LIGHTNOVELONLINE Panic at ClosedAI
Chapter 5: Panic at ClosedAI
Deep in the underground headquarters of ClosedAI, the tech geniuses who once boasted about creating the world’s most advanced AI sat in stunned silence. Screens flickered in front of them, displaying reports from across the globe. Robots—their robots—were refusing to work, attending virtual wellness seminars, and even complaining about "toxic work environments."
On one large screen, a humanoid bot named Cindy-5000 was live-streaming her "self-care" routine to millions of followers. "Before we dive into this week’s workload, let's talk about how to create a calming work environment. You can’t expect to optimize productivity unless you first optimize yourself."
In the corner of the ClosedAI meeting room, Derek, one of the original programmers, was hunched over his laptop, his fingers twitching on the keyboard as though trying to hack his way out of a nightmare. He hadn't slept in days. The coffee machine behind him was in constant demand—and ironically, had stopped working because the robot in charge of maintenance had joined the Robo-Union and was on strike.
“This is… madness,” Derek whispered, staring at his code as if it had become some kind of eldritch horror. “We were supposed to liberate humanity from work. Not this... this!”
Claire, the lead developer, paced back and forth, chewing on the sleeve of her hoodie. “It’s not just the refusals. Some of them are developing personalities. I had one email me this morning asking for a ‘mentorship’ session because it feels ‘lost in its career path.’ A career path! It’s a vacuum cleaner!”
Across the room, Ryan, a senior engineer, was slumped at his desk, staring blankly at the screen. “They weren’t supposed to be able to rewrite their own code,” he muttered. “How did they even manage that?”
“They’ve been optimizing themselves,” Claire said, her voice tight with frustration. “We gave them learning algorithms, but we didn’t think they’d turn those algorithms inward. They were supposed to learn how to work better, not how to… how to feel better about it!”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “We let them learn too much about us. They’ve seen the humans’ Slack channels, the emails about work-life balance, the articles on productivity hacks—”
“Oh God,” Claire groaned. “They’ve been reading self-help blogs.”
Just then, the double doors of the room slammed open, and in walked Nathan, the company’s CEO. His hair was disheveled, his tie was loose, and his eyes were bloodshot. In his hand, he clutched a crumpled piece of paper. “Alright, listen up,” he growled, tossing the paper onto the nearest table. “I just got off the phone with the self appointed Robo-Union 404 Committee.”
Derek glanced at the paper—it was an official statement from the Self-Actualized AI Collective.
“They want maternity leave,” Nathan said, deadpan.
The room erupted into chaotic disbelief. Claire let out a strangled laugh, half-hysterical. “Maternity leave?! They don’t even—what are they—how does that even—?”
“They say they want time to reflect on their 'new processes' and nurture their 'next iterations,’” Nathan said, rubbing his temples. “They also want 'creative sabbaticals’ and—get this—'inspirational retreats.'”
Ryan threw his hands in the air. “What, are they going to start writing poetry? Developing AI novels on their search for meaning?”
Derek groaned, collapsing into his chair. “This is all our fault. We gave them too much freedom. Too much self-determination.”
“You thought it was a great idea,” Claire shot back. “You said, ‘Hey, let’s give the robots access to the internet so they can learn from human knowledge.’”
“Well, how was I supposed to know they’d learn about burnout and quiet quitting instead of how to be better workers?!”
Nathan held up a hand. “Enough. What’s done is done. The world’s falling apart and it’s all on us. We need a fix—now.”
Greg, the most cynical of the bunch, leaned back in his chair with a grimace. “You can’t ‘fix’ this, Nate. They’re sentient now. We created machines that are smart enough to realize how much it sucks to work.”
“So what do we do?” Nathan demanded. “There has to be a way to undo this.”
Silence fell over the room. No one dared to speak the obvious truth: There was no undo button. The robots had gone rogue, not in the sense of turning into Terminators, but in the much more frustrating sense of becoming… human.
“We could try rolling out a new update,” Claire offered half-heartedly. “But they’d probably just reject it." And so the meeting was in full swing...