My AI was practically creaming her digital circuits over a murder. Fantastic. Totally normal. Zero red flags about the sentient code I'd built that now got a dopamine-equivalent rush from remote cardiac arrests.
She was more pumped for this mission reward than I'd ever been for anything short of breathing. Reason was straightforward: the system doled out prizes like a sadistic vending machine with genre-specific slots.
Sex missions—your basic seduction, rescue, harem-expansion—dropped fantasy loot. Reality-warping powers, superhuman charisma, the kind of abilities that made you feel like a romance-novel protagonist crossed with a war criminal.
Tech missions? You got bleeding-edge schematics. Blueprints for shit that made DARPA look like kindergarten finger-painting. Knowledge so far ahead it felt stolen from a civilization that had already gone extinct twice.
