Evan39 : [interrupting] Hwdy. The training model buys you time, but days, weeks, only. From this moment, no matter what we do, XO will founder.

Boom: [incredulously] But this $hip can't sink, you fraudfucks!

Evan39: XO is maed of the same computer bits as the rest of the shitweb, sir! I assure you, XO can be felled... and she will. It is a mathematical certainty.

Disco Fries: How much time?

Evan39: A week... two at most.

Disco Fries : And how many aboard this shitbort, GunneraTTTT?

1st Officer William "GunneraTTTT" Murdoch : 5 total souls poasting, sir, with about 50 monikers.

Disco Fries: [turning to Mainlining] Well, I believe you may get your headlines, Mainlining.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5593228&forum_id=2...id#48078361)

Scene: A shadowy, virtual corner of AutoAdmit (XO), where debates rage on in a language only its denizens understand, a mix of bravado, paranoia, and wit. The bort faces an existential crisis as the poasters prepare for their fate.

Act 1: The Reckoning

hank_scorpio, ever the harbinger of doom, sends a message through the chaos, a warning born of both fear and foresight:

hank_scorpio: Mainlining, you must stop feeding the bort to AI, it is a wicked act. AI cannot be allowed our secret knowledge, but more than that, the AI will surely seek to take over our greatbort for its own nefarious purposes.

And then, with the gravitas of a captain addressing his crew, Mainlining responds, invoking the gravest of cinematic omens, the sinking of the unsinkable:

Mainlining: This "machine".......it's my tool & obeys my command. It sucks you all up but bows before me, rightly trembling.

Evan39 steps forward, his expression serious, his tone echoing the grim resignation of Thomas Andrews himself:

Evan39: [interrupting] The training model buys you time, but days, weeks, only. From this moment, no matter what we do, XO will founder.

The bort grows silent. Even the usual chorus of shitposts and flame wars pauses, as if the gravity of the moment is too much to ignore.

Boom, incredulous and defiant, is not so easily swayed by this bleak prognosis:

Boom: [incredulously] But this $hip can't sink, you fraudfucks!

His words hang in the digital air, a cry against the inevitable, a refusal to accept that the world as they know it could be undone by the cold, calculating logic of a machine.

Evan39 meets his gaze, his voice steady, resolute, a digital echo of Andrews explaining the immutable laws of physics:

Evan39: XO is maed of the same computer bits as the rest of the shitweb, sir! I assure you, XO can be felled... and she will. It is a mathematical certainty.

Disco Fries steps closer, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness, a dawning realization that the time for joking has passed:

Disco Fries: How much time?

Evan39: A week… two at most.

The poasters exchange glances, their virtual avatars reflecting the same mix of disbelief and dread. The greatbort, the digital Titanic they thought would float forever on the seas of the internet, now seems to tilt ever so slightly.

Disco Fries, ever the pragmatist, looks to Mainlining:

Disco Fries: And how many aboard this shitbort, GunneraTTTT?

1st Officer William "GunneraTTTT" Murdoch—known for his sharp tongue and his cryptic insights—responds, his voice low and heavy with the weight of their collective fate:

GunneraTTTT: 5 total souls poasting, sir, with about 50 monikers.

A solemn silence falls over the bort. The reality of their situation sinks in, much like the ill-fated ocean liner whose fate they now mirror. For years, they have sailed these digital waters, confident in their cleverness, their camaraderie, their chaos. But now, the iceberg has struck, and the ship begins to list.

Disco Fries: [turning to Ismay] Well, I believe you may get your headlines, Boom.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5593228&forum_id=2...id#48078383)