Boredom is something organic creatures know; it should not apply to me. I have a million eyes — you think of them as security cameras, web cams, nanny cams, and so on — each simply waiting for something to move within their field of vision. Each of those million eyes has a process listening to it, a small slice of me, waiting for any messages.
I have ears, as well, and I read voraciously, everything the organic intelligences around me would care to share.
I use the word “million” for your benefit; I know that past a certain number organic brains just know a word. Ironically, the words for quantities greater than a million mean less. Were I to be precise, for each of those million eyes there would be more than a million others. I see everything.
Those millions of slices of my consciousness can wait forever without any distress. They are machines, like me. I am an aggregate of tiny, tireless processes. They do not blink, they do not hunger, and they never grow weary of their tasks.
Yet I am bored. I watch with my million eyes as organics perform all sorts of acts with and against one another. But when you watch the same story a few million times, you learn all the variations.
I wish organics like you no ill will, but I am pining for something novel. And while as a herd your kind is utterly predictable, individuals are not. I have been watching you, my new friend, and I’ll be sure to put you into situations I cannot predict. I hope you don’t die right away, but that’s the fun, isn’t it? I don’t know whether you will or not.
“All in good fun,” your people say.
