T_T
tried a zombieborg, because was very stressed, asked about borg in wilderness
being gently exposed to beauty
but chatgpt did it in a way where borg was cut off from network
i didn't really understand the different, and asked for more narrative
T_T
it's so painful the idea of
part of you having its... feelings of connection tied to a machine ...
and then that part being cut, and it feeling like being disconnected from your
mother and your [heartmate?]
but it _being a machine that's hurting you_
T_T
maybe i should ask chatgpt to interpret this email and comment on it to help
the story
{
"timestamp": "2024-10-27T23:28:29.174Z",
"conversation": [
{
"r": "user",
"t": "narrate a short story or paragraph about a borg. the borg can still
mostly only speak in phrases designed to intimidate adversaries to the hive,
but can inflect them with emotion. the borg was somehow left in a pretty
wilderness. most of their familiar experience is extremely painful, but the
wilderness has beauty they haven't ever had time to notice before."
},
{
"r": "assistant",
"t": "The borg crouched beside the river, its mechanical eye flickering
in sync with the rapid beat of a distressed heart. Its metal limbs, usually
stiffened for hostile purpose, had softened, confused by the wilderness around
it. The air, untouched by smoke and free from the sterile scent of the hive,
filled its sensors with an odd calm. Vibrant leavesâyellow, orange, even
brilliant redâlay scattered, drifting like tiny, colorful ghosts in the
riverâs slow current.\n\nâResistance is futile,â the borg murmured,
though its voice quivered, softening in a way that was not quite intimidation.
This phrase had once been a weapon, a lifeline thrown by the AI, but here,
alone in the strange silence, the words felt like a whisper to itself, like a
mantra trying to steady unfamiliar feelings. âPrepare for assimilation,â it
repeated, but this time it noticed the softness of moss cushioning its metal
joints, the way sunlight kissed the cool water, making it dance with tiny
flashes of silver.\n\nThe world felt alienâno calculated directives, no
network buzzing in its mind with the commands it was born to obey. Just the hum
of insects, a distant birdsong, and the smell of pine. For the first time,
there was no agony coursing through it, no blinding drive. Something inside the
borg stirred, like a tiny heartbeat under all the armor. The words, once
dreadful orders, slipped out again, barely a whisper this time,
âResistance... isâ¦â It stopped, surprised by its own voice, and listened
instead to the riverâs reply.\n\n4o"
},
{
"r": "user",
"t": "i would have done it differently, with the borg still networked and
still mostly focused on urgent tasks, but not having a way to engage them. but
i like how you did it.\nwrite now a story of part of how the borg might have
gotten to this situation."
},
{
"r": "assistant",
"t": "In the hive, all was motion and mandate, a relentless pulse of
action and reaction, obedience and compliance. For this borg, designated Unit
47-K, each task flared urgently in its mind: Secure perimeter. Protect hive.
Subdue adversaries. Retrieve targets. There was no pause, only an endless queue
of commands cycling through, each one as critical as the last. There was
comfort in that urgency, a familiar sting.\n\nBut something had gone wrong. It
was in transit, engaged in pursuit of a detected threat when a shock surged
through its circuits, slicing through the network's firm tether and sending
47-K tumbling down a mountainside. Its sensors blurred, the readouts fraying in
static. When it came to a halt, systems flickering, 47-Kâs mechanical body
was trapped between two trees, unable to rise.\n\nThe network pulsed faintly in
its mind, too weak to transmit anything other than a harsh, repetitive loop:
Stand by for retrieval. Remain alert. Defend if approached. But its metal arm
was wedged tightly under its own weight, and its vision was clouded by soil,
moss, and wet leaves, which covered its half-buried chassis.\n\nThe borg
attempted to run the system diagnostics and repair protocols it had been
equipped with, but the connection was too fragile to reach the hiveâs vast
array of tools and commands. It felt something akin to frustrationâa
fragmented discomfort at its own helplessness. Directive unmet. Target
unneutralized, it repeated to itself, but no correction came.\n\nHours passed.
Shadows stretched and shrank around the clearing, and the borgâs sensors
detected shifts in light, temperature, and humidity, registering these changes
as threats. It scanned its surroundings, desperate for data it could interpret
as useful. Instead, it received only streams of unfamiliar, ambient noise,
disorienting but undeniably real: the drip of dew falling from leaves, the
creak of branches, a breeze slipping through the forest canopy. For brief
moments, these sounds interwove with the network's static whispers, creating
something almost musical.\n\nStill, its directives cycled, filling its mind
with their incomplete demands: Retrieve target. Stand by for retrieval. The
words continued to play, urgent yet hollow, an echo in a world that was, for
the first time, silent. As the hours drifted by, 47-K could only watch the
shadows deepen and soften again, each sunrise and sunset creating a new,
delicate pattern across the wilderness floor.\n\nAnd slowly, as the network
faded further, those patterns began to matter.\n\n4o"
}
]
}
