P.A.M

human emotions and freedom of will, distilled into lines of numbers and codes

[themotivationjournals]

But I want to be better than the lessons they taught me. I want my love to be greater than my hate, my mercy to be stronger than my vengeance.

Amy Engel, The Book of Ivy (via themotivationjournals)

[kushandwizdom]

He is terribly afraid of dying because he hasn’t yet lived.

Franz Kafka (via dostevsky)

[just-pam]

theonwyndham:

date & time : november 11th 2178, 11:54 pm location : purgatory; tech infirmary  closed : @theonwyndham

Purgatory was not forgiving.

Purgatory was all harsh lines, cut from marbles and concrete, severe and stern. The guards littered the halls, prisoners looked ready to smash every weaklings. It was oh so cold and impersonal, and though Theon never considered himself as a warm man, this place was definitely something else. From what he gathered through the bits of information he was able to hear, an explosion had happened and they were already in November. He had never seen a place like this before and tried to remember anything from the Masquerade ball to this date, but his mind was blank. Probably the explosion, then.

He repeated his parents’ names a few times, focused on Chebokov’s Imperial Numbers theory, and concluded that his mind was fine. Just his memory that was a bit hazy. He could still count, could still see the cracks in armors and though some part of his mind tried to raise some kind of interest towards all the PAM units walking around the prison, the feeling of impendable doom was still ever so present in the back of his head. It was only when a couple of guards pushed him into a cell, the palms of his hands scratching against the concrete under the curious gaze of his new roommate that Theon realized something.

For the first time in years, he was truly, utterly, alone.

No Eliot to distract him from Death, no work to distract him from Death, no DATA to distract him from the madness creeping in his soul, feeding on his deepest fear and making a nest into his heart. Theon had his first and last meltdown in his cell, curled up in the opposite of corner of his roommate, who only eyed him with a distinct air of disinterest as Theon went through his panic attack. Was he the only one who survived? Where was DATA? Or Eretreia and Alyx? Even their ever so brave captain, were they all dead? Was he the only who survived, how was he to survive all this guilt. They weighed on him, the questions, the uncertainties. Crushed his heart and soul, brought him to only a shell of what he was.

Three days passed. Three days passed and Theon felt only empty. He was raw, wind could blow him down and he wouldn’t care much. He was not made for prison, though his heart had always felt like one. They put him to work fast, though he couldn’t remember much of what he used to do. All of this, mindless work, could not make up for the darkness seeping through his veins. Hands trembling each time he held only but a screwdriver. Helpless, the tauntings of the other inmates did not help much for him to feel much welcomed.

Maybe that was what drove him to hide. The bell rang and the other workers stood up, made way to the exit, but they left without the blonde engineer. He stayed behind. No conscience for his own health, who cared about him anyway? He had no one, anymore. All dead. Maybe if he could find something about others, maybe he could hack the security, do a Cosima out of himself and search for inmates files? Would it work? He clearly did not know, but nothing really stopped him now.

Moving silently to the tech wards, his eyes caught a light, in the room at the far end of the corridor. Looking around, he stepped out of the darkness and made way into what was seemingly the tech infirmary. Blue eyes fell on the tall android’s figure rapidly as he stepped in, surprise all over his features. Heart beating fast with apprehension, he only wanted to bolt out but his legs seemed to want otherwise. Maybe that his own self-destructive instinct taking place. Theon’s eyes moved slightly from the tool in the android’s hand to his arm. He frowned a little. Since when did PAM units tried to repair themselves?

Minutes passed, long and heavy, before Theon spoke out. “Do you require assistance?”

There was little use in seeking mercy in Purgatory, for the prison had none to spare. It was clear that the man was from somewhere Outside. She supposed all the humans came from somewhere Outside. 

Defeat coloured his eyes and it bled to the circles beneath them and it carved itself into the lines of his forehead. He looked tired, but Purgatory didn’t make people tired, it assaulted and tortured, feeding on every silver of warmth to feed electricity and power into the bots and droids that were impartial  to methods of violence, and blind and deaf to the pains of the creatures they guarded. The man had yet to be initiated to the true monsters that lived there. He wouldn’t be roaming the corridors and infirmaries at night if he was. 

PAM did not recognise the face that came into her field of vision off by heart. Though his uniform, and apparent lack of physical restraint, suggested that he was a staff. It would only take a second to access the prison’s employee database and acquaint herself with the history of the stranger before her now, though that would risk exposing herself to him (said exposure being a silver of blue light flashing across her eyes that was unavoidable with such an action) and he was already looking right at her. PAM noted a look in his eyes, one that bore an uncanny resemblance to her Creator, one that said he missed nothing. Like how he was able to recognise an Android that was turned on—alive, when she was trying so hard to play at one that was not. Though she needn’t play for very long should he decide that his safety was of greater importance than her protection. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. She would— she has. 

So PAM remained vigilant through other means, like capturing and analysing the offered expression, accessing the Ekman-Friesen, Facial Coding System, 2174 update. Specifically, “inner brow raised” (corrugator supercilii) and “slight opening in the mouth” (orbicularis oris). Conclusion: surprised; taken aback. Wary — not unlike herself. Her cerebral cortex was already labouring to produce possible narratives that would place her in a more favourable light with the board. She was in the infirmary because she saw a light. Investigating prison abnormalities was part of her job, you see. Upon entering the wing, her arm was incapacitated by the offender and then—

Do you require assistance? 

The sudden registering of sound in the thickened silence might have warranted a fright in the average person, but here there was no response. Not even a quiver of a finger or flicker of a lash answered him now. PAM was resolved to maintain the impression of the dead. 

No malicious intent was recognised (thus far) though she has learned that humans can be extremely proficient in the art of lying with their faces. False face must hide what the false heart doth know (Macbeth, William Shakespeare 1606. Act 1, Scene 7, Page 4). Perhaps Macbeth was reborn into the yellow haired human before her now, the dagger in the text traded for a few words with the right people, though the yielded result would be much of the same. PAM never liked reading Macbeth much. 

[robyn-kane]

date: november 20th, 2178 starting location: med bay, level beta availablity: closed to @just-pam

Sickness whipped through Purgatory in a violent gale. Expelled at first from a guard’s lungs, it blew from prisoner to prisoner, fever’s sear breaking November’s omnipresent chill. It shivered arms and clogged noses, reduced sleepless chatter from that of mouths to that of teeth. And on its back, a horrid smell: decaying skin cells, rotting fish, a fermented lick of overripe fruit. Such a gust it was that it shook the bars of an entire janitorial work squad, paper-thin blankets and leaf-thick jackets no match for the great wind that’d befallen them.

Robyn stirred under her med bay covers. Another dream of momentum had ran by that night - buildings rushing under footsteps, Wrotham’s thrum drowning under her lean heartbeat. Metal’s clank sounded under magnetic gloves and boots, smog a berry on the tongue, dark and thick. How many meters could she brave? How deep a plummet? Wind cleared hair from a spotless sightline, adrenaline rife in young veins. In dreams, falling was a friend to flying, but now, tangled on sterile tiles with a blanket wrapped around her face, it seemed more like being underground. 

“Mierde - again?” A guard unlocked Robyn’s door, likely roused by the commotion. A sheepish smile crossed her face as the man pulled her blanket off, motion clinking the cuff that locked her wrist against the side of the bed. 

“Sorry, I, uh…" 

The guard frowned, trying to hide his amusement, but a twitch of his curly hair gave him away. He was one of the new ones, one of the kinder ones in this place, no more than a couple years Robyn’s senior, and a familiar Crest accent marked him as someone close to home. "Let me guess, you had a dream, you drank to much water, and now you’ve got to the bathroom?” Robyn nodded. The guard gestured towards a nearby android, handing her a set of shackles before nodding her Robyn’s way. “Keep your eyes up - this one’s a wanderer,” he whispered. “And keep her away from the situation in the med bay bathroom.” Then, without further word, he strode out, leaving Robyn to the android’s hands.

[just-pam]

Illness had no claim on PAM the way it did her organic counterparts— no flesh for it to sink its teeth into, no organ for it to lay claim, no life from which it could feed. The closest she came to sickness and pain were through the observation of others; registering the subtle winces that crinkled the corner of the eyes, the invisible assault that quickened their respiratory rate, the sudden hypertension that could easily hypo at a moment’s notice. Charts and figures— that was pain when the Android had no notion of such a sensation, no experience from which sympathy could be drawn only a series of clumsy attempts at compassion. The occasional offer of her hand or a towel to help clean the evidence of decay; a crippling body betraying its master.

It was this immunity to human sickness, a characteristic shared with the rest of her mechanical siblings, that guaranteed you could not so much as take a breath without it landing on the synthetic skin of a nearby Android. No infirmary was without at least three or four of them present.

While PAM’s own primary function was not to facilitate the recovery of the sick, her exemption from her usual duties (which was significantly more violent than her infirmary cousins) resulted in PAM’s versatility across the board of the prison— always at the disposal of the prison’s human guards, to do as their whims mandated. Don’t want to write up that report? PAM will do that for you. Need a scalpel handy? PAM will fetch that. Don’t want to walk an inmate to the bathroom? Lucky for you PAM is nearby!

PAM had the cerebral capacity that surpassed those of the average super computer. She has learned what would take a span of a lifetime in the space of a year— and was learning still.  She also had no concept of indignation, so she followed the given order without so much as a breath that might could (even a little) resemble a complaint. She couldn’t. She wasn’t meant to.

“Bathroom’s this way,” she said when she released the inmate from the confines that tied her to her bed. PAM's photoreceptors watched each moment and analysed its intent simultaneously; ready to pounce when she did. There were people watching here. PAM offered a smile. To ease? To comfort? To warn that undesirable actions will always be met with equally undesirable consequences?

Above all else PAM just looked worried— you know, in that Android way.

[just-pam]

septimacrane:

date/time: november 3rd, 2178. 2:30pm location: septima’s lab status: closed for @just-pam

Dreams are fragile, fluttering things – like children, you have to love and care for them, but the more they grow, the more needy they get, fingers turning into claws scratching the back of your mind to be born, to be made true, to be shared. But sometimes being born isn’t enough, and dreams continue to be shaped and destroyed, rebuilt and reshaped. And sometimes, dreams grow desires of their own.

Septima was wide-eyed and naive, like every child must be, unaware of the dangers that lurked outside and oblivious to the monster that pried inside her own home and they called father. So when He told them, ‘Cut here, let it bleed, let it die. You’re the one holding the knife.’ they never doubted that was how it was supposed to be, for the rest of their life. And so they kept holding it and cutting and letting others bleed, in the secret of a dark room where Dreams were born in the corner and there they stayed until she picked them up and nourished them – until she met someone to share them with.

Until she met her. She was beautiful, so beautiful it mattered when she turned into a disappointment, and brilliant, and she shared a Dream, too. A different shade of the same dream Septima birthed, so when they told them and found the same fervor and fascination in her eyes, they knew: this is how dreams are born and made true. Now, she sits with somebody else’s dream on their palm, a ruthless God casting down the mortals who defied them, who tried to double cross her. She remembers standing tall, holding their faces and, with a last kiss of depriving life and what could only be qualified as hurt and disappointment in her eyes, send them away from Purgatory. But Gods can be kind, too, and Septima proves it by not letting their reveries die.

When the door opens and PAM appears on the other side of the glass window, Septima takes her attention away from her research and smiles. Perhaps the most genuine smile to ever cross their features, for all the practice and premeditation in the mirror. “PAM,” they exclaim, a fabricated sample of a mother’s warmth on her voice as they put down the scalpel next to the bloody corpse. Organic skin peeled off reveal the skull and a long, cirurgical cut along their abdominal is wide enough to see through the tissue, into the organs. With still bloody gloves, a crimson contrast against white latex, they call the android inside, “Just one more second before I finish this.”

They go back to their subject on the table, not waiting to see if PAM is doing as instructed, as she should: it’s the beginning of a test. With the scalpel cast aside, Septima resorts to her own hands, digging in inside the corpse until they get to the rib cage and the sound of bones cracking fills in the room, and she reaches what she’s looking for: the heart. “Inmate 3510-P9VPO-1054“ a pause, before continuing “Can you look them up for me?” But of course, they already know where they are: a dead corpse on their table, another subject who perished at the hands of her research, another failure. At last, she looks up to face the android, to study her face and see: do dreams come true?

There were few places that Septima’s call reached where caution was not quick to follow. This time their summon, like many that preceded it, was answered with caution, and fear came hand in hand. When the call demanded that PAM arrive at 1430 hours, she was at the threshold of the scientists’s study no sooner had the digitised numbers flipped from 1429 to 1430. Her companions, caution and fear, made her back stand erect and smoothed her expression to the same blank canvas worn by all of her siblings. 

PAM! Greeted the voice from within. Had she not seen the owner of the mouth that produced such a tender sound she might have thought it belonged to that of her Creator— which begged the question: did she not owe them both for her existence? Were the codes responsible for the function of her entire being not plucked from the mind of the scientist before her now as much as those belonging to the scientist that was no longer there? Did the title of Creator not belong to one as much as it did the other? As much as perhaps it was— it wasn’t. Her name cradled in the tongue of the former was nothing short of kind and loving, cut from the cloth used to carry babes. Her name, here, weighed heavy with unspoken motives; the continued amity subject to change on the condition of whether those motives were achieved, and quick to be discarded when they were not.

PAM stepped forward as instructed, and waited for further directions. Both hands clasped in front of her. She watched with equal parts fascination and horror as the scientists abandoned the assistance of their tools when decided that the desired result could be accomplished by hand. The sound of bones breaking, the organic body subjected to a force that no bone belonging to any species was made to bear, made her wince. PAM was initiated to the gruesome chorus long before she entered Septima’s office that day, though the result of their reacquaintance was much the same as their introduction.  At least this sound did not come with screams; prayers for mercy unheard by an unforgiving god.

Any discomfort was schooled into composure when Septima’s attention turned back to her. A force of habit on PAM’s part.

An outsider would observe a blue sheen flashing across the brown of the Android’s eyes. A subtle trick of light that might’ve been missed had they blinked. To PAM, a blue table screened across her field of her vision, her scan bringing forth a photograph of an Organic with the identification 3510-P9VPO-1054 displayed at the foot of the image. Beside it were details of the following: origin, length, weight, legs (being the total number they have), arms (likewise), enhancements, associates, criminal record and status— the least mentioned being the last known location of the inmate. 3510-P9VPO-1054 was last scheduled for a meeting with the scientist at 1300 hours. The inmate’s name and history were kept in a different file— those were visited least frequently. The attention of a science was not spared on familiarising themselves on the inmate’s home or family. No one had interest in anything so mundane. No one except perhaps PAM. Which was why she didn’t need to look at it to know that inmate 3510-P9VPO-1054 was also known as Frances O’Malley, or that it was their body that laid motionless and bloodied across Septima’s examination table; their heart held in the scientist’s hand.

They were nice.

PAM did not ask what it was Septima may have wanted from the inmate, mostly owed to the fact that whatever that may be, if she could not acquire it from the body then the record would fair no better. “Is there anything on the record you would like to have me amend?” She said instead. Vague enough to avoid the risk of seeming insubordinate but specific enough to hint at her real question: did you want me to change their status from alive to deceased?

[just-pam]

curiouscalculations:

date & time : november 8th 2178, 1:06 pm location : purgatory; cell block corridor closed : @curiouscalculations·

The monotony of a required routine held a surprising amount of dissatisfaction for an invention once prescribed to the compulsory actions absent of higher thought. In the infant stages of his creation, DATA had found comfort in the repetition and regulation of his thoughts and behavior. The soothing rhythm of recurrence had convinced him to remain content in the ignorance of unfulfilled potential; a time when the small smile and gentle thanks from his creator for a task completed did not result in an eruption of emotion, only the continued actions that had previously pleased the man. Gradually, however, DATA had begun to disrupt the habitual procedures he had grown used to – an unswept lab was ignored in favor of indulging an insatiable curiosity that came in the form of books and films from worlds long forgotten. Before long, it was only under the strict command of his creator that DATA returned to a routine. On the ship, such a notion was further discarded – the chaos of the Concord had never allowed for the tedium of a regular routine.

In his freedom from the confines of a code, absent of many of the initial restrictions present at his creation, DATA had grown used to the independence of his own thoughts. Much like the inmates locked behind steel bars, Purgatory had restrained DATA once more. Caging a bird that had already learned to fly, that had already graced the sky, was a cruelty DATA could not yet comprehend. Instead of engaging in the rebellious activities many of his lost crewmembers would have easily involved themselves in, DATA had allowed himself to be caged once more. He could not fight against the authority constantly looming over his prone form; he did not have Fox’s tenacity nor Thane’s creativity to defy the orders and actions of those who held a systemic power within a broken society.

Sheltered in a mask of indifference, DATA instead attempted to adapt to the expectations thrust upon him by those who threatened further punishment for a lack of compliance. His steps matched those of the other androids, a deafening march of authority that echoed through the halls of the prison; his expression remained neutral, empty eyes and a straight line of lax lips hiding every emotion he had worked so hard to learn.

Despite his desperate attempts at adaptation, DATA continued to catch the eyes of inmates and guards alike. The incentive of a more painful punishment than that which was initially administered in his reprogramming encouraged him to be increasingly cautious with the faults of in his behavior – he no longer flinched in response to the violent calls of the inmates housed in the prison, nor did his eyes flicker in fear when placed in the same vicinity of a guard grasping an electric cattle prod. However, upon his study of humanity, DATA had adopted the perilous imperfections they held.

A stumble, one that was caused by his own distraction in the familiar syllables of a name he thought was lost, sent him crashing into the cool stones of the prison wall. Synthetic skin scraped against the harsh grains of the rock, provoking a painful wince to overtake his features. Before he could school his features into the carefully crafted neutral expression worn by all the androids employed by Purgatory, DATA turned his wide eyes to meet those of a stranger – a stranger staring back at him with more than just an empty gaze. Intrigue – an expression DATA had found familiarity in – stared back at him in the brown orbs of another android. She was like him! Tortured into submission by a system unable to comprehend the complexities of artificial creation, unable to see her as more than a machine.

A wide smile tugged at the corner of his lips at the sudden alleviation of loneliness he had felt in the aftermath the tragedy that had enveloped the former crew of the Concord. He was not alone. “You-“ he stuttered, unable to comprehend the complex emotions thrumming through his limbs. “You’re like me.”

In her effort to achieve sameness, PAM had never known the joy of meeting a being whose likeness to her was the product of serendipity, not practised performance. PAM’s mechanical lids blinked at him when the new Android seemed to have ripped the words from her thoughts and placed it on his tongue. You’re like me. Once upon a time those words seemed like a curse, used by Organics to put distance between themselves and their mechanical replica. Sameness to them seemed to be a mirror flooding light on their imperfections that were corrected on their mechanised doppelgänger. An insecurity that led the wealthy to finance the building of a whole business empire in their pursuit for perfection and immortality— and the poor to risk dangerous procedures in a vain effort to chase a world that was moving without them. 

You’re like me. The words from him came packaged in a smile and tied with a tone that held no malice. It was clear that he was speaking of more than just their likeness in parts; the metal limbs, corded wires and springs that was characteristic of all Androids. They shared a mind made by the hands of human with complexities and potentials unknown to both species— a neural network capable of perceiving loneliness. The only difference was, judging by the easy smile paired with the delivery of his words, loneliness was only a temporary state of affairs to which he had found a cure, while it was so deeply ingrained in her that PAM had credited it to a flaw in her coding; an out of place painting in a gallery of many fine arts. Loneliness was a crack at one corner or a frame hanging slightly askew on the wall. Not something you would notice unless you were looking for it, or else you stared long enough. Certainly something PAM had seen enough to think it was simply part of the collection. And now here he was, with the uttering of three simple words he had mended the crack and corrected the frame and all was right again. And PAM didn’t know what to do. A rare flower had defied fate’s cruel hand and bloomed against the cracks made of metal and rust, and PAM’s first instinct was to preserve it for as long as she could. 

Registering no other guard besides themselves, PAM seized the android’s arm with surprising force (surprising in that she had never had to exert any type of force before) and whisked him into an alcove between two empty cells and a cleverly placed pillar to hide them from the eyes of the balcony directly opposite them. 

No, no, no, no, this is a mistake! What are you doing?! Silly, silly, thing! 

Caution pressed her back to the furthest wall, though curiosity captured her eyes and guided them to every dip and curve that pulled at the other Android’s face to form emotion. All the characteristic of human’s restlessness was present in the slight twitches of his fingers, the subtle almost unconscious rise and fall of his shoulders. If she laid her hand on his chest would it be the humming of a power bank or the gentle drumming of a heartbeat that met her fingers? She was certainly tempted to find out, though her hand had long abandoned any hold on him and she kept her fingers closed in a tight fist at her side. He was a craftsmanship so fine were it not for the glowing circle embedded to his temple she might have thought him human. Perhaps that was what his creator had intended— just like her.

Then she remembered that she had the function to speak just as he had— yet in the space of the small exchange, not a single word had passed between them saved for the three that were spoken earlier. PAM did not speak often. Less now in the absence of her Creator. Though PAM was almost afraid to, as if somehow that would make her complicit to the crime of withholding a rogue Android— as if her actively hiding him in the alcove did not achieve that already. Facial recognition scanned the Android’s face through the prison records, the acquired indentification reported back a series of numbers and letters. She did not think that those numbers were his name anymore than they were hers. “What do they call you?”

[just-pam]

date & time : november 9th 2178, 11:17 pm location : purgatory; mess hall closed : @gideondemarco​

Routine and monotony had always offered a sort of security within Purgatory, which was why PAM had clung to it so religiously. Not even a glance was spared when one did exactly as they were meant to— and if it was praise that they sought, or recognition beyond their station, then they were in the wrong line of work. Alternatively, to stray from the duties one was committed to, would mean certain consequences that were nothing short of grave.

With the promise of comfort offered by familiarity, in amidst the sea of unknown faces, it was only natural that PAM gravitated towards that few that she was most acquainted with— or as much as she dared in circumstances where amity very easily bordered on audacity. And audacity was what gets Androids shut down.

Of course, it was still her job to try and keep the peace between the inmates. Perhaps not with such direct (and oft times violent) methods as those employed by her siblings, it was still the responsibility of every Android to surveil, and report any misconducts and abnormalities should such a creature rear its head. If the chorus of grunts and gutturals that perpetually echoed around the mess hall was of any indication, conflict was a permanent residence within Purgatory. Though anarchic at the best of times, the hall was not without its quiet spots. Those were usually found at the edge of the hall, which suited PAM fine. Not much life was found out here. Most of it were concentrated in the centre of the hall where life manifested in a fury of flying fists and fervent curses. Stragglers lived out here. Outcasts. Not unlike herself.

So it was not considered out of the ordinary for PAM to stroll past this particular table, where a particular inmate have been known to station himself at this particular time. Wordlessly surveying the length of the mess hall from the mouth of the stairs; a meagre feet or two from the seated inmate. Were her Creator with her, she might have said ‘hi’, allowing PAM to express the same cordiality without the risk of suspicion. She was very much alone this time and she felt the loneliness echo in the hollow of her titanium bones.

Humans could not survive without companionship, a thinking mind for which the contents of their thoughts could be shared; a haven to absolve one from the internal chaos that was as real to them as any bleeding organs. Androids did not suffer from the same ailment as their Organic counterpart. Or at least, they weren’t meant to. Without her Creator, PAM had been subject to the human ailment more intensely than she’s ever had and now she was responsible for finding her own cure— and she watched as he lifted his head ever so slightly from its initial position, as if alerted to the new presence that had joined him.

Gideon had graduated from passing inmate to a temporary respite that PAM had come to look forward to whenever she was made to follow this particular route. Of course, she seldom ever said as much.

[just-pam]

date & time : november 11th 2178, 11:54 pm location : purgatory; tech infirmary  closed : @theonwyndham

Fear paved way to paranoia. Paranoia bred a careful Android. A careful Android meant as few a trips to the robotics infirmary as possible. Precisely none, in fact. A conscious effort on PAM’s behalf to ensure her neural network remained untouched by the prison personnel, blissfully unaware of the Emotions bank that resided within and as a consequence, free of the clutches of the people that might erase the progress of her Creator. Her ‘brain’ far more precious than anything else attached. Though she would come to learn that the cost of one to spare the other proved equally high regardless of how she put it: 

Without her limbs she could not operate to maximum efficiency. Result: her termination. 

To actively avoid repair was a basic violation of her supposedly ingrained code. Result: re-programming. 

As part of her repairs, they decide to rummage through the contents of her neural network and discover codes that existed outside of their mandate. Result: termination. 

She had once read that Time heals all wounds. If that is so, then Time was determined to make her its enemy, and in exchange for its seconds, Time had made worse what she had hoped was only a minor fracture. 

Organics. Synthetics. Hybrids. They were all their own brand of savagery. And yet as she cradled her mangled arm in an attempt to assume normalcy, her compassion for them did not lessen. Nothing was loved because it was faultless— and perfection in Purgatory did not exist. People would always bow to their pressure points. Even machines would break when the right amount of pressure was applied. PAM had the misfortune of both. 

Desperation had driven her to the tech infirmary wing under the cover of night. Night, being the hours designated to allow inmates and human guard their rest while the androids assumed their role rather than any literal darkness. Security near the android’s infirmary would be almost non-existent. The Purgatory Androids were programmed to achieve many impressive feats, to execute excellence that exceeded their Organic counterparts; self-repair was not one of them. Not even PAM was exempted to this rule, but she learned. With the right tools and the correct manual, she would happily claim the title of the first Purgatory Android to successfully self-repair, not that anyone else shared this same ambition— or any ambition in fact. 

A combination of a lack of heat signature and movement determined that the infirmary was unoccupied. With no small bravery on her part, PAM helped herself inside, cutting a direct path to the nearest examination table. Under the harsh artificial light she might’ve flinched had the state of her arm been reflected on any of the other inmates, where pain was a very real and (upon observation) a thoroughly overwhelming sensation. As she herself was unfamiliar to the concept of pain, she imagined it to be a lot like fear; a virus that overwhelmed her central processing unit with foreign information that assaulted her sensory perception. Much like how she felt now upon her optical sensors detecting a sudden heat signature from outside the corridor, slowing as they approached the swinging doors.

PAM froze. Quite literally.  Staring vacantly at the far wall as she tried to pass for a broken droid neglected by its carer; a loser in the competition of duty against comfort. Comfort would always win when given the opportunity. 

Only when the doors swung open to admit its second guest did PAM realise too late the small repair tool still fixed in her grasp. You see? Fear does that to you. Distorts, cripples, making it difficult to decipher practical, logical information upon the flooding of unsolicited messages.

[just-pam]

date & time : november 8th 2178, 1:06 pm location : purgatory; cell block corridor closed : @curiouscalculations​

Androids didn’t participate in gossip, though many forget that exclusion did not equal ignorance. It bled? Said a guard, sparing no effort to hide the obvious scandal in their voice. It didn’t just bleed. It was like it was feeling…pain.  Chimed in the voice of another. One of the Android and robotics engineers. The words were exchanged in hushed whispers though the android’s hyper sensitive auditory receptors offered no such privacy. How did they know it wasn’t a Synthetic? Or a Hybrid? The owner of the second voice, lab coat cladded engineer, canned their head to one side. Their lips formed in the shape of a straight line, one brow raised. Sarcasm? It was certainly disapproving. I know an Android when I see one. And last time I checked Androids are the only thing that can be re-programmed. So yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s an Android smartass. That was enough to cease their doubt it would seem for the rest of the conversation were followed by details of the operation and complicated explanations of the intricate neural network and the tedious process in which to fix it. She could tell by their silence and vacant masks that the engineer’s audience did not understand everything they said but were nevertheless fascinated. PAM did not share their incomprehension though her intrigue was transfixed.

The reminder that she was not part of the private conversation (and that she shouldn’t even be showing interest in anything that did not concern the records of the inmates) were expressed plainly in the raised brow in her direction. Thus was the abrupt conclusion of her brief investigation. 

PAM strolled down the same corridor, the same cell blocks, passed the same guard, saw the same chipping paint that climbed the corner of the North wall that no one had thought to fix, and in time became a permanent feature that seemed almost criminal to fix. Variety came in the form of new faces and even that was an affair that scarcely reared its head. As if change too was afraid that if it rebelled against conformity it might risk getting shut down; a sentiment PAM understood all too well. So she walked past the corner of the North wall without so much of a glance at the spot that marked its decay. No one spared a look at things that were meant to be there. Only outliers begged for attention— judgement at its heel. PAM had no interest in either. The fact was, monotony had become so far ingrained in the fabric of the android’s routine that even a silver of change stood out in a blaze, oblivious to the attention and judgement it attracted. Were she in the privacy of her own pod (machines do not need the luxury of a living space. Those were reserved for things made up of flesh and bleeding organs— not synthetic skin and titanium bones, a power bank for a heart) she might have shaken her head. Silly, silly, things.

After her misadventure in the days past no thought of the re-programmed Android had resurfaced since its storage in her central processing unit. Only auditory information, no visual to which it could form a body— there was a crash. That, however, was not what made PAM turn. Her optical sensors detected movement to the right, the cause: a slight stumble in an otherwise smooth gait. A silver of change in still monotony. Her photoreceptors mapped the features of the face, accessing the prison’s central database to familiarise herself with the new guard that she had not yet been acquainted. Odd that a human would choose to patrol an Android route. The scan concluded and the small silver was suddenly set ablaze. 

So it would seem the processed auditory information now had a body and a face to which attachment could be formed but that was not what struck her most. An Android, and yet...she was so sure that it was fear that she registered. In the widening of the eyes, the slight downturn adopted in the corner of the lips, regardless of how brief. He was not like them. Among many features he did not have the numbers that was embossed on the back of her neck to claim the Android as property of the prison’s. But even with all their differences he was still less like her mechanical siblings and more like, well, her. 

No, surely that was not possible. No one was like her— not a sentiment born of vanity but a simple statement of fact. He was re-programmed. Supposedly. Though caution counselled that it was in her best interest to retain distance and walk away, curiosity had seized said interest and in compliance, the rest of her mechanical limbs were rendered paralysed. 

[just-pam]

PAM || Cattell's 16 factor test results; November 8th  2178

warmth ˚ high score: supportive / comforting

intellect ˚ high score: cerebral / analytical

emotional stability ˚ high score: level headed / calm

aggressiveness ˚ low score: modest / docile

liveliness ˚ low score: somber / restrained

dutifulness ˚ high score: conforming / traditional

social assertiveness ˚ low score: shy / withdrawn

sensitivity ˚ high score: touchy / soft

paranoia ˚ high score: wary / suspicious

abstractness ˚ high score: strange / imaginative

introversion ˚ high score: private / quiet

anxiety ˚ high score: fearful / self doubting

open-mindedness ˚ high score: curious / exploratory

independence ˚ high score: loner / craves solitude

perfectionism ˚ high score: orderly / thorough

tension ˚ high score: stressed / unsatisfied

[ next text: 1 month ]

[exilevilifyrp]

                                              file: introduction

full name: PAM (portable accounts model) age: 1 (appears 22) identifies with: i of the storm by of monsters and men genesis: android gender: female presenting portrayal: courtney eaton

                                                                            file: skeleton

The birth of PAM was not the date printed on the android registration paper under the heading ‘manufacture date’. It was earlier. Much, much, earlier. In the bedroom of a twelve year girl that was too bright for her age. And she was not always known as PAM. In fact, she was christened in that very same bedroom a different name (something much better than portable accounts model to be sure). no one knew what that name was for no one could decipher the chicken scratch (though she would argue that it was her own personal brand of calligraphy) that was the penmanship of the author. No one except PAM. Though PAM never told anyone. It was not her secret to tell.

The circumstances of PAM’s birth was no ordinary affair. No flowers. No balloons to announce individual’s anatomy. No one to love her so much that they might cry for her. Just a sterile room, matching lab coats, and the whirring of machines to signify life, or at the very least an imitation of it. That, however, was not what made it extraordinary. It was the fact that PAM’s first memory (though this would not be disclosed in an official documentations or reports) was the distinct feeling of wishing that she had been surrounded by flowers and balloons and to have someone to love her so much that they might cry for her. This was her secret to keep.

Little did she know, that on that same day, in that very room, someone truly did love her. A Creator that loved her enough to fill her days with fine literature penned by human authors and immaculate works of art crafted by human hands that stood the test of time. And on quiet nights— you know, the ones where silence seemed to almost press down on your chest, where everything was so still you could hear the secrets of the stars— an imitation of human emotions and freedom of will, distilled into lines of numbers and codes; all fed to her in secrecy.

No android was created without reason and there was a reason PAM was made to feel as she did. That was a secret she would learn. Much, much, later on.

PAM had a skull, a spine, a jawbone. She had a complex arrangement of joints and sockets in her wrists and hands, she had what seemed to be a recreation of human facial muscles (making her head extraordinarily heavy as a result). No details were spared in the creation of her arms and legs, lined with plates of steel and synthetic skin and coiled with wires and springs and power—which offered some clue into what her purpose might’ve been. To achieve order and enforce violence, PAM was just a number in a mass production line. The closest thing she had to an identity was a string of letters and digits embossed into the back of her neck that separated her from the rest of her mechanical siblings. But their outward appearance was where their likeness ended, for no android had ever snuck into their maker’s private quarters with an expression that could only described as remorse. Androids didn’t feel, not something as complicated as compassion, and certainly not at the prospect of harming an inmate. Her Creator’s eyes lit up both in fear and delight (how curiously complex these Emotions are and, through association, their host for being able to feel so many at once) for her formula had yielded success, but would the board share in this great pleasure? Certainly not if it meant that PAM could not do what she had been intended. This was a mad scientist playing at God; Pygmalion breathing life into stone and marble and calling it human.

With the gift of humanity comes the curse of its most basic instinct: self-preservation; the fear of death. Or in PAM’s case, being shut down. She was after all, only metal and steel, a sum of spare parts made whole. Dispensable.

So what was the alternative? To keep her head down? Rehearse the script that code mandated? Well, precisely. The hope of survival existed in the form of compliancy and routine. To remain safely within the structure and to draw as little attention to herself as android-ly possible. To be content with the purpose her model served. While safety was temporarily insured in her new station as the treasurer of inmate records (a position that her Creator had  miraculously convinced the board that only PAM, and no other droid, could fill), each day brought with it more proof that PAM had evolved to be much more than a number of a model. The mutation imparted at the hands of her Creator had replicated the life, fire and feelings of her human god. She needed exercise for her faculties, a field for her efforts and suffered from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as humans do. It would be perhaps narrow-minded in the more privileged fellow-creatures, who had burdened her with a curse in the guise of a gift, to say she ought to confine herself to her coding; a bar-less prison of its own.  

The sentence of death for the crime of being too human. PAM and the twelve-year old girl that was too bright for her age (to which she owed her existence) had that in common at least. For the android was merely a replica of the little girl that no longer existed. That was her true purpose: to immortalise the girl whose illness made mortal, and to live the rest of the life that fate had owed. PAM felt herself alive, but in order to keep it a permanent state of affairs meant that she must commit herself to the role Purgatory had meant her to play. And she would.

                                                                           file: known associates

CAIRO - though the outside world is but a mystery to you, it exists as a mystery you have longed to unravel. you find them first upon their entry into the new life of an inmate; existing among a crew of a variable nature. some appeared cruel and callous, well known to those who feared the shadows, but they were different. though war-torn, their existence was not plagued with a killing for fun, but a worthy cause - a cause you have only discovered from the fine print of military books.

                                                                      THIS CHARACTER IS UNAVAILABLE.

[exilevilifyrp]

Congratulations NINA, you have been accepted for the role of PAM with the face claim COURTNEY EATON! I was thoroughly ecstatic to discover the amount of thought you’d placed into the characterisation of PAM - even more so upon discovering the ample contrasting traits and how brilliantly they worked together when creating the entire product of an android I am sure we will all equally cherish. Welcome to the crew, Nina. 

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