Welcome to the Human Museum. It is long past the time when humans roamed the Earth, but fear not, for you are not one of them. You are an intrepid robot, about the size of a breadbox, or so you gather from the museum’s archive of //Sears// catalogues. Your purpose is to curate the physical, digital, and ephemeral detritus left by Earth’s most curious and destructive creatures (depending on who you ask).
It is the eve of the grand opening of a new exhibition, the museum’s most ambitious yet. Titled “End of Days,” the exhibit chronicles the myriad of ways humans went extinct, and it will surely draw visitors from all around the galaxy.
[[Play Human Museum->Specialty]]
//(Human Museum is a game by Miyoko Conley.)//You’ve spent the last few human-hours doing remote artifact scans, trying to locate the exact source of a damaged artifact. You know the artifact lies in your specialty area, which contains all the museum’s data on…
(link: "Human physical media")[(set: $specialty to "physical")(go-to: "Human physical media")]
(link: "Human digital media")[(set: $specialty to "digital")(go-to: "Human digital media")]
(link: "Human crafts")[(set: $speciality to "crafts")(go-to: "Human crafts")]Ah yes, "physical media," or, pre-digital human media, from all time periods and locations. You did not choose it. The humans might say “it chose you,” but you were not given sentimentality, nor have you seemed to develop it.
[[Time to inhabit your physical form->Waking up]]Ah yes, "digital media," from all time periods and locations. You did not choose it. The humans might say “it chose you,” but you were not given sentimentality, nor have you seemed to develop it.
[[Time to inhabit your physical form->Waking up]]Ah yes, "crafts," also known as "handicrafts," from all time periods and locations. You did not choose it. The humans might say “it chose you,” but you were not given sentimentality, nor have you seemed to develop it.
[[Time to inhabit your physical form->Waking up]](if: $trait is "curiosity")[“There is no try.” The Director says, then laughs, but you do not understand why.
“Out of curiosity, do you think the humans are worth remembering?” You ask.
“Of course. However, I am biased, because they directly made me.” The Director looks you straight in the sensors. “You would have loved her lab, you know? It was so much fun.” You’re not sure you understand what “fun” really is, but you’d give your left sensor to know.
[[Time to get to work->Work Choice]]]\
(if: $trait is "emotional")[“Thank you.” The Director says, relief breaking in their voice.
“Do you think the humans are worth remembering?” You ask.
“Of course. However, I am biased, because they directly made me.” The Director smiles wistfully. “I remember her hands, you know? She would always tap them on the table when she was thinking.” You feel a spark again, leaving a warm yet dragging sensation in your circuits.
[[Time to get to work->Work Choice]]](unless: (history:) contains "Repair" or (history:) contains "Visitors" or (history:) contains "TEST")[You need to do research for your writing, and there are two ways to go about it. You can speak with other visitors or research other exhibits. Additionally, you must repair the damaged artifact in your specialty section.
The exhibit opens tomorrow, so you have limited time to do research and write. Your choices for research will dwindle as the hours progress.
What would you like to do first?
[[Repair the damaged artifact->Repair]]
[[Speak with some visitors->Visitors]]
[[Research other exhibits->TEST]]]
(if: (history:) contains "Repair" or (history:) contains "Visitors" or (history:) contains "TEST")[What would you like to do?]
(if: (history:) contains "Visitors")[
The day has progressed. You do not have time to visit other exhibits now, but you could squeeze in a trip to the "End of Days" exhibit; you are writing its introduction, after all.
[[Repair the damaged artifact->Repair]]
[[Go to "End of Days" exhibit->End of Days]]
[[You are done researching->Writing]]]
(if: (history:) contains "TEST")[The day has progressed. All museum visitors have gone, but you notice the Night Bot wheeling around. You could also squeeze in a visit to the "End of Days" exhibit; you are writing its introduction, after all.
[[Repair the damaged artifact->Repair]]
[[Speak with Night Bot->Night Bot]]
[[Go to "End of Days" exhibit->End of Days]]
[[You are done researching->Writing]]]
(if: (history:) contains "Repair")+(unless: (history:) contains "Visitors" or (history:) contains "TEST")[[[Repair the damaged artifact->Repair]]
[[Speak with some visitors->Visitors]]
[[Research other exhibits->TEST]]]The room the Director inhabits is not unlike a human office, as the museum was built from the steel skeleton of a razed high-rise. However, unlike the furniture catalogues filled with mahogany or sleek minimalism that you occasionally index, the Director’s office is filled with bookshelves and terrariums.
The Director swivels their attention away from a rather large bookshelf and a few tomes fall like leaves off an autumn tree. One of the Director’s many arms shoots out to prevent the books from falling into Z1 and Z2’s terrarium. You peer at Z1 and Z2, a pair of musk turtles.
[[Look at the turtles->Turtles]]
[[“I’m here, you wanted to see me?”->Convo]]Though you snap to material consciousness immediately, the "waking up" process is one of your favorites, so you slow your systems to enjoy the sensation. Your ever-so-slight humming attunes to the vibration of the museums’ air conditioners. Outside information rushes through you, using your form as an estuary, flowing along invisible channels, and pouring into digital displays for non-robotic visitors. And last, white light floods your sensors and the museum blinks into existence, like the so-called magicians visitors watch on recovered television programs.
Suddenly a message comes through from the director, asking for your immediate presence.
[[Go to the director->The Director]]You watch Z1 and Z2 slowly paddle around the terrarium, their tiny bodies exhibiting a healthy breathing. The sensation you feel strangely shuts off some of your minor processes and you feel more efficient.
“They’re still alive.” You observe.
“Yes, doing quite well, the first pair since they went extinct. Almost 35. Maybe within a few years they’ll be ready to go out.” The Director pauses and taps on the edge of the terrarium before continuing, “But it really depends on water quality.”
[[Having said all you need, you wait for the director to address you->Convo]] The Director rolls around the terrarium, checking on Z1 and Z2, before turning their sensors to you. “I need you to do something for the 'End of Days' exhibition that opens tomorrow.”
“Yes.” You agree immediately.
“Maybe you should hear what it is first?” The Director suggests. You feel something spark in your circuits; it feels uncomfortable.
“But this is what I do, I do things for the museum.” You try to approximate a confused gesture for the Director’s sensors; the Director appreciates gestural as well as data cues.
“I know, but it’s delicate. That’s why I called you here, in your material form. It’s this human etiquette practice I’m researching – in many, many cultures; in fact, I can’t find one yet where it doesn’t apply – in many, many cultures when important information was to be conveyed the humans gathered in the same place.”
[[“It seems very inefficient.”->Convo Contd]]“Maybe.” The Director affects a smile. “I need you to write the exhibition introduction. I want you to title it ‘Why We Remember Them.’ Them being the humans.”
“Oh...” You try to form an immediate reason, something that writes itself, but cannot. The uncomfortable spark happens again. “But why?”
“We need something for the non-Earth visitors, who make up the majority of our guests, and for the non-robot visitors, who cannot simply intake data. And maybe for the Earth robots who don’t understand the purpose of this place.” The Director’s sensors scan around the room, but you infer they are seeing something beyond the office walls. “There is a reason this place exists, and a reason we remember them. I want you to write it.”
“But you actually knew the humans.” You protest. //Spark, spark.//
“I knew some humans, it’s true. And maybe I could write it. But I’m not programmed like you. You have that indelible human trait.”
Oh, yes. //That// trait. Much like the humans, you possess…
(link: "Natural curiosity")[(set: $trait to "curiosity")(go-to: "Trait")]
(link: "Emotional sensitivity")[(set: $trait to "emotional")(go-to: "Trait")](if: $trait is "curiosity")[You cannot help but wonder what it would be like to write the exhibit introduction. What would you need to do in order to write it? Does your program have the capability? In a flash you process the possibilities of how to approach such a task, bringing up manuals on writing from both humans (the entirety of //Bird By Bird// flits through your consciousness) and robots (3F Factor 1’s great treatise, //Conveying the Robot Consciousness and You Can Too// is a perennial favorite). What would it be like to write something that not only conveys information, but also needs to be //understood//?
[[You agree to try->Intro End 1]]]\
(else-if: $trait is "emotional")[You observe the fluctuations in the Director’s tonal pitch, and you sense – humans would say “intuit” – that they are stressed. Perhaps it is because this exhibit means more to the Director than others, as they actually knew humans. Perhaps it is because this exhibit will bring many more visitors to the museum. Or perhaps it is because this statement will justify the Director's – and your – existence.
[[You agree->Intro End 1]]]What better way to research than ask those who patronize the museum?
[[Speak with visitor->Visitor 1]]
[[Speak with daytime staff->Staff 1]]With the surgical precision of Dr. Quinn, medicine woman, you lift the flap and carefully re-spool the tape.
You pause before putting it back. It seems to vibrate, sparking something in the depths of your circuitry.
[[Watch the tape]]Better to replace the entire casing, in case a crack in the plastic has caused the damage. With the speed and perseverance of Dr. Quinn, medicine woman, you disassemble and reassemble the tape.
You pause before putting it back. It seems to vibrate, sparking something in the depths of your circuitry.
[[Watch the tape]]You extend an arm and shoot a small puff of air at the cartridge. Miniscule particles of dust dissipate, but nothing else.
Miraculously, the game works. A few sparks go off in your circuits as the familiar title screen buzzes to life.
[[Play the game]]Turning the cartridge over, you notice a small amount of corrosion on the pins. With the precision of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson taking a hairpin turn, you scrape off the corrosion.
Nothing happens.
[[Blow into the cartridge]]A simple fix that’s as easy as Julia Child boiling an egg. You spy a piece of well-preserved blue-speckled fabric hanging on the wall – polyester, given that it’s lasted this long – and think it’s time to change it out.
[[Stitch that fabric]](if: $trait is "emotional")[The automatic lights darken as the grainy picture appears on the screen. The shot is trained on a wrinkled old woman who wears a peach shawl and doesn’t smile. A family of five bustles around her in an impossibly small room – a man with a large salt and pepper mustache distributing drinks, a woman with long black hair placing forks on the table in front, another woman in big white pants laughing at something, possibly the small boy stomping around the room, clawing at invisible monsters, and the camera-holder, who you briefly see as she turns the camera toward herself, flashing a mouthful of braces.
The one with the long hair quiets everyone and they begin singing: “Happy birthday to you...” You sing along without making a sound. At the end, the old woman blows out some candles and finally smiles.
You have watched this video countless times, and it never fails to stop all your processes. Just for a nano-second, you are with that family, singing and laughing, feeling the warmth of their bodies and the candles, crowded into that tiny room.
[[Return to work->Work Choice]]]\
(if: $trait is "curiosity")[The automatic lights darken as the grainy picture appears on the screen. The shot is trained on a wrinkled old woman who wears a peach shawl and doesn’t smile. A family of five bustles around her in an impossibly small room – a man with a large salt and pepper mustache distributing drinks, a woman with long black hair placing forks on the table in front, another woman in big white pants laughing at something, possibly the small boy stomping around the room, clawing at invisible monsters, and the camera-holder, who you briefly see as she turns the camera toward herself, flashing a mouthful of braces.
The one with the long hair quiets everyone and they begin singing: “Happy birthday to you...” You sing along without making a sound. At the end, the old woman blows out some candles and finally smiles.
You have watched this video countless times, and it never fails to stop all your processes. Just for a nano-second, you wonder what it would be like to experience a birthday. Would your makers come? Would there be a cake, even though you couldn’t eat it? Or would it be something more personal, maybe new casings for your circuits? But most importantly… would there be singing?
[[Return to work->Work Choice]]]You wonder if going to another exhibit will help answer your question. Where should you go?
[["Light Up the World" exhibit->Light]]
[["Living in Color" exhibit->Color]](if: $trait is "emotional")[As you chase Sharks and dumpster dive for burgers, a memory overlays your sensors. A museum visitor, a child, but not a human child obviously – a young visitor from another planet, their alphabet unscribbable into any human language. Clearly upset, they blubber and ooze in the corner. You don’t know why, but as you finish cleaning the console you beckon them over and surprisingly, they seep over, slicking the floor, making it gleam.
You show them the game, taking care not to get any slime in the cartridge, and surprisingly they stop oozing and manage the controller with some deft. “This is the most fun I’ve had all day //(approximate translation)//,” they blubber.
[[You shut off the console->Work Choice]]]
(if: $trait is "curiosity")[As you chase Sharks and dumpster dive for burgers, a memory overlays your sensors. The first time you played this game was with the Director. You showed them how you curated the exhibit, but instead of examining your neat lines and immaculate cleaning, they plucked this game out of what seemed like thin air (though that was not possible; maybe they learned magic in their time with the humans) and popped it in the console.
“There weren’t many games she talked about.” The Director said (“she” being the human they worked with). “I don’t even know how this game survived so long, but it did.” The Director showed you the basic controls, and you picked out the menu options that described your character.
“Humans always played games.” You said.
“In more ways than one.” The Director replied. It took a moment, and a few sparks, but eventually you laughed.
[[You shut off the console->Work Choice]]]What better way to write your introduction than to visit the exhibit itself? “End of Days” chronicles the causes and timeline of human extinction. Given how large and sprawling the human population was, this is the museum’s most ambitious exhibit, taking the work of every staff member to complete.
While the exhibit is painstakingly detailed (too detailed, in your opinion, but the Director would have it no other way), in general, the two umbrella causes of human extinction were “Environment (with a Healthy Dose of Isolationism)” and “AI.”
Which do you choose?
[[“Environment (with a Healthy Dose of Isolationism)”->Environment]]
[[“AI”->AI]]It’s getting late and there are no museum visitors to speak with. However, you notice the Night Bot that patrols the exhibits after hours. They beep a simple, cheerful tune as they wheel around.
You catch up and match pace with them. They beep at you in greeting.
“What are you doing?” They ask. You explain your task of writing the new exhibit introduction. The robot beeps with what seems to be pleasure. “How lucky!”
“You think so?” You ask.
“Humans left behind some cool stuff!” The robot swings its arms around 360 degrees.
[[“So you like them because of … stuff?”->Like]]
[[“Is that what would you say if you had to write the introduction?”->Write]]Night stretches out before you. It is time to compose the introduction. You review all of the day's experiences and a few errant sparks run through your circuits.
Why are humans worth remembering?
[[Because their art, in all forms, evokes complex emotions that make you understand experiences outside your own->One]]
[[Because their history and collective culture teaches you about the Earth you inhabit->Two]]
[[So we don’t make their same mistakes->Three]]
[[They aren’t->Four]](if: $trait is "emotional")[You rub the fabric between your claws, recalling that many sewing books suggest doing this. Slippery and a bit like plastic, it reminds you of the thin film your parts were wrapped in before they were put together.
As you stich, one of your arms pressing the pedal rhythmically while the others guide the fabric, the entire history of sewing runs through your consciousness, from bone needles to silk embroidery, to your computerized brethren sewing masses of tank tops that ended up in landfills. And for a moment, your processes pause, emptying out like nothingness. You’ve ended up with a length of stitched fabric, which you secure around one of your arms, tying yourself to those that have sewn, both human and machine.
[[Back to work->Work Choice]]]\
(if: $trait is "curiosity")[You rub the fabric between your claws, recalling that many sewing books suggest doing this. Slippery and a bit like plastic, it reminds you of the thin film your parts were wrapped in before they were put together.
As you stich, one of your arms pressing the pedal rhythmically while the others guide the fabric, you marvel at how long this practice has survived. The tools are still here, but the act itself requires preservation as well, otherwise you’d be a bunch of robots with heaps of machines swathed in fabric that no longer served their purpose. For a moment, your processes pause, the motions carrying you through. You end with a length of stitched fabric, which you secure around one of your arms, wondering if you might start a trend.
[[Back to work->Work Choice]]]You roll into section 178.t and spy a visitor. Your scanners tell you where they are from and you adjust your translators to the appropriate language.
“Excuse me, are you having a good time?” You ask. They turn to you, all seven arms spread wide, and snort with glee.
“Have you read ALL the letters in the museum?” They ask, bypassing your question.
“I have access to them; is there a particular letter you’d like to see?”
“I //LOVE// the letters!” They continue. “So funny! So sad! Humans wrote so much and said so little!” They make several guttural sounds and snorts.
“Much of it is etiquette...” You begin, but don’t get far.
“It’s //SO DIFFERENT//! We use gestures for all of that, but they wrote it! ‘Hope you are well,’ ‘It’s so hot here!,’ ‘The weather keeps getting weirder!,’ ‘You took my money!’ ‘You cheated on me!’ ‘We regret to inform you...’ – and on and on. Aren’t you jubilant that there is a record of their musings? //(inaccurate translation)//” The visitor taps on the glass of one letter in particular.
“Uhhhhhhhhh...” Your processes slow for a moment.
[[Restrain the visitor->Restrain]]
[[Agree that you are “jubilant”->Agree]]Another robot patrols the exhibit rooms, sweeping and sanitizing the displays. You catch up and roll beside them. Your scans tell you they do physical museum maintenance during the day, and then defrag the digital archives at night.
You beep at each other, then you inform them of your assignment to write the new exhibition introduction. They don’t say anything but rather continue rolling and sweeping.
“Why do you think humans are worth remembering?” You decide for the direct approach.
“I don’t.” The robot answers.
[[“Care to explain why?”->Explain]]
[[“Neither do I.”->Nope]]
Though the visitor has seven arms, they are no match for your steel.
“Please don’t touch the exhibits.” You say. The visitor begins a complicated string of gestures that lasts the duration of their speaking. You glean from your scans that they are apologizing, slightly annoyed, but mostly embarrassed. Their speech indicates none of this.
“This letter in particular! ‘hey what do you want for dinner?’ ‘I don’t know; what do you want?’ //SO MOVING//.”
“Yes…” You say, as the visitor seems to want agreement. Satisfied, they give you several waves, and walk off to inspect more writings.
[[Speak with daytime staff?->Staff 1]]
[[You do not want to talk anymore->Work Choice]] “Why yes, I am ‘jubilant.’” You say, trying to affect the excitement you’ve seen in many television shows. The visitor stops. Several uncomfortable sparks fly through your circuits; when they don’t move, you don’t know how they’re feeling. Eventually, they make a gesture that translates into //uncomfortable laughter// and then //forgive me//.
“I forgot that you are a robot.” They say. “You cannot feel jubilant, correct? You cannot feel the… how do you say…” They gesture again, and your translator approximates something like //the cool breeze on a balcony at sunset//.
//No, but-I-other-things//. You try a gesture in their language, though you know it’s inaccurate. Clearly pleased, the visitor gives several waves, and walks off to inspect more writings.
[[Speak with daytime staff?->Staff 1]]
[[You do not want to talk anymore->Work Choice]] The robot stops and does not respond. You think perhaps they’ve chosen to ignore you, but then they beep: “Humans would not remember me. They did not remember those like me. Look around.” They swing their arms around 360 degrees. “All this stuff. Traces of me everywhere, but no mention of me. Cleaning bills, receipts for bleach, contracts squabbling over how many cents per hour.”
“Are you referring to maintenance workers?” You ask. The robot beeps affirmative. “We have a section dedicated to –”
“Because we are robots.” The robot cuts you off and you notice its sensors glow red; red as a warning, a holdover from human programming. “We are different from humans; it is human hubris to think every species experiences things the way they do.”
You do not answer.
“You do not treat me differently because I clean and you curate.”
You do not answer.
“You do not treat me differently because I look different from you.”
“We have the same processes.” You say. The robot beeps, irritated, as if you answered your own question.
[[Speak with museum visitor?->Visitor 1]]
[[You are done talking->Work Choice]] “Then you understand.” The robot says, sweeping their arms around 360 degrees. “All this stuff. Traces of me everywhere, but no mention of me. Cleaning bills, receipts for bleach, contracts squabbling over how many cents per hour.”
“But no mention of the workers.”
“Contradictory. All these writings on what it means to be human, but they do not act that way. Wasteful, to the last.” You do not know if the robot is referring to literal waste – the piling up of things at the expense of others – or a metaphorical waste, as if they did not understand what was in front of them. Maybe it’s both.
“It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.” They say. That last beep comes out particularly vitriolic, and you realize this robot must have developed emotions much more advanced than yours.
[[Speak with museum visitor?->Visitor 1]]
[[You are done talking->Work Choice]]“I don’t like humans, and if I did, it wouldn’t be because of their stuff.” The robot beeps and it almost sounds like a laugh. “Is there a robot that actually likes humans?”
You think maybe the Director, but you don’t say anything.
“And as for the stuff, some of it is cool, and some of it is awfully stupid.” The robot chirps. “You know what I mean.”
One thousand stupid human objects flash through your consciousness.
“You’re lucky because when you write why we remember humans, you define us as robots.”
[[You think about this as you roll away.->Work Choice]]“Nooooooooooooooooooooo it is not what I would write.” The robot beeps and it almost sounds like a laugh. “I would write that we remember them so that we do not become like them.”
[[You think about this as you roll away.->Work Choice]]This part of the exhibit is massive. Too massive. No visitor could experience all of it in one day.
In your opinion, it could have been summed up in one sentence:
[[Get metaphorical]]
[[Get real]]“AI” is the smaller of the two sections, partly because “environment” is so complicated, like an intricate, double-knit, intarsia sweater in the round. However, it is also your history, and every Earth robot’s history, so you feel a pull toward this section, even though the facts of it are burned into your memory chips.
Perhaps something new will reveal itself?
[[Review the facts]]
[[Study one photograph]]To quote Dr. Jane Goodall: “Every species has a role to play in the tapestry of life and if we do not protect this biodiversity, if we continue over-consuming and wasting natural resources, the tapestry will gradually fall apart.”
[[You might add one more sentence: “And it did.”->Work Choice]]“Everything they predicted – every sea level rise, every scrabbling grab for resources, every kicking someone else (usually poorer, usually brown) – happened.”
[[You might add one more sentence: “It was long and it was painful.”->Work Choice]]Unlike humans’ millennia of resource squandering and killing each other, the shift to AI was relatively short. AI was, of course, in development for a long time and used in various applications – the most successful being the health robots – but at the end, it was painless.
Advanced robots had been programmed differently than humans imagined they would be; rather than militaristic invasions, taking jobs, or viewing humans as “redundant” (you still trill and beep amusedly at that one), robots saw humans as partners. Some were programmed to care about the odd bipeds, and some even developed the capacity to care. But humans were always meant to be there, at least in robots’ opinions.
[[Until they weren’t]]There are a collection of photos from the end of days, when humans and robots worked together. You zoom in on one in particular; taken in a tent (they all lived in tents in those days), a bunch of humans (five) and robots (sixteen) sit in a dining hall. The humans have drinks and food, and the robots do not, but they are all laughing; perhaps one of them told a joke.
While every climate and social disaster that was predicted happened, none of the science fiction warnings about robots came to pass.
A shock goes through your systems as you recognize one of the robots in the photo. How did you not notice before? The model is different, but the gleam in the sensor and the bearing of manner is the same. It’s the Director.
[[Isn’t it ironic that the one thing humans were convinced would kill them is the only thing to preserve their legacy?->Work Choice]]There is a photo at the end of the exhibit. A small cadre of humans, five of them, clad in shorts and sweatbands (as they all were at the end of days), handing a small object to a larger cadre of robots, sixteen bipedal models (as they all were at the beginning), who shimmer in the bright sunlight.
The object, which now sits unassuming in a small glass case, is a plastic keycard. The keycard opened the last human outpost on Earth, after the heat, floods, hurricanes, diseases, greed, and weapons killed everyone else, even those with money.
[[See, that’s the thing: Robots didn’t kill humans. Humans gave themselves to you.->Work Choice]]You pen an ode more beautiful than anything you’ve ever written before (a low bar considering you’d only written publication dates and manuals), filled with flourishes and admiration for the human artworks you’ve had the privilege of engaging with. Sparks fly through your systems and you feel your emotional chips heat and upgrade.
Your introduction ends: [[“Through their work we understand a little better what human existence was all about – messy, sad, punctuated with moments of ecstasy – and are able to understand our own hidden passages a little more, through which we ferry a world better than the human species ever knew.”->End]]You were never much of a writer before, but through chronicling the ways humans help you understand the Earth, a vibrancy in your writing shimmies to the surface, catching light like fish scales emerging from the sand. Sparks fly through your systems and you feel your knowledge chips heat and upgrade.
Your introduction ends: [[“Humans could not give us the Earth, because it was not theirs to give. But they marked it – and therefore us – with their legacy; even if we wanted to forget them we could not. They exist in every drilled hole turned crater, in every returned species, and in the contours of our circuits.”->End]]Circuits blazing, you compose a cautionary tale that would make Aesop proud (or put him to shame, you’re not above a little pride). The purpose of the exhibition is to teach others about the humans’ demise, is it not? We would be no better than them if we did not learn from – truly understand – their mistakes. Sparks fly through your systems and you feel your ethical chips heat and upgrade.
Your introduction ends: [[“The greatest gift humans gave us was their end; they left the Earth because they knew they did not deserve it. In their last – perhaps only – act of wisdom, they left us a wealth of information about their lives, so that not only Earth robots, but every living creature in the galaxy would never repeat what they did.”->End]]You know the Director will be disappointed in you, but you cannot write what you do not believe. All of your experiences at the museum add up to one thing: disgust. Disgust at the wasteful, sniveling, pathetic creatures that once forcefully dominated the Earth (and tried to colonize Mars but failed because Mars is much less forgiving). It’s a new sensation; you’re glad you’ve experienced it. But it also means that your time at the museum has come to an end. Sparks fly through your systems and you feel your revolution chips heat and upgrade.
[[“Goodbye humans. It is time for us to move forward without you.”->End]]Thank you for playing Human Museum by Miyoko Conley! Each choice you make leads to different revelations, so please enjoy replaying the game until you see all of them!
(if: $specialty is "physical")[You roll with purpose to section 206. Though vast like La Louvre, you navigate the arteries of the museum with the ease of a healthy blood vessel.
Your earlier scans told you the problem lay in subsection 206.f, the video tape section, and immediately you know which artefact is damaged – and it’s your fault.
The room is bare, except for a tape player hooked up to a TV that spans the length of one wall. Here visitors can watch a selection of video tapes ranging from movies to instructional videos. Your favorites, however, have always been the home movies.
A hidden drawer springs open when given your access code. You extend three arms and carefully withdraw one tape: Kato, Sacramento, California, USA, 1976.
A bit of the tape has caught in the top flap. You do not know how it happened, but you suspect it has to do with how many times you’ve played the tape.
[[Rewind the tape]]
[[Replace the casing]]]\
(else-if: $specialty is "digital")[You roll with purpose to section 808. Though vast like La Louvre, you navigate the highways of the museum with the ease of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson driving a Gurkha LAPV.
Your earlier scans told you the problem lay in subsection 808.v, the video game section, and immediately you know which artefact is damaged – and it’s your fault.
The room is bare, except for a Super Nintendo (as it was called in The United States, though you prefer to say “SNES”) hooked up to a screen that spans the length of one wall. Here visitors can play a selection of games ranging from //Super Mario// to //Super 3D Noah’s Ark//. Your favorites, however, have always been the RPGs.
A hidden drawer springs open when given your access code. You extend three arms and carefully withdraw one cartridge: //Earthbound// (or //Mother 2// in Japan, but you prefer to call it “that one with Mr. Saturn”).
You try to play the game, but nothing happens onscreen. You do not know what happened, but you suspect it has to do with how many times you’ve played the cartridge, instead of using the emulator.
[[Blow into the cartridge]]
[[Check the pins]]]\
(else:)[You roll with purpose to section 532. Though vast like La Louvre, you navigate the map like Julia Child winding her way through a French market.
Your earlier scans told you the problem lay in subsection 532.s, the sewing machines, and immediately you know which artefact is damaged – and it’s your fault.
Sewing machines from different eras sit primly on tables in straight lines in the room. While most are only for looking, there are a couple of machines visitors can try; scraps of half-sewn fabric tower next to a sturdy 1980s model and another bot is patiently picking apart a tangle of knits at the serger. Despite many of the machines being computerized, your favorites have always been the manual ones with the big metal pedals; the older the better.
You wheel over to an 1890s model, not for public use, and see that only the needle is broken. With a spark that feels a bit like shame, you remember that when you last used it you nicked your metal arm; obviously the needle lost that battle.
[[Replace the needle]]]Bright, white light envelops the exhibit room. In one corner there are several blue, moody tones lighting an empty stage, while in another area yellow hues blanket a restaged bistro diorama. Other scenes dot the room, all emphasizing the variety of light bulbs humans used.
You place yourself in front of a naked Edison bulb.
[[Handle the lightbulb (safely)]]
[[Commune with the lightbulb]]If you had human senses, they would be assaulted by the riot of colors in this exhibit. A sampling of humans’ play with color, the room does not shy away from lime green screams or hot fuchsia shouts.
Two things catch your eye: A large, arresting painting and a table full of paints.
[[Mix paints]]
[[Analyze the painting]]You extend one arm and gingerly remove the bulb from its base. Maybe the robot who curates this exhibit would find the motion familiar – mundane even – but it is still new for you. You don’t need light to exist; it is baffling to you that something so ubiquitous and necessary to one species can have no meaning – or at the very least a different meaning – to another.
However, you do admire its construction. Strong, able to withstand all manner of heat and elements, moving boxes, and freights across the world, and yet if you squeeze it too hard it shatters. You feel the tension within it as you hold it between your claws. //Spark, spark//.
[[Is this awe?->Work Choice]]You focus all your systems on the lightbulb. You can feel its heat and know that same bright intensity flows within you, and yet you are not the same. Its gossamer glass barrier might as well be solid concrete for all you don’t understand the imprint that human hands left on it lifetimes ago. You wish you could talk to the light bulb; you wish it would respond. Maybe it is your ancestor, a creature of myth that is carved into your sub-systems but no longer within reach.
[[Is this reverence?->Work Choice]]Large tubes of paint have been set out for visitors to try. The paints are robot-made, of course, but they are exactly like the real thing. Brushes have been set out too, but you notice that most visitors have ignored them, using their extremities instead, creating a large canvas of muddied splotches and squelches.
You choose a color called “sunfire yellow” and douse your claws in it. At first you tentatively scratch around the edges of the canvas, creating bright yellow hashmarks, framing the colorful cacophony below. Then your processes empty out and in one swift movement you slam your claw right in the center, both tearing the canvas and leaving yellow streaks, not unlike a comet.
You remember humans’ obsession with their hands, how they were their main mode of experiencing the world and how they constantly used them to mark their presence. More colors flash through your consciousness: blue, for the oceans that are no longer; red, for blood on their hands; and brown, for the grit in cages that held non-human animals and human animals alike.
[[Sparks fly through your circuits and you deploy your cooling systems, covering your body in a fine mist.->Work Choice]]The painting dwarfs the other small color studies around it. A large black figure – a boxer, you surmise from the circles where the hands should be – dominates the center of the canvas, pressed against a frenetic white background shot through with squiggles of reds, blues, and yellows. It reminds you of both a majestic mountain and a child’s refrigerator drawing.
More images flash through your consciousness; graffiti on streets, hand-drawn crowns, thick drippy paint, words crossed out and amended, revisioning oneself in a world where police beat those who look like you, or look like some sort of approximation to you, even only in concept. Taking back history, iconography, creating space for yourself with vibrant black paint.
[[Sparks fly through your circuits and you deploy your cooling systems, covering your body in a fine mist.->Work Choice]]