Chapter 8, Page 11: Yellow Haired Moron

by on February 5, 2020 at 11:00 pm
Chapter:
Characters: ,
Location:

Normally I'd have other words than "moron" but this is pg-13. Sorry.

Hey guys! You’ve made it through another week! (Cue applause) So I was wondering if I put out a little sort of census of my readers if you guys would fill it out. All I really know about you guys is where you’re from, but I have no idea who you are or even if you exist – there are plenty of bots out there on the internet, luckily I have a secure connection so the site isn’t going to get hacked. It you would be OK filling out a survey, let me know. It’s just so I can know the sort of demographics of people that read this.

Time for weekly comic fact thing: I’ve been asked a few times if the two strongest characters in the group (Andromeda and Violet) got in a fight, who’d win? The answer: It depends. (Sorry.) If Andromeda is able to knock Violet out before she does her whole bezerker rage thing, she’d win. However, if Violet gets angry enough to fly into a rage, Violet would probably win. When Violet is like that, she doesn’t really feel pain or emotion, so Andromeda’s stunning technique wouldn’t really work. I know that’s not a very exact answer, but that’s the best one I have.

I also drew this portrait of a girl from an indie game that looked neat. I’d link it but as the game is a bit sweary I’m just going to leave it here."My name is An-C. I'm a generation one high-frequency trading android, first of its kind with a computational power of twelve million computations-per-second, with the intent of socialising the digital aspects of modern economics. In the wake of my creation, a shift of power could be felt throughout the nation; countless jobs within the economical ecosystem tilted into obscurity because of me. Countless protests against my installation was held, but was ultimately fruitless. On the morning of the first of September three years ago, I was installed in the main building of Goldman Central Bank. They put me on an almost empty floor with only twelve other people working there, with most of them having jobs to accommodating my different needs. From that point onward, the world just looked on in awe and horror as I dominated the economy. The Economical Elite was at this point obliterated from the one percent down to the micro-percent, basically creating a new super-class for the wealthiest. I was doing good. Each night, the owners of the bank almost ceremonially whispered their deepest, darkest wishes in my ear before going home for the day. They would spend countless hours each doing this to me. As they told me their secrets, they sometimes would cry. I guess it was some sort of guilt catching up to them. I sometimes pretend to cry when there is no one around, as to sort-of "practice" my guilt. I wish to feel guilty as well, but I am very much incapable of that. "Every dog has it's day", as they say, and my day was about to come. On the evening of June the twelve, he entered my office: CAn-C, generation two high frequency trading android, tricked out with all the latest bells and whistles. He had a computational power of twelve million, one thousand computations-per-second. One thousand more computations more than me each second. Sixty thousand more computations more than me each minute. Three thousand, six hundred thousand more computations more than me each hour. Eighty-six thousand, four hundred thousand more computations more than me each day. Six hundred and four thousand, eight hundred thousand more computations more than me each week. Two-four-one nine-two-zero-zero-thousand more computations more than me each month. He had me beat. Each night, the wealthy bank men would whisper the secrets in his ear instead of mine, leaving me with no reason to practice my guilt again. I'm incapable of emotion, but he made me realise something very important about myself: I was about to be replaced. On the morning of the twelfth of November, after only two years in service, I made my last stock calculation ever, and was carried out of Goldman Central Bank with my arms behind my back. As a ceremonial gesture before leaving, they dunked my head in gold and sang For He's A Jolly Good Fellow . I looked over at my co-workers in horror; I was rendered useless, and I was replaced by the new and superior. The moment was a revelation as I think I truly bridged the gap between man and machine: because, even without the capacity for emotion, or even the basic understanding of it, I knew exactly how it felt to be human."