"They just sit there, withering away, like so many sentient, fleshy central processing units. Constantly solving meaningless puzzles for the funding of research institutions."
What Russell had said contained not the slightest exaggeration, it was all true.
He disdained lying, for sincerity holds power—his anger was so authentic that merely recounting it set his pupils ablaze with white flames.
"Their lives scarcely span a few years, the eldest barely in their teens, not even of age by the laws of Happiness Island. And from the moment they become conscious, they never leave the sterile void of those research institutes. Any synthetic human who leaves the research institute is regarded as 'rebel army' and is promptly met with heavy fire, bombed to death."
Russell's expression grew solemn.
The internet that had been abuzz because of his official announcement quieted down, and the smiles on the faces of the audience, who had been eagerly listening to his story, gradually faded away.
