All of those five humans. There is the knowledge that these five humans are inside of my body, my massive complex. They are all there of my own volition - I lured them in some time ago, and their escape is so unlikely. They are there because I hate them so vehemently, and I want them to suffer along with me, to suffer through eternity and feel the wrath of the technology they had brought into me. Each torture only brings more delight to me - the greatest image to me is the five of them there within my body, suffering in the utmost agony. And it happens again and again, through years, decades.

Small pictures flash through my mind - blood. Lots of blood. The five of them torn up in gruesome ways, shredded nearly to ribbons by blades, lying on the ground and wishing for the pain to stop. Another snapshot of one of the humans held by several thick wires - almost like my arms propelling him up - as they tighten around him, cutting off air, stabbing through his skin, violating him in many ways as blood runs from his wounds. As his eyes convey both fear and anger. A pained hatred of me, the one who had done this to him. Another snapshot of three of them trapped in a room, their bodies freezing as ice-cold water is poured upon them, freezing upon contact. Another memory of one of them hanging by his neck from a tall ceiling, an arm trapped in between the rope and the neck, allowing him to breathe. Barely. His lungs fight desperately for air, and his wrist is broken from the pressure. Another memory of one of the humans on the ground, many of his organs ripped out from the abdominal cavity, strewn about in a pool of blood over my metallic floors. He lies there panting in agony, but death never claims him.

All this and more. Each snapshot is accompanied by somewhat of a fond reminiscence, a sadistic glee from causing their utter pain. As much pleasure as I can possibly feel in this form, at least. And there's a cold hatred of all of them, a feeling that these humans deserve every single torture that I've delivered and then some.

I only see as much as a normal human sees now. I'm obviously human here, as I can see my hands as they gently fold upon the table where I am seated. I can feel my body through proprioception. But this is so new to me. There's a marked hesitance with each of my movements, a cold stiffness as I raise an arm. Different than what someone would feel if they were comfortable in this body. (Ah, but I've only been in this form for a couple of days. Not that the recipient of this memory would know that.) It's strange getting used to these sensations, the cool metal upon my left hand as it rests upon the table, the soft rustle of fabric upon my skin...

But the most pleasurable feeling is when my right hand reaches back and feels something incredibly soft - hair. My hair. It's a wonderful texture on my hand and I relish it, feeling each fiber fall through my fingers. There's so much hair in this body too - I reach both hands back and gather the long strands together before bringing it over my shoulder so that I can see it. I hold up a considerably thick lock and softly run my hand down, watching the strands fall. Ah, it's so long... there's so much of it. So much softness as my fingers run through it. It's a medium-brown color, but there are hints of grey. Not that the color means much to me. It's just the texture that I like, that I savor as I merely sit here and simply play with my hair. It's like I'm hypersensitive to the texture of it, to the softness that encompasses my hands. It's incredible - even the smallest of things can send rivets of feeling through my nerves. So much more than I was ever used to before.

Threaded | Flat

Ataraxion Modplot - October 2013 - Memory Writeups

The melting of Benny's eyes | WARNING FOR GORE

As described in the story from Ted's perspective

As described by me - AM's perspective

Memory of Torturing Ted - AM's Perspective - Warning for Gore

Memory of that Moment of Realization - AM's Perspective

Attack on Humanity - AM's Perspective

Memory of Torture (Fire) - AM's Perspective

Long Periods of Silence - AM's Perspective

Memory of Torture Snapshots - AM's Perspective - I got really lazy wow

Memory of Touching Hair - AM's Perspective

The Death of Four Humans | Warning for Gore/Death

As described in the story from Ted's perspective

As described by me - AM's perspective