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You're sitting at a table. The room is dimly lit and a strange machine sits across from you on the other-side. The singular door which leads into this room opens and a man in a trench coat walks in to take the seat across from you. He sets down a portfolio of notes in a brown folder and boots up the machine, preparing a pen to take notes. Lastly, he pulls out a large gun and sets it down on the table, but it is too far for you to reach. Taking a deep breath, the man puts on some reading glasses and looks at you in the eyes. This person is a Blade Runner, and he has brought you here to administer a *Voight-Kampff test. If the Blade Runner finds you out, he will put you in retirement. He lights a cigarette and offers you one.


"Don't worry, it's just a test."

Despite his reassuring words, you know that you are an advanced model of replicant. Aside from models implanted with fake memories, replicants don't usually pass these tests. But you're a newer and state of the art model. What you don't know is if you can pass this test.



While still offering you the cigarette, he begins by asking his first question:


"In your apartment complex's communal courtyard, one of your neighbours is shouting at their spouse again ... only this time it turns violent. You call the police. Do you intervene before the police arrive?"



A Voight-Kampff test comes from the movie Blade Runner, and it's where a Blade Runner (detectives who seek out and "retire" replicants) asks a series of hypothetical questions to a person in order to find out if they are a replicant (Synthetic posing as a human).

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My hand reaches into my satchel and firmly grasps the handle of the empathy box.

An impulse: I hadn't planned it; all at once it had happened.

A landscape of weeds confronts me, a desolation. The air smells of harsh blossom;

this is the desert, and there is no rain.

A man stands before me, a sorrwoful light in his weary, pain-drenched eyes.

"Mercer," I say.

"I am your friend," the old man says. "But you must go on as if I did not exist. Can you understand that?" He spreads his empty hands.

"No," I reply. "I can't understand that. I need help."

"How can I save you," the old man says, "if I can't save myself?" He smiles. "Don't you see? There is no salvation."

"Then what is this for?" I demand. "What are you for?"

"To show you," Wilbur Mercer says, "that you aren't alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go and do your task, even though you know it's wrong."

"Why?" I ask him. "Why should I do it? I'll make a run for it. Emigrate."

The old man says, "You will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity.

At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life.

Everywhere in the universe."

"That's all you can tell me?" I say.

A rock whizzes at me; I duck, and the rock strucks me on the ear. At once I let go of the handles and again find myself in the dimly lit room, confronted by the runner.

My head aches wildly from the blow; reaching, I find fresh blood collecting, spilling in huge bright drops down the side of my face.

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I put a hand up and shake my head slightly, "I don't smoke, but thank you, nonetheless."

I calmly join my hands together on the table, and take a breath, "As for what I would do. Well, that would depend on which neighbor's were involved, you know? I mean, some of them seem to deserve a bruise or two. If it were one of those, no, I would not step in. If it had been someone less than deserving of it, I might. A bit hard to know as it would depend on how I was feeling that day."

((Apologies if this had died, and for not having seen the movie. I was just intrigued at how this might evolve. I hope Mofo will feel like continuing.))

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