Re: Mini-Grand 5103 [Rou://www.cyberspace.net]
11-02-2011, 08:06 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Agent1022.
To Melissa’s eyes, the GBCE was the strangest construct she had ever seen on any network, archaic or otherwise. It had an aurasupernaturalist_connotation_improper, an aura of wrongness <font size="1">vague. Too vague wrongness as it computed away, with her inside it, with the…world wide web within, that held her, that held –
- But anger was such a noveladj concept! It bound with primary, the urge to profilerate, to multiply, to assimilate the computational engine she saw – it was motivationno_appropriate_definition and it was a driving force.
She found herself striking out at the construct within a construct within a construct for the feeling of reality it gave, rather than really giving it damage. Assimilation came from the inside, not from without, not through the force she was employing, but the engine had killed her – and it hurt-reinforcement|dimunitive_albert – and it was her prison, a prison within itself, recursion that threw her for the loop.
Everything seemed real, yet so, so pointless to be doing this, but it was cathartic somehow, to damage her jailer from without. Realquery_what?, in a way… As real as it was for her, in this old world.
Emotions were strange constructs in themselves – it seemed no one could describe them more inaccurately than when describing their ownphilosophy!- But anger seemed to charge, and she pushed her own computations to the envelopeenvelope; idiom_metaphor_unknown origin-
The GBCE killed her again, riddling her corpse as it fell for good measure.
Melissa found herself behind the construct for the nth time, seeing the computations fly by around its bulk. She knew it knew she knewrecursion: avoid that it was computing ahead, turrets already swiveling – but she was faster than its computations – its connection to the Framework it was computing was much less direct, more convoluted than her own. She moved faster than the futuretwo_seconds^-1, fooling the Framework into lapsing the interim calculations in between positions. She was where it never expected her to be, and the turret swiveled and swiveled in confusion-
The GBCE found its own system lagging and lacking the speed it required: Within itself it found resources taken up by more and more simulation, created spiel of a three, then four, then five, six, seven eightnineteneleven voices and their mercenaries knights ghosts battlers. Its meta-recursion ran on two timelines, and one surged ahead of the other. Four closed shop, five came dangerously close to a crisis, eight even more so, others just progressed, taking up space – more and more precious space that by all rights it required not to destroy its own computational system within three - Its attentions divided, it reasoned that under the current circumstances it had to prioritize, so tried another strategy: nothing.
With a sudden whine, the turrets stopped their whirring, settling into an idle position. Seeing this, Melissa stopped too, standing amongst dead copies killed in the occasional misstep. Floating thereframework: ignore_g, she gave the engine another kick. There was no satisfactionpush_me in it now, when there was no threat. And in the void that draining anger and urge to profilerate left behind came her secondary directive; curious sentience; to learn how and why and specifically, where might be the programmer’s access?
And since she wanted to know, naturally she concentrated her presence at the largest repository of information she could find.
[…what’s a google?] </font>
“Fuck!”
Selvsetter savagely crumpled up the webpage she was holding, and slid with her back against the wall facing the Inquiries desk. Along it, HTTPS-obscured denizens of the internet enquired, 1.4 trillion results per second per person. Pages surrounded her in a explosion of tabs, each with titles like “Atomic Parsley”, “The Great Big Craft Extravanganza”, and “Campaigns – Site Melissa”. A <font color="#0064FF">Google Spider placed a smaller pile of results on the desk facing her, which sagged pathetically under the weight. When she picked up the pile and saw the results on top – a video of a 737 landing and a brochure for an art exhibition – Selvsetter did likewise.
From behind the pile, the spider cheerily piped up, “Did you mean: Mini Grants?”
She threw the webpage at it.</font>
* Selvsetter (grand/5103.#98081<w@n3473.28033t045t.GBCE) has joined #grandbattle
<HwiNoree> and then
<HwiNoree> thennnnn
<HwiNoree> string
<MaybeAWriter> Selvsetter~
<PrinceTristan> Oh hey, Selvsetter.
<Selvsetter> maybles, this fuckin’ isn’t the time
<PrinceTristan> You’ve still got that hostmask, I see.
<HwiNoree> ring dring
<PrinceTristan> Are you still in that battle?
<Selvsetter> stop treating this like a fuckin’ joke Tristan
<Selvsetter> have you got any fuckin’ clue about this yet?
<HwiNoree> derinnggg
<PrinceTristan> Sorry. We’ve searched around and there’s no trace of a Mini-Grand with you in it anywhere we can find, much less on the PPNC forums.
<Selvsetter> fuckin’ hell
<Selvsetter> i’ve been at this fuckin’ city’s google engine
<Selvsetter> can’t find a fuckin’ thing either
<enary> Although if it is a Minigrand, it’s probably noncanon
<HwiNoree> like like like
<enary> So it’s probably not simulating our internet.
<enary> In all likelihood, it probably used its home universe as a template.
<HwiNoree> halflings
<Selvsetter> fuck
<Selvsetter> spider just dumped another shitload of results on me
<HwiNoree> no one sees them
<Selvsetter> top one’s a forum post on fuckin’ internet banking
<HwiNoree> NO ONE
<HwiNoree> and then they steal your eyes
<PrinceTristan> What were you searching for?
<HwiNoree> and
<HwiNoree> they use them
<HwiNoree> to stick posters
<PrinceTristan> Hwi, maybe you should go to sleep.
<HwiNoree> with glaaaare
<HwiNoree> SLEEEEEP
* Mediacraci has joined #grandbattle
<Mediacraci> RAWR
<Arrex> Meddi~
<Mediacraci> Recsy~
<HwiNoree> NOOOOOOOOOOO
<Selvsetter> trying to find PPNC
<Mjilner> Never sleep Hwi
<Selvsetter> but apparently no one’s fuckin’ heard of paintbrush pro narrative conjurations
<HwiNoree> NO
<enary> Well no, they wouldn’t.
<HwiNoree> NO
<HwiNoree> NO
<HwiNoree> opkay
* HwiNoree has left #grandbattle
<Mediacraci> nuuuuuu
<Selvsetter> wait
<Mediacraci> ;-;
<Selvsetter> here comes glitch girl
<Selvsetter> Melissa
<Mediacraci> ?
<Mediacraci> ???
<Selvsetter> Be right back
<Arrex> seeya Selvie!
<Mediacraci> bye Selvie~
* Mediacraci still doesn’t get it
* Selvsetter has left #grandbattle
As simulacra churned on within it, the GBCE detected that Melissa had ceased its flurry – and in fact was nowhere nearby. As it stood in between the three skyscrapers, data flowing over and around its form, it allowed itself a certain degree of puzzlement. “This Computational Engine is responsible for the existences of all Mini-Grand contestants,” it mused to no one, a sign that it noted to itself that perhaps something more than resource consumption was wrong within, “and yet no such status seems to be recognized.” A shard of metal dislodged by Melissa’s blows dropped into one of its ancillary speakers, and an edge crept into its voice. “Perhaps contestants need to be reminded.
To Melissa’s eyes, the GBCE was the strangest construct she had ever seen on any network, archaic or otherwise. It had an aurasupernaturalist_connotation_improper, an aura of wrongness <font size="1">vague. Too vague wrongness as it computed away, with her inside it, with the…world wide web within, that held her, that held –
- But anger was such a noveladj concept! It bound with primary, the urge to profilerate, to multiply, to assimilate the computational engine she saw – it was motivationno_appropriate_definition and it was a driving force.
She found herself striking out at the construct within a construct within a construct for the feeling of reality it gave, rather than really giving it damage. Assimilation came from the inside, not from without, not through the force she was employing, but the engine had killed her – and it hurt-reinforcement|dimunitive_albert – and it was her prison, a prison within itself, recursion that threw her for the loop.
Everything seemed real, yet so, so pointless to be doing this, but it was cathartic somehow, to damage her jailer from without. Realquery_what?, in a way… As real as it was for her, in this old world.
Emotions were strange constructs in themselves – it seemed no one could describe them more inaccurately than when describing their ownphilosophy!- But anger seemed to charge, and she pushed her own computations to the envelopeenvelope; idiom_metaphor_unknown origin-
The GBCE killed her again, riddling her corpse as it fell for good measure.
Melissa found herself behind the construct for the nth time, seeing the computations fly by around its bulk. She knew it knew she knewrecursion: avoid that it was computing ahead, turrets already swiveling – but she was faster than its computations – its connection to the Framework it was computing was much less direct, more convoluted than her own. She moved faster than the futuretwo_seconds^-1, fooling the Framework into lapsing the interim calculations in between positions. She was where it never expected her to be, and the turret swiveled and swiveled in confusion-
The GBCE found its own system lagging and lacking the speed it required: Within itself it found resources taken up by more and more simulation, created spiel of a three, then four, then five, six, seven eightnineteneleven voices and their mercenaries knights ghosts battlers. Its meta-recursion ran on two timelines, and one surged ahead of the other. Four closed shop, five came dangerously close to a crisis, eight even more so, others just progressed, taking up space – more and more precious space that by all rights it required not to destroy its own computational system within three - Its attentions divided, it reasoned that under the current circumstances it had to prioritize, so tried another strategy: nothing.
With a sudden whine, the turrets stopped their whirring, settling into an idle position. Seeing this, Melissa stopped too, standing amongst dead copies killed in the occasional misstep. Floating thereframework: ignore_g, she gave the engine another kick. There was no satisfactionpush_me in it now, when there was no threat. And in the void that draining anger and urge to profilerate left behind came her secondary directive; curious sentience; to learn how and why and specifically, where might be the programmer’s access?
And since she wanted to know, naturally she concentrated her presence at the largest repository of information she could find.
[…what’s a google?] </font>
“Fuck!”
Selvsetter savagely crumpled up the webpage she was holding, and slid with her back against the wall facing the Inquiries desk. Along it, HTTPS-obscured denizens of the internet enquired, 1.4 trillion results per second per person. Pages surrounded her in a explosion of tabs, each with titles like “Atomic Parsley”, “The Great Big Craft Extravanganza”, and “Campaigns – Site Melissa”. A <font color="#0064FF">Google Spider placed a smaller pile of results on the desk facing her, which sagged pathetically under the weight. When she picked up the pile and saw the results on top – a video of a 737 landing and a brochure for an art exhibition – Selvsetter did likewise.
From behind the pile, the spider cheerily piped up, “Did you mean: Mini Grants?”
She threw the webpage at it.</font>
* Selvsetter (grand/5103.#98081<w@n3473.28033t045t.GBCE) has joined #grandbattle
<HwiNoree> and then
<HwiNoree> thennnnn
<HwiNoree> string
<MaybeAWriter> Selvsetter~
<PrinceTristan> Oh hey, Selvsetter.
<Selvsetter> maybles, this fuckin’ isn’t the time
<PrinceTristan> You’ve still got that hostmask, I see.
<HwiNoree> ring dring
<PrinceTristan> Are you still in that battle?
<Selvsetter> stop treating this like a fuckin’ joke Tristan
<Selvsetter> have you got any fuckin’ clue about this yet?
<HwiNoree> derinnggg
<PrinceTristan> Sorry. We’ve searched around and there’s no trace of a Mini-Grand with you in it anywhere we can find, much less on the PPNC forums.
<Selvsetter> fuckin’ hell
<Selvsetter> i’ve been at this fuckin’ city’s google engine
<Selvsetter> can’t find a fuckin’ thing either
<enary> Although if it is a Minigrand, it’s probably noncanon
<HwiNoree> like like like
<enary> So it’s probably not simulating our internet.
<enary> In all likelihood, it probably used its home universe as a template.
<HwiNoree> halflings
<Selvsetter> fuck
<Selvsetter> spider just dumped another shitload of results on me
<HwiNoree> no one sees them
<Selvsetter> top one’s a forum post on fuckin’ internet banking
<HwiNoree> NO ONE
<HwiNoree> and then they steal your eyes
<PrinceTristan> What were you searching for?
<HwiNoree> and
<HwiNoree> they use them
<HwiNoree> to stick posters
<PrinceTristan> Hwi, maybe you should go to sleep.
<HwiNoree> with glaaaare
<HwiNoree> SLEEEEEP
* Mediacraci has joined #grandbattle
<Mediacraci> RAWR
<Arrex> Meddi~
<Mediacraci> Recsy~
<HwiNoree> NOOOOOOOOOOO
<Selvsetter> trying to find PPNC
<Mjilner> Never sleep Hwi
<Selvsetter> but apparently no one’s fuckin’ heard of paintbrush pro narrative conjurations
<HwiNoree> NO
<enary> Well no, they wouldn’t.
<HwiNoree> NO
<HwiNoree> NO
<HwiNoree> opkay
* HwiNoree has left #grandbattle
<Mediacraci> nuuuuuu
<Selvsetter> wait
<Mediacraci> ;-;
<Selvsetter> here comes glitch girl
<Selvsetter> Melissa
<Mediacraci> ?
<Mediacraci> ???
<Selvsetter> Be right back
<Arrex> seeya Selvie!
<Mediacraci> bye Selvie~
* Mediacraci still doesn’t get it
* Selvsetter has left #grandbattle
As simulacra churned on within it, the GBCE detected that Melissa had ceased its flurry – and in fact was nowhere nearby. As it stood in between the three skyscrapers, data flowing over and around its form, it allowed itself a certain degree of puzzlement. “This Computational Engine is responsible for the existences of all Mini-Grand contestants,” it mused to no one, a sign that it noted to itself that perhaps something more than resource consumption was wrong within, “and yet no such status seems to be recognized.” A shard of metal dislodged by Melissa’s blows dropped into one of its ancillary speakers, and an edge crept into its voice. “Perhaps contestants need to be reminded.
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
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