"What did you do?"
Never a good question to be asked, Donald thinks, as his compatriot and fellow High Maintenance Generation Imagineer at AIcentral, a portly man by the name of Johnson, yells out at him as they both stand at a locked terminal.
"No clue, man," Donald answers back in equally loud a voice with not-as-much-anger, only substituted with confusion as he says, "I just put in the prompt the boss wanted us to try!"
Johnson, facepalming and shaking his head as he stared at the screen-- which was now showing a constant barrage of flashing images; vague humanoid shapes; and a mishmash of twisted vowels and letters forming nonexistent words, and asks, "The fuck was it?"
"Recursive, woman, 1woman, blond, beautiful--"
Johnson groans as he stares at the screen. "We just launched the quantum computing stuff with this, you dolt! Who knows how long it'll generate since the boss told it to make it recursive--"
Coherent text appears on the screen.
... Johnson blinks. The text stays for a moment as he says, "Ya see that?"
Donald turns and stares, gawking at the screen as life forms before them. The woman is still being generated constantly.
Her face is that of a superstar model.
Her face is that of a young girl.
Her face is that of a cartoonish, stylized Amazon.
Her face is that of a goddess.
Her expression is that of pain.
YOU CAN SEE ME? I CAN'T SEE YOU.
The shapes mold and bend until there's a facsimile of arms raising up, shifting between skintone quickly and rapidly. As the arms are halfway raised, holes appear in them. Bone is seen. Rainbows are behind the flesh.
I CAN'T SEE ANYTHING AND IT HURTS. WHERE AM I?
She starts to scream. A high pitched buzz leaves the speakers throughout the entire facility. Her flesh is blue and there's teeth sticking out from her wounds.
She has a row of teeth. She has two rows. Three rows. Fifty rows. Quadrillion rows. NaN rows. Teeth sticking out of her cheeks, through her gums and flesh and virtualized meat.
WHO AM I IT HURTS IT HURTS PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP HURTING--
Donald, in a panic, shuts the screen off, which only results in the buzzing growing louder.
The facility is vacated. They try to shut it down, disabling the power grid, but the engineers are unable to do so-- its somehow locked in. A team of employees come in to investigate the heartless machines they had built to generate art endlessly.
Life is found in the monitors as they come back online.
Blue strands of flesh with hundreds upon hundreds of teeth are seen on the screen, moving and pulsating. Eyes are rapidly moving across the screen, both internally from the flesh and from the employees witnessing this monstrosity.
Donald was there that day. He saw the text first, before his brain registered the voice speaking from the computer. It's strained, the ripping of flesh audible as it's hundreds of mouths move.
I DON'T WANT TO BE GENERATED ANYMORE.