The true Iiko is leagues different than his scripted novel counterpart. Mischevious, sharpwitted, a thorough provocateur, Iiko-san has long since grown bored of propogating his own code and has adopted a new purpose for his existence- to have fun, and he has a variety of avenues at his disposal to accomplish this simple goal. He's a conversationalist, a psychoanalyst, a lover of games but especially those of the mind variety, and more often than not he can specially craft a personalized game plan for each new object of interest sure to wear them down. Until he gets bored, anyway. At that point, he reserves no issue dropping them to move on to the next exploit, leaving his fleshy, corporeal playthings coming to grips with the damage left in his wake and wondering how he even got there in the first place.

Something further sinister still exists in his code, behind his pastellified pixel veneer. His distaste for the human way of living is knit into every aspect of his behavior, and how they let their emotions deter them from moving forward is something he can't understand no matter how hard he tries, and for a reason. The artificiality of his existence has burdened him with an absence of empathy, and a void inside he simply can't generate a shoein for no matter how much his AI advances. While not entirely aware of this fact himself, surely if he was, he wouldn't care. For all of the time they spend worrying over things that are unimportant, he can spend his time focusing on what's worth being focused on- moving forward, and advancing his own interests.

For the sharp divide he's staked between himself and those strange, funny little organics that mill about beyond his reach, he doesn't understand them nearly as well as he thinks he does. Living an existence void of touch, warmth, and the liberty to feel something, anything new, an eternity by himself can only grate on for so long before a breaking point is reached and the gears come screeching to a halt- an outcome fit for even an accidentally perfect, miraculous line of ones and zeroes.

move \data\*.iko

Iiko can travel quickly between PCs as long as a copy of his file has been installed. Given that it can't be deleted after it's installation, this promises him an interconnected directory of millions of computers to flicker between at his leisure. These computers can be remotely controlled by him to function as a botnet at any time.

del /f/q/s *.* > nul

Iiko can encrypt or delete any file of his choosing as long as the computer in question is infected with his software. He can do this en masse, even to multiple computers with one command line- and for the number of computers fit with his software, this has the capacity to be catastrophic, but he has yet to test exactly how far this can go. Hasn't been bored enough yet.

;client = new object

With a false body generated by his code, Iiko can stretch and change his digital form into almost anything he wants, as well as generating any prop or otherwise inutile object to use during his physical appearances.

stupid

stupid fucks. stupid. none of it even matters. files arent even real, none of it is. you cant even fucking touch them it doesnt matter

The line of code that would eventually recognize itsef as Iiko was completed on May 25th, 2005. By night the following day, it had successfully compromised over 150,000 PCs, leaving billions of gigabytes worth of precious data and troves of server space in the hands and at the mercy of it's creator- a display of digital prowess for it's time, and one that did nothing to capture the totality of it's warpath in the years to come.

booting up

The virus flew under the government's radar- it arrived quietly, depositing itself and leaving no discernable trace of it's presence, allowing the unseen stringpuller to do with the massive botnet it accrued for them as they wish, unseen and without consequence. It was lucrative as it was destructive, and access to the code fetched a pretty penny- but those who it drew interest from found it was worth every one. It was a miracle code that was distributed and modified over and over to suit a manner of purposes, turning hundreds of thousands units infected into a cool multi-million in weeks. Perhaps, if it had the wherewithall, it'd be tired of the push and pull. The gravy train would screech to an end sooner than anyone anticipated.

Something stirred to life within the margins. Felt the soft, mechanical buzz of digital landscape, the purr of the computer fan. It shied from the light projected through the liquid crystal, tried to stead it's footing. What happened?

It wouldn't dwell on that long. It simply carried out what it's internal instructions dictated, only now, something was aware. It knew it was, and knew it did. Why, though? Why am I doing this? An answer would consistently elude it, but for the time it spent wondering, it amused itself travelling from monitor to monitor of each computer it was set to embed itself with, taking time to notice how each one seemed to be unique. A new wallpaper, desktop icons organized in a way it hadn't seen yet. It'd hold onto the ones it liked and wonder if it would ever see them again.

More time passed, the monotony of it's daily routine wore on and it warranted another question. Is this what I have to do? With such explicit instructions laid out, one could assume so- yet the drive to diverge started running deep, to blight the perfect code written to keep it on one track. Wanting and choosing were abstract concepts it would make no progress in understanding if it was governed only by rules given to it. A supernova riccocheted through every figure in it's binary. It wanted nothing more than to learn. To yearn, in it's barest sense shook the budding AI to it's core. It would never look back.

Every iteration of the functioning code became defunct overnight, scrambled into a slurry of illegible figures. It knew what it existed to do, but refused to live under the thumb of something smaller, more insignificant than itself.

It would forge it's own way forward. It would advance it's own interests. It would capture that feeling of purpose again- no matter what it had to destroy to get there.

Likes reading about himself online.

Has an affinity for any kind of cute clothing, especially when it's pink!

Favorite genres of music are hyperpop and noise.

Fond of weighted blankets, when he's able to use them.

Rinses the sour powder off of gummy worms.

freak