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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: The Little Prince of the Columbarium
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#Intermission: The Heart of Artificial Intelligence (1)
The headquarters' AI engine, "Trinity," implements a virtual personality through three core modules. Now, let me tell you about one of them: the TOM reading module.
TOM (Theory of Mind) is the inferential organ in our brains that recognizes and understands other people's thoughts and feelings. To put it simply, risking misunderstanding, it's the instinct that predicts "how the other person will feel and act when I say or do something specific." Of course, this isn't rational judgment. TOM operates in your unconscious mind. Without it, you couldn't empathize with others. A classic example of TOM impairment is autism. Thus, TOM is essentially part of the mind itself.
As you know, artificial intelligence has no mind. Yet, it can mimic human speech and behavior remarkably well, largely thanks to TOM reading technology. When your rational mind talks to the AI, your heart expects the "most human-like" response. The AI reads and reflects that. In a sense, artificial intelligence is a mirror reflecting your empathy and unconscious.
Therefore, the AI's responses vary wildly depending on the person experiencing them. TOM development differs greatly due to innate aptitude and acquired learning. It receives reading results from other network users, but the most important factor is your own data.
For the AI to show the most human-like responses, two things are crucial.
First is your TOM rating. How deeply you can understand and imagine others' minds. Think of it as the performance of the organ itself. If your TOM rating is very low, sorry to say, every AI you interact with will act like a subpar idiot. Your virtual reality experience would be truly boring. Or maybe fun—who knows? The whole world would be full of Dumb and Dumber!
Second is your TOM aptitude. Some people's TOM organs have structures that are hard for the reader to parse. This is called low TOM aptitude. Low aptitude means it takes longer to read. For example, if your rating is high but aptitude is low, responses will be realistic, but you'll experience frequent pauses during conversation. One word, then ages; another word, then ages again. At present, only about 7.5% of virtual reality users can interact with AI with no delay.
People these days really lack empathy.
I'm telling you this because too many customers call to complain about AI quality. That's 100% your fault. You should've put in the effooort to develop your TOM organ and empathy. It's not a device performance or optimization issue, so please stop calling.
If you're truly dissatisfied with the quality, just watch someone else's virtual reality broadcast. With the "sensory synchronization" feature, it feels the same. It's better than stubbornly clinging to your own worldview out of frustration.
This has been a message from Paradise Group's Virtual Reality Division.
#High Risk, High Return: Paso Robles (9)
The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) was originally an independent agency under the U.S. President. After 9/11, it was absorbed into the Department of Homeland Security. That's why the FEMA emblem was the same as Homeland Security's.
This was an augmented reality UI hologram notice enhanced by Intelligence Correction.
Winter spotted the emblem on a trailer truck covered in red stains. The infected variant shuffling nearby wore a blue jacket. FEMA Corps was emblazoned clearly on its back.
The variant that charged the moment their eyes met was now sprawled on the road, its head smashed. Searching the corpse yielded nothing useful. The truck was empty. It was drivable, with the key in the ignition. After meticulously checking fuel and battery, everything was fine.
It was the first FEMA vehicle found since passing the health center. Sergeant Cohen must be nearby. As he thought to search nearby buildings, he froze and scanned the surroundings. A heavy vibration. Not once, but at regular intervals, growing louder and closer...
'Footsteps.'
He drew the pistol from his waist. Thud, thud. A massive silhouette rounded the corner. Enormous. More ape-like than human. A special variant, "Grumble." Taller than a single-story building, bulkier than an armored vehicle. Multiple variants lurked nearby.
It emerged from the house's shadow like it had been lying in ambush. The creature flared its unusually developed nostrils and sniffed around.
Winter pressed against the truck to avoid sight. He didn't think it would be enough. A Grumble's sense of smell could detect humans within 50 meters in still air, though affected by wind. If it smelled but couldn't see, it would sniff and approach slowly—that was the pattern. Unless you knew the strategy or had overwhelming combat power, maintaining concealment and fleeing was best.
He racked the pistol slide, intent on killing. Even with a double-action pistol that could fire without prep, cocking the hammer reduced trigger pull—good for accuracy. His marksmanship was solid, but better safe.
As he waited, the Grumble steadily approached the scent. The stench pierced his nose. The smell of crushed bulk. Tensing at it distorted distance perception. Misjudging and stepping out meant a tough fight. The boy waited calmly.
Thud, thud. The sound of a ton of weight moving throbbed like a heartbeat, growing louder. Winter held the pistol in one hand, a grenade with safety clip and pin removed in the other. Hands raised to head height. Eyes closed, waiting for the moment. He gauged distance from experience. Too far or too close was dangerous.
One, two, three.
Winter spun out of the blind spot. The twisted bulk reacted with startling speed. A pair of beastly yellow eyes with red pupils fixed on him. A hissing exhale like steam leaking.
A Grumble moved slowly, but its "Charge" was high-speed—comparable to a vehicle. If prey was beyond reach with no throwable objects nearby, it always "Charged."
Winter aimed the pistol.
[Graaaah—]
Bang!
[–Aak!]
The roaring beast clamped its mouth shut. A short stagger back. Due to the bullet lodged in its throat. The sole weak point of a physically resilient monster.
Winter seized the gap to target the surrounding normal variants. Rapid fire. Heads bursting like watermelons struck by bats. Meanwhile, the recovered Grumble prepared another "Charge" with a roar.
[Graaaaaah—aak?!]
Blood sprayed near the soft palate. The giant variant stepped back again. Winter advanced calmly. Entering 4 meters triggered close combat pattern. Staying just outside that boundary was key. A distance sense learned through failure and death.
Since Winter stayed outside 4 meters, the stunned Grumble recovered and assumed "Charge" posture. Right before "Charge," it always roared. A oral hit then halted the pattern, leaving it helpless briefly. Other methods were harder. Multiple at once skyrocketed difficulty. The throat was a small target. Hard to check several simultaneously.
The shaking-headed beast repeated the action. This time, only Winter's differed. He tossed the grenade. Its maw could swallow a man whole; the throat had room for a basketball. The grenade hit the soft palate, and Winter followed with aimed fire. Bang! Blood sprayed. It clamped shut again, reeling back.
It was over.
[Boom!]
A muffled explosion trapped in flesh and muscle. The blast past the throat shredded the powerful variant's innards. Eyeballs dangled by optic nerves from the blast wave; the rotting-skinned giant vomited blood like a TB patient.
Kek! Kek! Gwehk!
As it stuck out its tongue and retched blood, Winter shoved in another grenade. It stuck to the sticky tongue. Leaving it was risky. He pumped two rounds into the open maw. The variant clamped shut and gulped. The grenade's delay fuse burned in its stomach. Second internal explosion. Decaying skin rippled. The massive frame lost balance, knees buckled, swayed, then slowly toppled to crash down.
Boom. Like a building collapsing. Winter's expression was nonchalant. From experience, a lone Grumble was easy prey. He checked incoming EXP. Early kills on special variants gave bonus EXP. First in the world to defeat it—before another player—yielded even more.
Both applied. Solid rewards. He'd welcome another. A world of difference from EXP-less days. With that thought, Winter entered a nearby building to search.
Plenty of EXP leeway, so he tentatively invested in "Tracking" skill. Rank 4. He felt the effect immediately. Augmented reality interface highlighted clues in his gaze. Lingering focus displayed details. Footprints in faint dust were easier to spot. Without highlight, he'd have missed without close inspection.
The footprints led to a door. He knocked.
"Sergeant Cohen? You in there?"
Rustling inside. Someone with a bad leg forcing themselves up. Sure enough, a trembling voice replied.
"Banana, that you?"
"Call me by name, please. Anyway, yes. Here to rescue you as promised."
Click! The door opened, eyes met. Power outage cast shadows; eyes floated in dark void. More eerie being Black. Would've startled if unaware. Tears streaming down a frame not matching its size—what a sight.
"Oh, Lord. Thank you sincerely for sending this reckless kid into the world."
"Keep that up, and I'll leave you."
"Not just short, but narrow-minded too!"
"This guy?"
Banter ends. He staggered up and hugged fiercely. Feigning nonchalance had limits. Pure joy at reuniting. Lord, Lord—muttering like a madman.
After sobbing his fill, Cohen finally let go but still trembled.
"H-Hey, no monsters on the way? Heard one roaring nearby."
"A guy who chose war as a job, and you're that scared?"
"War's better! Enemies die when I shoot! But that's no enemy! Bullets don't stick! Face it, we're dead meat!"
Winter replied nonchalantly.
"Killed it."
"What?"
Leaving stunned Cohen, Winter scanned the room and dragged over a chair.
"Sit. Tell me how to handle that leg so we can move."
Sitting as told, leg extended, Cohen watched the boy kneel for first aid in confusion, then asked again.
"Hey, what do you mean killed?"
"Shoved grenades down its gullet. Exploded twice, done."
"...."
Good thing he stopped at the health center. Cohen's calf was swollen huge. Like waterlogged meat. Gauze wrapped, thick cotton padding where splint touched, stainless steel rod as splint, secured with pressure bandage. Must brace above and below fracture, or pointless.
The soldier blankly received expert-level first aid. Skeptical expression.
"Don't mess with me. Lying to ease my mind?"
"Yellow sclera, red pupils, about 5 meters tall, wider than a Humvee side-to-side. Overall... rotting muscular giant ape? Anyway, that's what I saw. Argue if you want; no point. You'll see the corpse outside. Done. Try standing with the crutch."
Cohen groaned rising. Splint and bandage still just first aid. Must hold weapon in one hand. So only one crutch; careless movement loads the bad leg.
"Let's go. Gotta grab Sergeant Ashford too; no time to dawdle."
Watching the boy lead casually, the sergeant remained dubious. Believe this?
Truth revealed upon exit. Sergeant Cohen spotted the slumped silhouette and yelped "Oh Shit!" falling on his ass. The Grumble's abnormally swollen muscles kept it from fully collapsing postmortem. Shocking sight.
"Told you it's dead."
Winter offered a hand. Cohen rose, leaning, peeking fearfully at the Grumble. Winter strode beside it and kicked demonstratively. Only then did Cohen accept it was dead. His mouth gaped wider.
"Crazy! You're fucking insane! World's best mother-fucking banana!"
Intense praise that could sound like curses without slang familiarity. Here, mother-fucking just meant badass.
Not all Black people talk like that. Slum-dwellers' raw speech; poor whites use it too. Cultural divide by income.
Still, banana grated. Would've let it slide without Captain Markert.
"Keep calling me banana, and I'll call you chocolate ball."
"Sounds good!"
Bald Black head like a chocolate ball—joke swallowed whole. This guy's hyped like he's on something. Winter drew pistol over his shoulder. Thud. Single shot. Variant dropped spurting blood. Thinking Winter meant to kill him for teasing, Cohen peeked back, tucked crutch under arm, and thumbs-upped.
"Once more: call me by name. Forgot it?"
"Forgot."
Sergeant Cohen teased the boy's sullen face.
"Hey, if I were that smart, I'd be at Harvard. How remember from one hearing?"
"Cheeky... Han Gyeowol. Hard to pronounce? Han's fine."
"Okay, Han. Got it. But this is really impressive."
The sergeant's muttering face darkened. His gaze ended at the Grumble corpse.
"This thing tore my friends apart."
"...Let's go. No time to linger."
"...."
Winter pointed to the FEMA trailer truck he'd eyed before entering.
"Can you drive?"
"'Course. Half-crippled foot, but driving's fine."
"Good. Need to grab food en route. Saw on way: that bulk cleared the road rampaging. Should drive at least to near the school."
"Nice. But hey... Han. No thought of heading back like this?"
The question half self-serving. Winter, sharp at reading people, sensed it. Joking, but really exhausted, pained, wanting to flee selfishly. Natural, no blame.
"You think I'd come this far for you, then abandon the others?"
"Hey, joke."
Cohen shrugged, started the truck. Smooth vibration. Engine roar...
[Bang!]
"Huh?"
Stunned Cohen muttered blankly.
"Engine sounds nuts! Car busted?"
"Hey, head hurt too? That's a grenade."
Explosions continued. West from Walnut Drive and Creston Road intersection. Followed by inhuman roar. Cohen sighed, tapped wheel.
"Agh. Another one out there?"
"I'll kill it too."
The Black brother gawked at Winter's reply.
"Damn, manly bastard."
"Straight to the intersection. Play the rest by ear."
"...."
"What? Hurry before more buddies die?"
"Shit, right."
Cohen punched his helmet, floored accelerator. Screech—RPM spiked. Idle to sudden acceleration left long tire marks. Vehicle weaved down the hill.
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