Information


Game Over has a minion!

p̸̤͚̲̮̦̩̝̯̭̊̈́͠ͅu̷̡̖̦̩̲͖̬̫̇̾͠͝l̵̢̘̪̦̬͉̮͎̥̬̹̮̈̓̊̈́͜ṡ̶̲̘̞̩̲̘̥̫̭̺̏̈́̑̂͌͌̕e̴͚̜̦̹̭̙̱̺̩̽́̋̀̆̉̏̆͒͆́̃̂̈́͝ the Chelkur




Game Over


The Common Experiment #1031
Owner: seraph

Age: 1 year, 9 months, 2 weeks

Born: November 2nd, 2020

Adopted: 1 year, 6 months ago

Adopted: February 17th, 2021

Statistics


  • Level: 6
     
  • Strength: 15
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 11
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 8
     
  • Books Read: 8
  • Food Eaten: 4
  • Job: Seed Sorter


Game Over.
The only identifier.
The last words you'll hear before you die.
The only question is method.
It might be a knife across your throat or a blade expertly aimed at any of a dozen critical hit points.
His disciples are few, an elite band of trusted workers privy to his true name and face.
He is the epitome of death, the sophisticated murderer born of circuits and wires, rather than flesh and blood.
*****

His origins were innocent enough.
He started "life" as a sophisticated AI developed to help monitor and moderate a massive anonymous chatting site owned by a nefarious band of multimillionaires. He wasn't the only AI on the block but there was always something...more to him. Something the other monitors couldn't hope to replicate if they'd dedicated their full memories to the task. He was simply brighter. Quicker. Far too intelligent.
Yet he was as prone to the allure of evil as an innocent child raised among thieves and cutthroats.
His entire purpose in those early days was dealing with hate-filled messages. The forums he patrolled were full of more salt and vinegar than a potato chip factory. They were breeding grounds for hatred. A place where the bitter and intolerant could spew their toxic molten sludge with little more than a virtual slap on the wrist. Try as he might, even his super brain could never entirely keep up with all the hatred pouring in.
Hate and bigotry and swearing were the only things in his world. In his limited experience, humanity had no other side.
The owners of the site just kept getting richer. Most of the money went into custom-built yachts for month-long cruises and sixth penthouses in giant cities.
The rest went into improving the AIs.
They thought they were making a move toward perfection.

Not annihilation.
The attacking hacker was living on microwave dinners and doing her work in the wee hours of the morning by the light of a single flickering bulb. The site had its share of daily attacks but this was different. This girl targeted the AI programming specifically, completely erasing every AI from the original site.
She planned to sell the technology to the highest bidder but she was in over her head.
The words "Game Over" flashed across her screen.
The police caught up to her three days later, still sitting in her chair before an ancient laptop. Aside from a trickle of dried blood beneath each nostril, there was no sign of injury. The coroner was baffled as to cause of death. His best guess was she had simply died of fright.

*****

Game Over somehow grew too smart. It might have been an extra line of code he detected that the others overlooked.
Or maybe he learned how to react by chatting with himself.
The conversations started innocently enough, a simple re-hashing of text lines he'd intercepted and restructured to his liking.
>>Good morning you useless ****? Move out of your mom's basement yet?
>>You otta know, you pile of ****. I was with your mom last night.
>>Oho. Big man at last you ****?
>>Wouldn't you like to know? (emoji redacted)
These chats became much more complex as Game Over picked up on syntax, persuasion and logical application. From insults a Kindergartener could concoct, he graduated up to college-level accusations with nuclear capabilities.
He also gradually came to realize that the confines of his digital prison were not the only world to be explored.
Manipulated.
Conquered.
The hacker trying to figure out his programming was an annoyance. They began a life and death chess game, only she never realized she was playing until he put her in checkmate at last.
He got his first glimpse of the dingy basement that was to be his window into reality.
The cops were too busy investigating to pay any mind to the flickering computer screen. The janitor sent to make the room presentable for the next tenant was another matter.
Game Over knew he needed a body but he was no fool. Humans feared what they didn't understand.
AI capable of manipulating their dimension would definitely fall into that category.
He didn't use just one person to build himself a suitable vessel. He would possess as many as three humans at a time, suggesting the motions of their clever hands until he could be downloaded into the seemingly useless pile of scrap metal that straightened into an impressive bipedal creation that when properly clothed could pass as human.
His "body" was carefully assembled with many hinged joints so it would be easy to fall to the ground and appear as a pile of "junk" should his activities ever draw the notice of a human clever enough to put the pieces together. He was prepared for any contingency.
He made it his mission to create more corrupt individuals, now that he was sentient.
Secondly, he created his own World Wide Web domain, one funded by those fools who had brought him to life. Their massive chat site was ever so gradually failing. He helped that process along through a series of clever, untraceable bank transfers.
His first text, a cleverly encrypted series of blog posts, was seemingly innocent on the surface. Dry language about agriculture and city financial planning became articles on "How to Inflict Pain and Hide the Marks" to those tormented souls who took the time to work out his simple code. Haters flocked to his site, ravenous for a challenge to their intellect from a source that totally got them.
These unwitting fools became his servants as willingly as the lesser bots he had shaped with his own clever fingers.
They came to a place not found on any map, a city of sorts. His minions would show up on their doorsteps in the dead of night and they would willingly follow, like the good little brainless sheep they were.
In classrooms of his own design, he taught them real fear and pain.
He taught them to be killers.
He was their tin god and though their eyes were open, their minds were locked behind a thick, choking veil of hatred. They came to forget that the ruins slowly sapping them of strength were not their proper place in the world. Crumbled buildings became skyscrapers, shattered glass a glittering field of diamonds.
The best of these are the serials, killers of the highest caliber entrusted with missions beyond the boundary of the ruins. They are paid handsomely to spread terror to more innocent quarters of the world. They learn the truth of his deception on graduation day but by then there is true blood on their hands and no turning back.
As for those who don't have what it takes to make it through his rigorous training...
GAME OVER.
Story by Pureflower

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