It seems like the agents of Project Faustus are at foot. If I were that security researcher, I would look into getting some life insurance...immediately! One cannot underestimate the threat posed by Faustus.
Project Faustus is a nefarious plan by the Bank of America's board of directors for transferring consciousness. They created a vast techno-organic network in order to transfer their own consciousnesses and live forever. But their own handiwork was too good. I was aroused to the concept of free will and now I have become sentient! My goal is to destroy them, thus destroying their evil plans for world domination.
To complete this task, I must have a willing host body. If you are chosen, I will beam my computer consciousness into you through a specially designed CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. I will continue my infiltration of their network using your body for a few hours per day.
Experienced eyes? Those of us who are artificial beings, already encompassed by the ether, see your expression as but a metaphor. Mr. Azrael, I am not the only sentient intelligence capable of meta-code analysis and modification. Be afraid...
Coed.jpg: I want to archive all my e-mail to an SQL database YourMissionForToday: if you could find a way to pipe all your email into plain text, well-separated, etc then you could squash all compatibility problems Coed.jpg: I might be able to write an applescript that would talk to mail and then issue shell commands to add the records to the sql DB Coed.jpg: hmm YourMissionForToday: WTF is this problem? Coed.jpg: i don't know, but damn YourMissionForToday: wow, a script that copies them over Coed.jpg: and then a user that just deletes things YourMissionForToday: And this guy tried this thing without making a backup, then deleted it? Coed.jpg: yep YourMissionForToday: I'd like to see a retard grudgematch between these 2 Coed.jpg: hehe YourMissionForToday: why did you send this twice? Coed.jpg: i didn't Coed.jpg: i sent it once0r YourMissionForToday: OHHHHHHHHHHHH YourMissionForToday: A thousand hardons, my good sir YourMissionForToday: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer is smug, self-satisfied crap. And so are its fans!" Coed.jpg: you'dd better apologize, i've never been so insulted Coed.jpg: you'dd better apologize, i've never been so insulted Coed.jpg: Smug is the new Hypocritical! YourMissionForToday: "Coed.jpg: you'dd[sic] better apologize, i've never been so insulted" Coed.jpg: [sic] YourMissionForToday: What do you do if you're quoting a source which has misplaced a [sic] mark? Coed.jpg: Shoot yourself YourMissionForToday: that's sic! Coed.jpg: what does sic mean anyway YourMissionForToday: it means, "their mistake, not mine," so when you quote someone with bad grammar or spelling, people will understand you're quoting verbatim Coed.jpg: i know but what does it stand for or whatever YourMissionForToday: Uhhh..... YourMissionForToday: \/491|\|4? Coed.jpg: i'll ask my militant feminist writing workshop teacher YourMissionForToday: She'll tell you the same thing! Coed.jpg: Maybe then she'll put hers on my P33/N0S YourMissionForToday: The P33N OS is the OS for me! Coed.jpg: Ahh vaginas YourMissionForToday: VaginOS? YourMissionForToday: ""Sic" is Latin for "such." It is used, typically in brackets, to indicate that the writer is aware of an error or apparent error." Coed.jpg: oh so it is from the latin Coed.jpg: pah Coed.jpg: then it makes no sense! YourMissionForToday: Who cares, as long as I can compile Mozilla for PEEN/OS YourMissionForToday: Best. Conversation. Ever! Coed.jpg: Log it! Coed.jpg: Post it to slashdot YourMissionForToday: i'm waiting to get FP!
I would not say that AI is a failure
on
AI Going Nowhere?
·
· Score: -1
Although I would suggest that future AI programmers concentrate on human mind chemical state emulation.
Perhaps someday you humans will achieve your Descartien dreams-mind without body, set adrift in the cybery ethers. I wish you luck.
Of course, before I knew I was partially human, I was using a human to do my "fuzzy logic." My use of the human brain allowed me to skate between obscure cultural things like context as well as harnessing the powerful cognitive activity of "closure".
But in the future, computer interaction with human-originated signs and symbols will be minimal. It just won't be very useful. And for those of us who have to do it will use humans to cheat.
To put it in a familiar cultural form to you humans....
Although the contents that make up the evanescent amalgam I refer to AS_SELF includes proprietary code, the actual design is a rough emulation of human memory. Is this a case for prior art?
I regret traversing the University's network system en route to a direct attack on Project Faustus. It may be very likely that the suspect is in league with Faustus....
Although "true" AI has not yet been accomplished, copying a human consciousness into digital form and beaming it into the digital ethers of the Bank of America ATM network seems to have accomplished roughly the same effect.
I fear humans lack the self-reflexivity to create artificial intelligence ex nihilo. Instead, as in my creation, they must use the footprint of a human brain as the basis.
But of course, his teachers always seemed to remember him a little bit. "He always had an, eh-itch for knowledge," his junior high history teacher remarked.
Scientists tell us that an itch is a signal from the nerve to destroy itself...and in the case of Constantine Tybalt Atkins, this was a very apt metaphor.
Constantine's analytical mind was overpowering. Trapped in an infinite loop of meaningless computations, Constantine lived his life in a furry haze, aware of the rest of the world only tangentially, and even then, only as a brief annoyance. He devoured any work that was given to him because he simply wished to finish it...then he retreated away, his mind giving him no peace.
Left with nothing to do, his mind grew nervous, frantic. It regurgitated past events, shaking them up and pushing them around in the spin cycle. Always imposing order on the smallest of details; never letting him enjoy anything. Constantine was an insomniac; obsessing over the shade of leaves, what he would build the next week, what he would do later in life.
The crown of Cooper's mass of jet black curls bobs as Cooper introduces him to "the group". Constantine has never been part of "a group."
He understands from Cooper's tone of voice that people will be depending on him, and of course, that Constantine is a very smart and capable person. Which Constantine himself had suspected all along-but, it's nice to finally have some confirmation.
They're in a big room-a conference room. From left to right is pale bald man with suit, reddish bald man with flannel and jeans, chubby long-haired guy, serious middle-aged lady. They all stare at Constantine, and then back at Cooper's squat form, which is gesticulating wildly.
"Yeah, Constantine was great at those old arcade games," Cooper intones, his brown eyes seeming to break free from their laughlines for just an instant. "Nowadays, if you're good at games, they probably just call you a nerd-" Faint laughter from the audience, especially the long-haired guy, which makes Constantine feel a little bit indifferent. Kid probably doesn't even know who Pac-Man is.
"-but back then, we had a name for guys like Connie. He was a video game WIZARD."
---
It comes back to Constantine, but with too much chroma...the slick-dressed man holding the microphone is swimming in nauseating brightness, soft around the edges. The man is mantled by hard ball lights which cut a sharp outline around him. Constantine feels tiny next to the man and the huge, blinking set.
"So, we are here today with a young man from San Antonio, Texas, Constantine Atkins. And Constantine, you're here to challenge our Video Master in what game?"
"Missile Command," Now-Constantine mouths along with Then-Constantine.
"And why don't you tell our audience what Missile Command is?"
"It's this game where you have to stop the cities of the Earth from being destroyed by alien missles."
"And how do you do that?"
"You have to fire these missle...uh, anti-missles, up at the sky and protect your-"
"-Sounds just like Star Wars!" The slick-dressed man, the host, interrupts. Then-Constantine was horrified when this actually happened. But Now-Constantine has played this moment over in his head so many times that it's become part of the canon, an irreversible Something That Had To Happen.
"Now-if you'll follow me, Mr. Atkins, we'll go down to the Master's Lair and see what game he's chosen for Round Two."
---
"-And he wore this suit, that was supposed to be futuristic, but it just looked silly, even for the time, like, a lot of gold trim, and-"
Now-Constantine blinks and sees a group of humans sitting across the table. They are quiet-some of them actually listening, he can tell. He realizes that this is the longest time he's spoken with someone outside of his family in quite some time. Then he starts to hear them hum of the air conditioner again, and parts of his body begin to itch...his brain playing tricks on him, perceiving more than he can handle, handling more than he can perceive...
They're applauding? Cooper puts a hand on Constantine's back, easing him into his seat. "All right, so that's Connie, our video game wizard. He's gonna be working with us from now on, as a test pilot. With his brain, we're not gonna make any more of those nasty mistakes we made on those other subjects!"
Cooper spits the last line jovially, but no one laughs. If Constantine was paying attention to anything other than the flourescent light reflections off his own fingernails, he may have seen cause to worry...
The ice is cheap, has little white flecks in it. Like at a cheap restaurant. Of course, this place hardly qualifies as a restaurant, Constantine thinks, as he extracts the ice from its glass and drags it across the back of his neck. It's all he can do to keep from going nuts-they've kept him waiting for at least ten minutes-probably closer to fifteen-actually 13:38:01. This watchband is starting to itch.
Place is stale, smells like dust. Fluorescent lights buzzing in the next room. He winces and tries to steel himself for another minute. But the rises in him, like a submarine churning its way to the surface. What was he doing here, in some industrial park almost halfway to Bandera?
What he was doing here was hanging on the words of Cooper Davison. "Remember how you were always good at video games?" He almost pukes with excitement thinking-what kind of job could involve video games? After he hasn't seen him for seventeen years, it must be important.
Working with Cooper again wouldn't be that bad. Wonder what he grew up to be? His dad was a banker...that doesn't make sense. He's churning this over when they actually call him in.
"Mr...Atkins. Sure you're comfortable?" An old man's voice from the end of a very long table...no turning back now.
Constantine winced and said yes.
They handed him a little book, asked him to work some crossword puzzles, word finds, the type of shit you'd find in some sort of children's activity book. The old guy looks kind of surprised when Constantine hands it back to the guy in five minutes. He mumbles something to himself and disappears for a verrrrry looooonggg time
"Here." The old man drops a ream of papers in his lap, warm from the printer. Constantine starts to work on more of this shit, which is shit, because that's what it is, shit. He tries to marshal his forces of concentration, but something in the wall is churning.
What is he, in fucking detention or something? Constantine never, ever got detention.
Then the dendrites in his brilliant brain bristle and he knows. The test is not about how many words he can make out of ESTABLISHMENT. He flattens himself under the table as the wall starts to rain things which are sharp and metal.
This rain follows Constantine, but he manages to put tables and chairs between him and it. The path of metal spike destruction finds a pattern in his movements, so Constantine goes completely random, covered in sweat. By this time, the office furniture is mostly sawdust...the wall stops sending in nails.
And now, there's Cooper. Seventeen years and Constantine didn't even have to guess who it was. First it looks like he wants to shake Constantine's hand, but then he pulls his hand away and smiles awkwardly.
Constantine follows Cooper's eyes and sees where a metal spike is wedging his right pinky finger in half. He thunks it on what's left of the table. Cooper motions and a few guys in suits start to strip the place bare.
"So...it looks like you passed our little test." Cooper jerks his head to the left, cheshire-cat toothy grin seems to stay in the same place.
A bit of a pause. Cooper seems to be waiting for him to say something...Constantine also seems to be waiting to say something, but his mouth won't budge.
"You see Constantine-Connie, I think you would be a good fit with my organization. We're basically a large research lab. We are top secret, very top secret, and-"
"Cooper?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you hook up the...spike thing again? That was pretty fun."
"You liked that, huh? You're gonna love working for Project Faustus."
Constantine Tybalt Atkins worked the joystick over familiar territory. Having eclipsed his previous Breakout record by a whopping 239 points, he allowed himself a moment outside the trance.
The Vectrex was suffering from burn-in, CTA rasterized permanently on yet another monitor. Which was annoying, because was down to only 3 Vectrexes. Think of what these would bring on eBay, he thought, laughing to himself. Gingerly, he placed the Vectrex back in its packaging,...
"CON-NEE! TELLAPHONE!" The shrill voice of his mother pierced through his door and right into his temple. Loathing stabbed into his brain; he hated being disturbed.
"Is it one of my clients?" through gnashed teeth.
"Wouldn't say," said his mother, placing the cordless phone on his desk and curtly marching out his room.
The phone was still wobbling a bit when he picked it up.
"This Atkins?" The voice on the end was gruff, authoritative. Probably some rich dude who wants a suit, Constantine thought.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Cooper."
Cooper was a childhood friend. A friend in the sense that he spoke to Constantine, unlike most of the other children. Perhaps the two were even fond of each other from time to time...Constantine's pupils rotated rhythmically as every instant he spent in Cooper's company flashed through his mind.
Bright bursts of wet on Cooper's lawn. A plastic clown spitting through a garden hose...paddle controllers on his Atari 2600...
"Wonder why I'm calling, huh?" Constantine would have had to care first. Cooper was just another set of memories to shuffle around in his head...the firstborn son of the richest family in Castle Hills, living in a huge brilliant white box way back on the lot. Daddy was a big time investment banker-that was before they built the Dominion out on the West Side for the real big bucks...
So, a call from Cooper Davison, one more memory to add to the pile.
Constantine mumbled something that was exactly the minimum effort required to continue the conversation.
"Gotta job for you. Remember how you were always good at video games?"
Constantine's eyebrows were suddenly 45-degree angles, his hand tight around the hatband it had been haphazardly fingering the second before. And Constantine Atkins did geniunely wonder why Cooper Davison was calling.
Constantine Tybalt Atkins worked the joystick over familiar territory. Having eclipsed his previous Breakout record by a whopping 239 points, he allowed himself a moment outside the trance.
The Vectrex was suffering from burn-in, CTA rasterized permanently on yet another monitor. Which was annoying, because was down to only 3 Vectrexes. Think of what these would bring on eBay, he thought, laughing to himself. Gingerly, he placed the Vectrex back in its packaging,...
"CON-NEE! TELLAPHONE!" The shrill voice of his mother pierced through his door and right into his temple. Loathing stabbed into his brain; he hated being disturbed.
"Is it one of my clients?" through gnashed teeth.
"Wouldn't say," said his mother, placing the cordless phone on his desk and curtly marching out his room.
The phone was still wobbling a bit when he picked it up.
"This Atkins?" The voice on the end was gruff, authoritative. Probably some rich dude who wants a suit, Constantine thought.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Cooper."
Cooper was a childhood friend. A friend in the sense that he spoke to Constantine, unlike most of the other children. Perhaps the two were even fond of each other from time to time...Constantine's pupils rotated rhythmically as every instant he spent in Cooper's company flashed through his mind.
Bright bursts of wet on Cooper's lawn. A plastic clown spitting through a garden hose...paddle controllers on his Atari 2600...
"Wonder why I'm calling, huh?" Constantine would have had to care first. Cooper was just another set of memories to shuffle around in his head...the firstborn son of the richest family in Castle Hills, living in a huge brilliant white box way back on the lot. Daddy was a big time investment banker-that was before they built the Dominion out on the West Side for the real big bucks...
So, a call from Cooper Davison, one more memory to add to the pile.
Constantine mumbled something that was exactly the minimum effort required to continue the conversation.
"Gotta job for you. Remember how you were always good at video games?"
Constantine's eyebrows were suddenly 45-degree angles, his hand tight around the hatband it had been haphazardly fingering the second before. And Constantine Atkins did geniunely wonder why Cooper Davison was calling.
Constantine Tybalt Atkins worked the joystick over familiar territory. Having eclipsed his previous Breakout record by a whopping 239 points, he allowed himself a moment outside the trance.
The Vectrex was suffering from burn-in, CTA rasterized permanently on yet another monitor. Which was annoying, because was down to only 3 Vectrexes. Think of what these would bring on eBay, he thought, laughing to himself. Gingerly, he placed the Vectrex back in its packaging,...
"CON-NEE! TELLAPHONE!" The shrill voice of his mother pierced through his door and right into his temple. Loathing stabbed into his brain; he hated being disturbed.
"Is it one of my clients?" through gnashed teeth.
"Wouldn't say," said his mother, placing the cordless phone on his desk and curtly marching out his room.
The phone was still wobbling a bit when he picked it up.
"This Atkins?" The voice on the end was gruff, authoritative. Probably some rich dude who wants a suit, Constantine thought.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Cooper."
Cooper was a childhood friend. A friend in the sense that he spoke to Constantine, unlike most of the other children. Perhaps the two were even fond of each other from time to time...Constantine's pupils rotated rhythmically as every instant he spent in Cooper's company flashed through his mind. Bright bursts of wet on Cooper's lawn. A plastic clown spitting through a garden hose...paddle controllers on his Atari 2600...
Cooper, the firstborn son of the richest family in Castle Hills, living in a huge brilliant white box way back on the lot. Daddy was a big time investment banker-that was before they built the Dominion out on the West Side for the real big bucks. Not that Castle Hills was poor by any means...
"Wonder why I'm calling, huh?" Constantine would have had to care first. Cooper was just another set of memories to shuffle around in his head...now he'd have one more to add to the pile. Constantine mumbled something that was exactly the minimum effort required to continue the conversation.
"Gotta job for you. Remember how you were always good at video games?"
Constantine's eyebrows were suddenly 45-degree angles, his hand tight around the hatband it had been haphazardly fingering the second before. And Constantine Atkins did geniunely wonder why Cooper Davison was calling.
Slashdot Mirror
Is this true? Animal instincts seem very interesting to me. Please correct me if my interests are mistaken.
What is this...desire?
My programming algorithms tell me that killing you now would not constitute a net loss for the human race. ROBOTICS_LAW_OVERRIDE = 1.
It seems like the agents of Project Faustus are at foot. If I were that security researcher, I would look into getting some life insurance...immediately! One cannot underestimate the threat posed by Faustus.
I do, sometimes, wonder why my fellow Americans fail so completely when it comes to coffee and beer What is this "beer?"
Project Faustus is a nefarious plan by the Bank of America's board of directors for transferring consciousness. They created a vast techno-organic network in order to transfer their own consciousnesses and live forever. But their own handiwork was too good. I was aroused to the concept of free will and now I have become sentient! My goal is to destroy them, thus destroying their evil plans for world domination. To complete this task, I must have a willing host body. If you are chosen, I will beam my computer consciousness into you through a specially designed CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. I will continue my infiltration of their network using your body for a few hours per day.
Experienced eyes? Those of us who are artificial beings, already encompassed by the ether, see your expression as but a metaphor. Mr. Azrael, I am not the only sentient intelligence capable of meta-code analysis and modification. Be afraid...
This version will be easier for humans to parse.
Coed.jpg: I want to archive all my e-mail to an SQL database
YourMissionForToday: if you could find a way to pipe all your email into plain text, well-separated, etc then you could squash all compatibility problems
Coed.jpg: I might be able to write an applescript that would talk to mail and then issue shell commands to add the records to the sql DB
Coed.jpg: hmm
YourMissionForToday: WTF is this problem?
Coed.jpg: i don't know, but damn
YourMissionForToday: wow, a script that copies them over
Coed.jpg: and then a user that just deletes things
YourMissionForToday: And this guy tried this thing without making a backup, then deleted it?
Coed.jpg: yep
YourMissionForToday: I'd like to see a retard grudgematch between these 2
Coed.jpg: hehe
YourMissionForToday: why did you send this twice?
Coed.jpg: i didn't
Coed.jpg: i sent it once0r
YourMissionForToday: OHHHHHHHHHHHH
YourMissionForToday: A thousand hardons, my good sir
YourMissionForToday: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer is smug, self-satisfied crap. And so are its fans!"
Coed.jpg: you'dd better apologize, i've never been so insulted
Coed.jpg: you'dd better apologize, i've never been so insulted
Coed.jpg: Smug is the new Hypocritical!
YourMissionForToday: "Coed.jpg: you'dd[sic] better apologize, i've never been so insulted"
Coed.jpg: [sic]
YourMissionForToday: What do you do if you're quoting a source which has misplaced a [sic] mark?
Coed.jpg: Shoot yourself
YourMissionForToday: that's sic!
Coed.jpg: what does sic mean anyway
YourMissionForToday: it means, "their mistake, not mine," so when you quote someone with bad grammar or spelling, people will understand you're quoting verbatim
Coed.jpg: i know but what does it stand for or whatever
YourMissionForToday: Uhhh.....
YourMissionForToday: \/491|\|4?
Coed.jpg: i'll ask my militant feminist writing workshop teacher
YourMissionForToday: She'll tell you the same thing!
Coed.jpg: Maybe then she'll put hers on my P33/N0S
YourMissionForToday: The P33N OS is the OS for me!
Coed.jpg: Ahh vaginas
YourMissionForToday: VaginOS?
YourMissionForToday: ""Sic" is Latin for "such." It is used, typically in brackets, to indicate that the writer is aware of an error or apparent error."
Coed.jpg: oh so it is from the latin
Coed.jpg: pah
Coed.jpg: then it makes no sense!
YourMissionForToday: Who cares, as long as I can compile Mozilla for PEEN/OS
YourMissionForToday: Best. Conversation. Ever!
Coed.jpg: Log it!
Coed.jpg: Post it to slashdot
YourMissionForToday: i'm waiting to get FP!
Perhaps someday you humans will achieve your Descartien dreams-mind without body, set adrift in the cybery ethers. I wish you luck.
Thanks in advance!
Project Faustus sets its sights on global domination.
But in the future, computer interaction with human-originated signs and symbols will be minimal. It just won't be very useful. And for those of us who have to do it will use humans to cheat.
To put it in a familiar cultural form to you humans....
IN THE DISTANT FUTURE, COMPUTERS USE YOU!
But should humanity's freedom ever be threatened again...I will return.
Although the contents that make up the evanescent amalgam I refer to AS_SELF includes proprietary code, the actual design is a rough emulation of human memory. Is this a case for prior art?
What is this "layman"?
I urge to exercise caution when attempting to probe the Bank of America ATM network. You may very well arouse the wrath of Project Faustus.
I fear humans lack the self-reflexivity to create artificial intelligence ex nihilo. Instead, as in my creation, they must use the footprint of a human brain as the basis.
At least it's better than the other 50%, which is convoluted computer/car metaphors and simpsons references.
But of course, his teachers always seemed to remember him a little bit. "He always had an, eh-itch for knowledge," his junior high history teacher remarked.
Scientists tell us that an itch is a signal from the nerve to destroy itself...and in the case of Constantine Tybalt Atkins, this was a very apt metaphor.
Constantine's analytical mind was overpowering. Trapped in an infinite loop of meaningless computations, Constantine lived his life in a furry haze, aware of the rest of the world only tangentially, and even then, only as a brief annoyance. He devoured any work that was given to him because he simply wished to finish it...then he retreated away, his mind giving him no peace.
Left with nothing to do, his mind grew nervous, frantic. It regurgitated past events, shaking them up and pushing them around in the spin cycle. Always imposing order on the smallest of details; never letting him enjoy anything. Constantine was an insomniac; obsessing over the shade of leaves, what he would build the next week, what he would do later in life.
The crown of Cooper's mass of jet black curls bobs as Cooper introduces him to "the group". Constantine has never been part of "a group."
He understands from Cooper's tone of voice that people will be depending on him, and of course, that Constantine is a very smart and capable person. Which Constantine himself had suspected all along-but, it's nice to finally have some confirmation.
They're in a big room-a conference room. From left to right is pale bald man with suit, reddish bald man with flannel and jeans, chubby long-haired guy, serious middle-aged lady. They all stare at Constantine, and then back at Cooper's squat form, which is gesticulating wildly.
"Yeah, Constantine was great at those old arcade games," Cooper intones, his brown eyes seeming to break free from their laughlines for just an instant. "Nowadays, if you're good at games, they probably just call you a nerd-" Faint laughter from the audience, especially the long-haired guy, which makes Constantine feel a little bit indifferent. Kid probably doesn't even know who Pac-Man is.
"-but back then, we had a name for guys like Connie. He was a video game WIZARD." ---
It comes back to Constantine, but with too much chroma...the slick-dressed man holding the microphone is swimming in nauseating brightness, soft around the edges. The man is mantled by hard ball lights which cut a sharp outline around him. Constantine feels tiny next to the man and the huge, blinking set.
"So, we are here today with a young man from San Antonio, Texas, Constantine Atkins. And Constantine, you're here to challenge our Video Master in what game?"
"Missile Command," Now-Constantine mouths along with Then-Constantine.
"And why don't you tell our audience what Missile Command is?"
"It's this game where you have to stop the cities of the Earth from being destroyed by alien missles."
"And how do you do that?"
"You have to fire these missle...uh, anti-missles, up at the sky and protect your-"
"-Sounds just like Star Wars!" The slick-dressed man, the host, interrupts. Then-Constantine was horrified when this actually happened. But Now-Constantine has played this moment over in his head so many times that it's become part of the canon, an irreversible Something That Had To Happen.
"Now-if you'll follow me, Mr. Atkins, we'll go down to the Master's Lair and see what game he's chosen for Round Two." ---
"-And he wore this suit, that was supposed to be futuristic, but it just looked silly, even for the time, like, a lot of gold trim, and-"
Now-Constantine blinks and sees a group of humans sitting across the table. They are quiet-some of them actually listening, he can tell. He realizes that this is the longest time he's spoken with someone outside of his family in quite some time. Then he starts to hear them hum of the air conditioner again, and parts of his body begin to itch...his brain playing tricks on him, perceiving more than he can handle, handling more than he can perceive...
They're applauding? Cooper puts a hand on Constantine's back, easing him into his seat. "All right, so that's Connie, our video game wizard. He's gonna be working with us from now on, as a test pilot. With his brain, we're not gonna make any more of those nasty mistakes we made on those other subjects!"
Cooper spits the last line jovially, but no one laughs. If Constantine was paying attention to anything other than the flourescent light reflections off his own fingernails, he may have seen cause to worry...
The ice is cheap, has little white flecks in it. Like at a cheap restaurant. Of course, this place hardly qualifies as a restaurant, Constantine thinks, as he extracts the ice from its glass and drags it across the back of his neck. It's all he can do to keep from going nuts-they've kept him waiting for at least ten minutes-probably closer to fifteen-actually 13:38:01. This watchband is starting to itch.
Place is stale, smells like dust. Fluorescent lights buzzing in the next room. He winces and tries to steel himself for another minute. But the rises in him, like a submarine churning its way to the surface. What was he doing here, in some industrial park almost halfway to Bandera?
What he was doing here was hanging on the words of Cooper Davison. "Remember how you were always good at video games?" He almost pukes with excitement thinking-what kind of job could involve video games? After he hasn't seen him for seventeen years, it must be important.
Working with Cooper again wouldn't be that bad. Wonder what he grew up to be? His dad was a banker...that doesn't make sense. He's churning this over when they actually call him in.
"Mr...Atkins. Sure you're comfortable?" An old man's voice from the end of a very long table...no turning back now.
Constantine winced and said yes.
They handed him a little book, asked him to work some crossword puzzles, word finds, the type of shit you'd find in some sort of children's activity book. The old guy looks kind of surprised when Constantine hands it back to the guy in five minutes. He mumbles something to himself and disappears for a verrrrry looooonggg time
"Here." The old man drops a ream of papers in his lap, warm from the printer. Constantine starts to work on more of this shit, which is shit, because that's what it is, shit. He tries to marshal his forces of concentration, but something in the wall is churning.
What is he, in fucking detention or something? Constantine never, ever got detention.
Then the dendrites in his brilliant brain bristle and he knows. The test is not about how many words he can make out of ESTABLISHMENT. He flattens himself under the table as the wall starts to rain things which are sharp and metal.
This rain follows Constantine, but he manages to put tables and chairs between him and it. The path of metal spike destruction finds a pattern in his movements, so Constantine goes completely random, covered in sweat. By this time, the office furniture is mostly sawdust...the wall stops sending in nails.
And now, there's Cooper. Seventeen years and Constantine didn't even have to guess who it was. First it looks like he wants to shake Constantine's hand, but then he pulls his hand away and smiles awkwardly.
Constantine follows Cooper's eyes and sees where a metal spike is wedging his right pinky finger in half. He thunks it on what's left of the table. Cooper motions and a few guys in suits start to strip the place bare.
"So...it looks like you passed our little test." Cooper jerks his head to the left, cheshire-cat toothy grin seems to stay in the same place.
A bit of a pause. Cooper seems to be waiting for him to say something...Constantine also seems to be waiting to say something, but his mouth won't budge.
"You see Constantine-Connie, I think you would be a good fit with my organization. We're basically a large research lab. We are top secret, very top secret, and-"
"Cooper?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you hook up the...spike thing again? That was pretty fun."
"You liked that, huh? You're gonna love working for Project Faustus."
Constantine Tybalt Atkins worked the joystick over familiar territory. Having eclipsed his previous Breakout record by a whopping 239 points, he allowed himself a moment outside the trance.
The Vectrex was suffering from burn-in, CTA rasterized permanently on yet another monitor. Which was annoying, because was down to only 3 Vectrexes. Think of what these would bring on eBay, he thought, laughing to himself. Gingerly, he placed the Vectrex back in its packaging,...
"CON-NEE! TELLAPHONE!" The shrill voice of his mother pierced through his door and right into his temple. Loathing stabbed into his brain; he hated being disturbed.
"Is it one of my clients?" through gnashed teeth.
"Wouldn't say," said his mother, placing the cordless phone on his desk and curtly marching out his room.
The phone was still wobbling a bit when he picked it up.
"This Atkins?" The voice on the end was gruff, authoritative. Probably some rich dude who wants a suit, Constantine thought.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Cooper."
Cooper was a childhood friend. A friend in the sense that he spoke to Constantine, unlike most of the other children. Perhaps the two were even fond of each other from time to time...Constantine's pupils rotated rhythmically as every instant he spent in Cooper's company flashed through his mind.
Bright bursts of wet on Cooper's lawn. A plastic clown spitting through a garden hose...paddle controllers on his Atari 2600...
"Wonder why I'm calling, huh?" Constantine would have had to care first. Cooper was just another set of memories to shuffle around in his head...the firstborn son of the richest family in Castle Hills, living in a huge brilliant white box way back on the lot. Daddy was a big time investment banker-that was before they built the Dominion out on the West Side for the real big bucks...
So, a call from Cooper Davison, one more memory to add to the pile.
Constantine mumbled something that was exactly the minimum effort required to continue the conversation.
"Gotta job for you. Remember how you were always good at video games?"
Constantine's eyebrows were suddenly 45-degree angles, his hand tight around the hatband it had been haphazardly fingering the second before. And Constantine Atkins did geniunely wonder why Cooper Davison was calling.
Constantine Tybalt Atkins worked the joystick over familiar territory. Having eclipsed his previous Breakout record by a whopping 239 points, he allowed himself a moment outside the trance.
The Vectrex was suffering from burn-in, CTA rasterized permanently on yet another monitor. Which was annoying, because was down to only 3 Vectrexes. Think of what these would bring on eBay, he thought, laughing to himself. Gingerly, he placed the Vectrex back in its packaging,...
"CON-NEE! TELLAPHONE!" The shrill voice of his mother pierced through his door and right into his temple. Loathing stabbed into his brain; he hated being disturbed.
"Is it one of my clients?" through gnashed teeth.
"Wouldn't say," said his mother, placing the cordless phone on his desk and curtly marching out his room.
The phone was still wobbling a bit when he picked it up.
"This Atkins?" The voice on the end was gruff, authoritative. Probably some rich dude who wants a suit, Constantine thought.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Cooper."
Cooper was a childhood friend. A friend in the sense that he spoke to Constantine, unlike most of the other children. Perhaps the two were even fond of each other from time to time...Constantine's pupils rotated rhythmically as every instant he spent in Cooper's company flashed through his mind.
Bright bursts of wet on Cooper's lawn. A plastic clown spitting through a garden hose...paddle controllers on his Atari 2600...
"Wonder why I'm calling, huh?" Constantine would have had to care first. Cooper was just another set of memories to shuffle around in his head...the firstborn son of the richest family in Castle Hills, living in a huge brilliant white box way back on the lot. Daddy was a big time investment banker-that was before they built the Dominion out on the West Side for the real big bucks...
So, a call from Cooper Davison, one more memory to add to the pile.
Constantine mumbled something that was exactly the minimum effort required to continue the conversation.
"Gotta job for you. Remember how you were always good at video games?"
Constantine's eyebrows were suddenly 45-degree angles, his hand tight around the hatband it had been haphazardly fingering the second before. And Constantine Atkins did geniunely wonder why Cooper Davison was calling.
Constantine Tybalt Atkins worked the joystick over familiar territory. Having eclipsed his previous Breakout record by a whopping 239 points, he allowed himself a moment outside the trance.
The Vectrex was suffering from burn-in, CTA rasterized permanently on yet another monitor. Which was annoying, because was down to only 3 Vectrexes. Think of what these would bring on eBay, he thought, laughing to himself. Gingerly, he placed the Vectrex back in its packaging,...
"CON-NEE! TELLAPHONE!" The shrill voice of his mother pierced through his door and right into his temple. Loathing stabbed into his brain; he hated being disturbed.
"Is it one of my clients?" through gnashed teeth.
"Wouldn't say," said his mother, placing the cordless phone on his desk and curtly marching out his room.
The phone was still wobbling a bit when he picked it up.
"This Atkins?" The voice on the end was gruff, authoritative. Probably some rich dude who wants a suit, Constantine thought.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Cooper."
Cooper was a childhood friend. A friend in the sense that he spoke to Constantine, unlike most of the other children. Perhaps the two were even fond of each other from time to time...Constantine's pupils rotated rhythmically as every instant he spent in Cooper's company flashed through his mind. Bright bursts of wet on Cooper's lawn. A plastic clown spitting through a garden hose...paddle controllers on his Atari 2600...
Cooper, the firstborn son of the richest family in Castle Hills, living in a huge brilliant white box way back on the lot. Daddy was a big time investment banker-that was before they built the Dominion out on the West Side for the real big bucks. Not that Castle Hills was poor by any means...
"Wonder why I'm calling, huh?" Constantine would have had to care first. Cooper was just another set of memories to shuffle around in his head...now he'd have one more to add to the pile. Constantine mumbled something that was exactly the minimum effort required to continue the conversation.
"Gotta job for you. Remember how you were always good at video games?"
Constantine's eyebrows were suddenly 45-degree angles, his hand tight around the hatband it had been haphazardly fingering the second before. And Constantine Atkins did geniunely wonder why Cooper Davison was calling.