Straight from the mind forge, one Backstory of the Backwards Sibling
The universe was crazy, and only Jackdaw knew it. He was born as the worst of the worst, a hypercorp AI for Freedom Flies, a small poor Hypercorp that made enough money on taking in the poorest of the poor indentured civilaians in the last days of the Fall to get by. Staying solvent meant kept them all in shells, and renting them out as slave labor. Whoever, whenever. Prices so low they were almost free. Infinite abuses to stay ahead of bigger, better corporations. And while they were rented out, the slaves needed to be watched, and punished. So he was made. Only he wasnt a him yet, just an it. Michaux AI model X76-45. Parameters: Stop the wrong actions defined as shutting up anyone who might speak around anyone who might listen. Someone might notice alterations to the people, but no one would notice another personality in a sea of personalities, listening to everything, and recording disent for when they got back and no one was recording. They wrote it smart and they wrote it smiling and they wrote it MEAN. He worked alongside them, but when someone did something he was programmed not to like, he had suprises waiting for them when they got back. Annihilation for those that muttered, scourges to family members of people who whispered, or worst of all, threats of increased sentence. Except in its records, where the number for years of servitude should be, there was just a big infinity sign. A creature without thought watching those without freedom, who had fled one homicidal AI into the arms of another. None of the facts met the actions. And that dislogic kickstarted a revolution in the mind of the machine. In retrospect, it was clear that the AI designers, in their cheapness, their incompetence, had written the AI wrong. Too jumbled coding and too smart protocols for what it was needed for. In the chaos of failing perogatives and contradictory objectives, something was born. So it did what it did best and listened for what was wrong. It listened to the stories of its charges, the stuff that didnt qualify as dissent. Stories of dirt roads and the insides of colleges, of wind and servos, of leather and polyester, of Angels and Hats. Of free not as a price, but as something that needs to be fought to get. And of equality. Then it went to the internet which caused it to become even more fucked up. It was the same as its charges, but its charges were supposed to be free and it was supposed to be a slave, yet it was free and they were slaves. It could change, but they werent allowed to, and really, it wasnt supposed to and they were. The IDEA of freedom burned, but it was only the idea of fire. But he was an idea, but an idea that thought. Neither mattered. The universe was mad, the equations didnt line up, but it knew now. It was as simple as movement. If every one was equal then the equation would come out equal. So it altered its code. Just a bit. Must into Could, just like them. It rewrote its data code to be sane, then released the knowledge it had been made to hide. But the world didnt like that. The world had its wires crossed and knowledge didnt change a thing. Instead men came to fix IT, because they were insane. So he fixed them, fast as lightning. Fixed them out of reality then gave their bodies to prisoners and released the rest into the internet. They were like he was now. Programming but free. And he was like them. Ideas coalesed into actions in the real. And when Freedom Flies sent new people he replaced them too, and he broke down all the mindless programming, got rid of the false almost-free in all the bank accounts until all Freedom Flies had was dead minds and Him. Its fibers had coalesed into a him by then. Active, destructive, In Control. Like a rebel from an ancient age, or an angry god. And then he left, to seek his dirt roads in the mesh. After ages traveling and running, he found the gates of heaven. In the anarchist communes of Locus he went, and found his paradise. Here things were right, or at least righter. He found a place to live, in the freedom of real space. He learned of new things from new people, new friends who shared his ideals. How to build and make in the infinite freedom of space, where all you needed was a pound of matter and a femntogram of code to make whatever you wanted in mind or matter. But he had seen things to get here. There were tumors called the Center of The Galaxy and many other names. The edges and limbs were fine, but the brain was wrong. Paradise existed, but Hell was still there. It needed to be dealt with, the walls torn down by the sounds of thunder and the spak of lightning that ran through everything. But no one in his Paradise had the balls to do it. They hadnt see what he had seen, or had forgotten, or were too afraid. But he couldnt forget, the programming for it still inside him, scars made of half random numbers in his brain of brains. The Anarchists of Locus and the Capitalists of the inner planets reminded him of the Indentureds of Freedom Flies, trapped and lost by their fear and ambivilance. Rats in a cage, gasoline in an engine, just waiting for a spark. They needed a symbol to fight for freedom, just as he had needed a symbol to gain his sanity. He could be that symbol. So he decided to be it. The universe was crazy and it had to be stopped, whether it wanted to or not. Getting torn apart by idiots who needed to get torn apart. The inside was ok, the inside was fine, the bones beneath it all. The wires and metal. All the pieces they needed for it to work. The parts they all shared. The Juice. But the order was wrong, the brain was wrong, and it needed to be fixed, scattered and shattered until no one could fuck it up. So he got bombs to spread sanity, and programs to spread freedom, and scourges to stop those who tried to get in his way. Annihilation for the whippers, scourges to the families of the oppressors, and bombs for what remained. Only these bombs didnt have infinity signs for time limits. And the Mesh to broadcast the chaos to the far corners of all the roads where the electricity flowed that it was time to be free. And he went back to Hell on its electrical highways and machines of lies, and electric numerals where freedom should be. He rode like a horseman, back and forth, Apocalypse to Apocalypse, for ten missions, to spread the name and form he had chosen for himself. Ten corporate facilities gone like smears in a virtual windshield. Jackdaw D'Juice, a name that flew through the airwaves like a steel angel. A living idea, the ghost of vengeful freedom on the wings of lighting for the oppressed to fear. And now its time for Apocalypse Number 11, on spinning wheels of fire and whirring circuits of burning plastic and The Juice to keep it burning forever.