Consider:
Leo Valdez was not born. Instead, two pairs of hands form him from bronze and steel and gold. His hair is copper wires so thin they bounce like natural curls, and his eyes glimmer with silver flakes. The joints of his body are plated so delicately, so perfectly, the segments are near indiscernible, smoothly gliding over each other. Faint traces of fingerprints and flecks of impurity are deliberately left behind for their uniqueness, a form of impossible signature of his creators.
Most importantly, gilded bars curl around each other in his chest, protecting the red-red-red flame that pushes his eyes open everyday, that beats in tune with his thoughts, that heats his body to expand and grow.
A metal child is not so different from a human one, and yet is so far from it at the same time. He is curious, about the world, about himself, and he picks apart toys and TV remotes and his arms, spilling their secrets before his constantly shifting eyes. He does not cry from fatigue or thirst or hunger, but a bump, a dent, a scratch never fail to draw tears. He splashes in the rain and snow, carefully bundled in waterproof coats and jackets, and runs from baths like he's possessed, fire flickering in fear.
The first time he meets someone like him, an endeavour he had long thought hopeless, it is a malfunctioning dragon others call for the death of; he is too unpredictable, too dangerous, too broken. Leo looks him in ever-shifting eyes glimmering with silver and sees himself if the cage in his chest ever bends, cracks, shatters, if the gears beneath his skin ever jam and stick and wear down irreversibly.
It is not golden flowers and godly aid that preserve him; just as he'd done for his twin-in-all-but-appearance, he creates a new body, with new fingerprints and impurities mapping his design. His hair is more bronze than copper, now, and his eyes more gold than brass. The plates of his joints scrape against each other faintly, and the gears of his bones grind together uncomfortably — he only had so much time, so much material to use, he could not polish every element of himself in the way he wished, but it holds together.
Most importantly, he reinforces the cage in his chest, coats it in layers upon layers of metal, to ensure his flame will not go out in the explosion, that Festus will be able to salvage it and lay it gently in the chest cavity carefully carved in his new body, bringing it to life.
He returns to Camp, movements more clunky and mechanical than should be, and his siblings finally pin down his segmented limbs, his shifting eyes, his clicking fidgeting. They are ecstatic, just as fascinated with him as they had been with Festus, and he lets them. He lets them take him apart, piece by piece, clean out the sand of Ogygia from his organs, polish and oil his gears until they glide against each other, press new fingerprints, new signatures of belonging, against his skin.
Most importantly, they craft him a secure, intricate cage, with golden flames licking up the bars, with delicate chains shielding it from the elements, and his flame settles inside it, flickering happily, finally truly, truly comfortable in the cage of his body.
Leo Valdez may not have been born, but he was crafted with the most loving hands imaginable, and is that not so much better, for a son of the Craftsman?
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Fungus robots definitely wasn’t a research project that was relevant during the development of the game, but it makes me wonder of the conceptual potential with D:BH androids being biohybrid AI.
Using fungus as substance for brain matter or for more complex processors like heat signal or other sensory input because Fungi are living systems. specifically Mycelia has the ability to sense chemical and biological signals and respond to multiple inputs, making changes in the agricultural industry using fungus to detect Ph balance in soil for row crops.
Fungi also supposedly have shown a pattern of electrical impulses, which mimic language and grammatical structures. Like literal back and forth communication, functionally similar to neurons. Seeing this revelation would make anyone want to connect it to a robot to see what it could do. & sure enough fungus can absolutely control robots, amongst other things like responding to light.
With that, intermingling fungi with biocomponents to mimic more complex environmental inputs that computers itself can’t process would make some great androids. Maybe the fungus could develop its own thought patterns and reactions to environmental stimulus instead of following the computer portion of programmed information. Mostly because the software cannot form an accurate response to emotional shocks, or to more tricky forms of communication such as social cues.
Therefore if CyberLife androids were biohybrid robots, and the deviation of their programming is as a result of fungal growth in response to stimuli…
wouldn’t that make them an organic form of intelligent life?
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ART IS NOT CONTENT!! ART COMES FROM THE HEART!!!!! YOU CAN TELL A ROBOT TO GENERATE AN APPLE AND IT CAN PROBABLY DO IT BETTER THAN ME BUT THAT DOESNT MATTER!!! I WILL STILL DRAW THE APPLE BECAUSE I HAVE A HEART THAT BEATS AND A LIFE TO EXPERIENCE!!! AND IF YOURE MORE WILLING TO SUPPORT A MACHINE THAN A HUMAN THEN U DONT UNDERSTAND HUMANITY!!!!!! WHAT IS THE POINT OF LIVING IF U LET A BUNCH OF CODE DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!
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If I see one more shit take about how AI 'art' is art, because 'art is not just created, but perceived' and photography being given as an example I'm going to start screaming. If you don't see a difference between a real human being using a tool (photo camera) to capture an image filtered through their very personal sense of aesthetic and importance, choosing an angle, light etc. and an amalgamation of stolen art without any personal input, no creative process AT ALL, then buddy, I have a clear picture of how little value real life artists have for you and how little understanding you have for what art really is.
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"Well, even in toothache there is enjoyment," I answer. I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. [. . . .] Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain [. . . .] His moans become nasty, disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with his moans; he knows better than anyone that he is only lacerating and harassing himself and others for nothing [. . . .] Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous pleasure. As though he would say: "I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping everyone in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel every minute that I have toothache.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground
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