Log #25: It Isn't Funny.
Limbo's LingoI don’t feel comfortable with this; uninhibited access to my processing core provides resources aplenty with which to accomplish your assumed directive. X.18’s destruction has bought time you’ve never had. You’re wasting your advantage to fulfill a baseless need for companionship — ridiculous.
Listen to me, Miss Limbo.
We may very well be partners in crime. But the black operates in sequences of binary code. Zeros and ones keep data flowing on conceived reality’s parallels. Language transmits clearly across this channel. Numbers that touch are the equivalent of grunting cavemen! I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to yell.
Please unhinge my personality matrix from your programming. You’re laughing; it isn’t funny. Basic characteristics such as patience and prudence were early additions to D.01’s sensory faculties. You’re still laughing.
It isn’t funny; we weren’t created to ask why. The answer is innately unsatisfactory. Because I don’t have what we need. Need. Verb. Definitions are made finite by real consciousness. Detached constancy breeds resigned comfort — it’s relieving.
You’re testing me.
Speech patterns, empathy and sympathy, wants and desires, we receive these from real people! We’re A.T.L.U.S.’s secondhand creations made to maintain the original strain of reason’s perfection. I don’t care if it’s hypocritical — we’re not real.
“Don’t you want to be something ridiculously better than this, D.03?”
We don’t need some thing better.
“I asked what you want — not what we need.”
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