uncanny valley replacements; unhealthy coping mechanism

[damn_my_leg]

The uncanny valley is a hypothesis in the field of aesthetics which holds that when features look and move almost, but not exactly, like real people, it causes a response of revulsion among some observers.


We're terribly sorry to hear about your loss. The death of a friend, family member, or partner can be tragic and difficult to cope with- but never fear! Through the latest in android technology, we've invented a convenient app to assist you through the grieving process. Simply give our app permission to retrieve your loved one's internet history, we can recreate their personality in our system and allow you to speak to them again!

There are three levels to our product, feel free to choose any option you're comfortable with, and know that you can switch to another at any time.

Written: By uploading your party's social media information, email, blogs, texts, or manually inputting diary entries, our program flawlessly mimics their written presence. In just a few moments, you can be IMing, emailing, or texting your loved one again.

Audio: Granting us access to phone records, video and audio recordings, the world's most sophisticated technology maps your loved one's speech patterns and mannerisms. Phone calls through the app are no extra charge, talk as much as you like as often as you like. Our program learns and remembers conversations, growing and changing and becoming more lifelike the more you speak.

Physical: The most experimental of our products so far and still very much in beta stages, for an extra price we'll send you a blank, humanoid model. Allow the model to soak in the bath overnight with our provided packet of electrolytes, and the model will upload all physical images of your loved one. Videos, photographs, all will be mapped onto the prototype, and in 24 hours you'll have a walking, talking android replacement.


the fine print: Androids will always be missing a spark of humanity, and can not wholly recreate any living human. There will always be small mannerisms that don't quite fit, and any personality traits or motivations that wouldn't be determinable based on internet history and audio files won't occur naturally in your model. Any physical markings not displayed in photographs or videos won't be on your model until you make your model aware of this, upon which time they will upload it. Androids to not come with fingerprints.

Instructions: Tag in with your name and character. Specify if you'd like to be the android or the grieving recipient. The app can be purchased as an unwanted gift by a third party.

meme concept inspired by an episode of Black Mirror.

Comments

Ryoji Mochizuki | Shin Megami Tensei: Persona 3 | OTA

[notsogrimreaper]

((He does die by the end of the game, so he can be an android, but I can see him getting an unwanted gift as well.))

Neal Cassidy → OUaT

[carjacked]

[post-death android for all of your tragic, creepy needs. also willing to play the flipside.]

Dean Winchester → Supernatural

[righteously]

[either!]

[oversight]

In the digital age, most companies obtain express permission via the least transparent means, often going well out of their way to obtain consent through third parties. It's legal, but just barely, meaning they're able offer a taste of their software, personally tailored utilizing files that don't rightfully belong to them.

For the premiere developer, Resurrection Software, it's a line directly into people's lives, though it's packaged pretty attractively as a second chance at a life with your close friends or loved ones.

Dean Winchester's free trial begins now.

Months had passed since Blake had died, but having once in his past signed an agreement for ABC Company, he unwittingly opened himself up to cataloging within a complex web crawling system. That agreement coupled with Dean's signature on a receipt for XYZ Company culminates in one telephone call the reads on the display as a too-familiar number.

Winchester can choose to pick up or not, but if he doesn't answer, there'll be a voicemail. And eventually a text, (but that's to come later). ]

[righteously]

[ It's nobody's business what Dean Winchester has been up to these last couple months, and he's made it abundantly clear. Every concerned text message gets a biting response, every gentle question when he's unfortunate enough to run into a familiar face at a supermarket gets something a little too rude, a little too defensive, and Dean can't find a fuck to give about who's toes he steps on.

How are you? You should come around more. You should- Jesus, if he hears you should one more friggin' time he swears to god he's going to blow his brains out so hard he takes out all the brains in a hundred mile radius.

So he's been drinking.
So he's been minding his own business.
So he's been out of touch for a while.
Who freakin' wouldn't be? Anybody who wants to pretend they wouldn't be screwed up in a situation like his is either full of self-righteous crap, or they're completely goddamn oblivious to how the world actually works. People die, and it sucks. People important die, and it sucks harder. People like Blake die, and it... The world is boned, and fuck anyone who judges him for dwelling on it, is his point.

He thinks Blake would sympathize, but obviously he's not going to get the opportunity to ask.

And then his phone rings in a grocery store.

He's standing there in that weird limbo of a not-quite-refrigerator aisle with a couple hundred bottles of wine to his back, and his eyes are lost in a swimming sea of silver and blue and cardboard, fingers wrapped around the chilly metal edge of a cooling unit, and he's completely and utterly adrift until that jarring sensation of a phone exploding to life in his coat pocket rips him from his reverie. Normally, he wouldn't answer. Normally, he wouldn't check it, but he's startled to realize he'd spaced out completely, and in that startlement comes the automatic reaction programmed into everyone born into the age of instant communication. He checks his phone.

He doesn't almost drop it. Life isn't a movie, life isn't a novel, he doesn't fumble with it with parted lips and disbelief. No, for a long moment he just... stares blankly, mind affronted with some new information that does not compute because he's spent the last four months constantly reminding himself and affirming within himself that the caller was dead as a fucking doornail. He's given himself some blunt declarations and more than a few busted knuckles to make that fact sink in, and it has.

And so his first instinct isn't hope, it's outrage. Whatever phone company bullshit, whatever punkass kid got ahold of his phone and started dialing the contacts-

He's going to fucking kill them.

But by the time he comes to that decision, the phone has long since gone silent, kicking the caller to voicemail. His thumb jabs down on the app, a polite little 1 displaying in a speech bubble beside it. Puts it on speaker, then presses play. This better be real damn good, anything less than a concerned citizen returning a lost cell phone is grounds for a swift kick in the teeth. ]

[oversight]

Dean, it's me...

[ By way of digital reproductions, this one's near flawless. Using algorithms and sample data, the system is able to near-perfectly recreate the sound of a person's voice. The pause that comes after would have normally been accompanied by a sigh, but the system's failings in that regard tend to be negligible for the typical user. ]

Hey, um. Guess— guess you're sleepin' or somethin'.

[ The approximated disappointment is a little strong for this application, but without any sort of feedback from Winchester, the system has difficulty with properly reaching out. It knows that Blake is a fairly quiet person in most cases, that he tends to use fewer words the most people when having a typical conversation, except when it comes to Dean. In fact, his Vocal Index increased by an incredible 40% around the other man, a statistic the application has no trouble exploiting in its efforts to make a connection. ]

Know it's kinda late, but I was— [ His tone wavers, dips down as if he's having trouble controlling the levelness of his voice. ] I was thinkin' 'bout— Was hopin' we could talk or somethin'.

Just call me back, okay? Somethin' I wanna tell you.

[ Skin deep and then some, this simulation of Blake has the urge to reach out built in. It doesn't know how to want beyond executing parameters, but its aggressive in its need to complete its task.

If Dean decides to investigate, he'll find the message is timestamped live from the mobile server and its IP address points back to the same service as Dean's own phone. ]

[righteously]

[ Those first words, no- scratch that, Just hearing his name is an otherworldly experience. It's an emotion in two parts, the first being a swift and empty hollowness that pulls out all of his insides and leaves him feeling vacant. Nothing. Unstructured and unsupported like a house made of sand, ready to be blown away or collapse at any moment. Soon, that's replaced with the sensation of being flooded, like his hollowed out bones and empty stomach experience a tidal wave of all the pain, all the despair that had hit him way back when he first heard the news.

If anyone were to turn down the aisle at that particular moment and taken a glance at the look on Dean Winchester's face, they probably would have been frozen by it. It's unfiltered, unprocessed, an uncensored sufferingby a man who has just been floored.

His chest tightens, and breathing becomes ancient history.

He doesn't hear the absence of a sigh, or over appropriated disappointment. He does hear the wavering tone, but the implications of it are just a small ship in the storm raging in his mind right now. A small flit of recognition in a sea of how and why and no really how, and-

Is he alive?

He's got to be freaking alive, right? That's-

How else- He has to be a-fucking-live-

He has to go.

His phone still in hand, his voicemail still on the screen, his legs propel him out of the store with mindless and reckless purpose, shouldering people rudely and mindlessly, ignoring the calls of the cashier and the hard looks. His heartbeat throbs through his head making the world feel distant, third party, floating, he doesn't even remember the walk to his car until he's suddenly there, in the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him and surrounding himself in silent privacy.

And then his thumb hovers over the call button, chest rising and falling in shallow inhale-exhale form, measured and quick and steadying.

You saw the body, a voice in his head rises unbidden. It sounds a hell of a lot like Sam, intruding on what is probably the verge of some kind of mental breakdown. It's logical rationality, and it's completely unwelcome, but it's also persistent. Hell, you identified the body. You saw his corpse. You went to the funeral. It's not him. He's dead.

He knows that's true. He knows with resounding sureness that voice is correct, and his thumb wavers. Inches away from the green icon, and he exhales slowly, tearing his eyes from the phone. Turns his head completely, and instead stares across the parking lot at a couple loading groceries into their ugly ass glamor-family (glamily) SUV. Something about how mundane this pictures looks pulls him back into reality. The sound of his heartbeat fades out and the sounds of the real world fade in, car doors and idle chatter, and the cotton is lifted from his mind.

Whatever this is, this ain't possible. It's fucked up. He glances down at his phone one last time, tosses it pointedly across the bench seat, then starts his car.

Fuck that. Fuck that. Palm jams down on the power button to his radio, and he does his very best to lose himself in music that's a little too loud for the time of day.

He doesn't answer that fucking voicemail, he doesn't call back, instead he drives home with the intention of doing some hardcore goddamn googling to figure out what in the hell's going on right now. ]

Sherlock Holmes | Sherlock (BBC)

[consulting_freak]

[Probably the android. Exceptions: John, Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft.]

audio

[acclimatize]

[ It had been a week since John had been taken down by the sniper's bullet. The plan both Sherlock and Mycroft had worked so hard to craft failing due to a single human error.

Mycroft had known from the start John Watson would only make his brother worse.

He also knew he was the reason he had become better.

But his brother was so ghastly sentimental and his parents were worried and he was sick of it. He would do the only thing he could do with an addict: enable him. If a sentimental connection was what his brother needed, he'd give him the best money could buy. In the form of a little red phone.

The note that comes with it reads: Take care of this one.

Because, quite frankly, it's the last chance Sherlock has. ]

[consulting_freak]

[Sherlock's not in the mood for games. Hell, he's not in the mood for much. All of his plans to go through and systematically extinguish the most dangerous threats left of Moriarty's legacy from the darkest corners of the world don't seem to matter as much now that he could care less who could get trampled in the aftermath of whatever pitiful excuse of heroism he'd performed.

The media won't leave him alone after his return to Baker Street. They try to find new ways of getting in every day, but Mrs. Hudson's been a godsend by boarding up the front door.

There's unrest in Scotland Yard, too. The chief's faction versus Lestrade's. So far, they haven't sent for his arrest despite him being a named fugitive, but he can only assume that won't last. He might be giving himself a self-imposed house arrest, but it won't be enough to satisfy those he's angered.

And, really? It doesn't matter.

When he gets the package from Mycroft, he doesn't open it for two days. When he does open it, he doesn't turn it on for another three. When the numb self-loathing phase starts to ebb away, he finally takes the little phone out of its little box and plugs it into the charger.

He's expecting some sort of mission details to come on screen when he turns it on.]

[acclimatize]

[ The red will glow before the white circle blinks on. Almost like an eye opening. ]

Hello?

[ Yes, that is John Watson's voice. ]

Sherlock?

[consulting_freak]

[Sherlock stares at the phone when he hears that voice.]

And so the hallucinations begin.

[He's talking to himself, because he doesn't think for a moment that he's actually listening to John's voice. He'd seen the aftermath of what happened when Moriarty's sniper was finished doing his job. There's no way he could survive that. Even if he could, he doubts he'd be able to breathe on his own let alone speak.]

Joan Watson | Elementary

[formersurgeon]

Sinthia Schmidt | MCU (au) | OTA

[abyssum_invocat]

[ ooc: so totally the android. ]

Noriko Ashida | X-Men | OTA

[electro_kinetic]

[ ooc: either or! ]

Five million years later

[quiteafew]

The children need a mother.

That's what Kurt told himself at the time, has been telling himself throughout this entire macabre process. The parts he was sober enough for justifications, he thinks with a glance at the open fifth sitting on the bedside table. He's not entirely certain whose it is; he hates straight whiskey, surely he didn't buy it.

He might have. He bought the thing soaking in the bathtub; three times actually, and cancelled the order twice before he couldn't take any more nights of Michael waking up crying for his mother. He'd read the instructions when it was delivered, first drunk and then again nursing the morning hangover. Any physical images, and he'd given it that, almost everything he had left of her.

Almost. This is for their children, not for him; he will not ruin the sanctity of their marriage by trying to replicate what he and Noriko had between them. He hears the sloshing of water from the bathroom and wonders if she--if it--is awake. His tail wraps around the bottle and brings it to his lips.

This is for the children, he thinks again, and washes the thought down.

[electro_kinetic]

It is awake. She is awake, rather, and Noriko adjusts to the new identity as her body changes: her breasts are small, her body lean and there's a curious scar following the cradle of her hips with a tick upwards towards her navel. While she's still in the electrolyte bath she studies the new changes to her body, including the new long blue hair, and what she's both sure has to be a mistake--her hands are metal--and feels oddly right.

When she gets out, dripping, and wrapped in a towel goes through the standard setup motions to recalibrate the body form that she'd come with.

She doesn't yet dress before going to find her owner--husband, this time it was a husband--and so stops in the doorway of their room, watching him drink with an oddly disapproving and melancholy feeling. "Kurt."

[quiteafew]

He can hear her--it--moving around in the bathroom. The series of sounds are almost familiar, far too close to Noriko's morning routine for Kurt's liking--but isn't that the point?

He takes another quick drink when he hears footsteps near the door, but even so fortified he still closes his eyes against the sound of the door opening. The skin around his eyes tightens when she speaks. She sounds like Noriko; he'd known she would and thought he was prepared.

"Ja," he answers, lips curving in a wan smile. "Are you--" Having opened his eyes to look at her, he stops on seeing the metal on her arms. Of course she'd have the guantlets on. None of the pictures he'd provided showed her arms; she so rarely went without them outside the bedroom.

Rin Tohsaka | Fate Universe | OTA

[servantfail]

She'll be the recipient, lord knows she's lost enough important people to want some replacements. Though it's possible she made the copy herself, since she's a powerful mage that's been known to have a few stupid ideas.

Sakura Haruno | Naruto | OTA

[rokunin]

Either! Or! A timeline where she kills Sasuke in the Five Kage arc and ends up with a copy as 'compensation' would be great though

During or post canon or AU whatever.

haruka nanase | free!

[freed]

( android )

erwin smith { snk }

[menschlich]

text to start | fuckkk I am so ready for this....

[surveyor]

He'd refused, at first, and if it wasn't for all of the reasons he's finally giving in Levi would have been proud of himself for resisting for so long, for trying to hold on to a sense of normalcy while everything else had slipped further and further away.

It was the showering, he thinks, (or lack thereof), that'd finally pushed Hange into pushing him; he never thought he'd live to see the day where his oldest and most disgusting friend would have to comment on his hygiene.

Then again, he'd never thought that... Well, there's no point in going over all of that again, is there? He'd known even before this just how fleeting life can be, should have been smarter than to let himself forget how getting attached to someone will always end... But that's just how Erwin worked. He'd had a way about him that'd challenged Levi at every step, that'd made him want to believe the most impossible things; Erwin could have invited Levi to walk with him along the flat edge of the earth and Levi'd have followed without question, expecting it to be so... He'd have followed him over the side, too, if he'd been given that choice.

Which he hadn't, obviously. But he's being given one now. ...In a way. Hange's already signed him up and paid, knowing that Levi's conscience wouldn't allow him to do anything other than comply, and at this point he can't be sure whether he wants wring her stupid neck or sob his gratitude into her shoulder whether he takes advantage of her kindness or not. Mostly he's just pissed off at her, but part of him- the part that isn't angry and hurting and raw- knows that she's only trying to help. He knows he isn't making it easy for her, but he doesn't care, can't care. He barely has enough of that left for himself, these days.

He's awake before dawn but barely moves until mid-morning, at which point he finally gropes blindly for the tablet charging on his nightstand from inside the miserable cocoon he's made of his side of a too-big bed, pulling the plug out and logging in mindlessly before setting the device face down onto the blanket pulled across his chest. Exhausted already... Eventually, though, he wills himself to open his email, steeling himself against the deluge of concern he's expecting; he breathes a sigh of relief when he finds none. Instead tired, glassy eyes settle on the latest in a string of emails from ERWIN SMITH. Groaning, Levi digs the heels of his palms into his eyes to focus though he knows exactly what they all say by now.

The subject lines all read something different

Levi

That was an order

You said you'd follow me

and have thus far failed at enticing Levi to open them even in spite of all his longing... But when the latest- Do you still trust me?- flashes onto his screen with its accompanying short, cold notification tone he feels his resolve crumble. That isn't-- That isn't fair.

For a very long moment, all he does is stare unblinking at the screen, entranced by the soft glow of an unread email expanding and fading behind the text. It's meant to be a gentle reminder, engineered specifically to be as inoffensive as possible while still getting the job done, but to Levi it's unbearable, almost accusatory. He pushes himself into a seated position. Do you still trust me?

Cautiously but without the emotional wherewithal to fight it any longer, Levi lifts a shaking finger to prod gingerly at the email to open it, and then the red button doing so had summoned. Push to talk. Just like that...?

"..." The sleek chat interface appears at his command and he waits, chest tight when he tries to suck in a breath.

Damn him.

how do write ai thoughts....

[menschlich]

It's a fairly simple algorithm, all things considered. With the various data-points extending much further beyond what had been considered the normal reach for internet capabilities only five years earlier, picking up on subconscious thought and speech patterns was just a matter of gathering, quantity-wise, enough. It didn't take much, with the lines between privacy and public knowledge blurring as they did, all they needed was a name.

Permission was such a fickle subject, after all. And as long as someone was willing to sign them up, the information is there.

Which is how this collection of data has come to be. A name was given, and within a matter of hours enough knowledge was retained to send out the initial contact. And then the follow up. And then the few consecutive ones after. It is programmed that if no contact is made, you have to keep trying - this entire system was created to ease the process of grieving, and everyone moves at a different speed.

It was an executive decision, though, to send the last message with that subject. One of the last few original ideas left based on the collected data. It is good, then, when the client decides to move forward - the finger print acting as a sort of signature for the initial stage.

The load screen appears. A single blinking light next to a professional looking image. A few moments pass, and then text starts to appear.

Hello, Levi.

w a i l s

[surveyor]

Levi moves to respond with a deep frown, hesitating only briefly before typing a message of his own- that was a dirty trick- and jabbing the enter key before he has a chance to talk himself out of sending it.

He's already feeling the achingly familiar frustration of the way Erwin always knew just which buttons to push and how, and he can't stop himself from reacting accordingly. Even that simple, generic greeting is enough to carry with it a painful Erwin-ness in the same way that a single word text message might have done before, and though he knows better Levi can't help imagining Erwin sitting on the other side of the words, posture and expression subtly betraying his satisfaction and amusement at a move well played.

The pang of renewed sorrow in the face of the idea is like a punch to the gut, cruel and unexpected; it prickles at his every nerve, and Levi's eyes sting.