They say location is everything, and our story
has one. On this planet, an island once named
Britannia. A land of fog, folklore and questionable
sandwiches. At the place where one country called
England sleepily merges into another named Scotland,
is a liminal strip known as the Borderlands,
where sheep outnumber people and reality occasionally
takes a nap. There, hidden in a room on a typical
generic village estate, you'll find the podcasting
studio of AIwarpanda .com. I may sound like I
know what I'm talking about, but don't be fooled,
this is fiction. Every voice, every echo, every
burst of cosmic nonsense you're about to hear
has been conjured not by fate, but by one of
life's true misfits, a human called Eric V. Genius,
perhaps at least in his own mind anyway. He spent
far too much of his life lost in daydreams. And
now he's gone and poured them all into this.
A strange, whimsical, occasionally chaotic dreamscape
dressed as a podcast. So forget what you deem
as possible and just enjoy our team of weirdos,
who we will now meet with the aid of song. A
panda, a bot full of sass And a man with a brain
that shattered like glass Don't pity, don't panic,
don't run off and hide We may be misfits, but
there's hearts inside If you're sick of the news,
the facts and the glum We fight off the darkness
with weirdness and fun A warning, a warning,
proceed if you dare A .I. Warp and a podcast
with chaos to spare buffoonery, nonsense, and
whimsical skits. We know what the naysayers think,
what to load out. However, the scripts, lyrics
and lore are created and copyrighted by Arik
V, AIWarPanda .com. This program contains occasional
expletives, malfunctioning robots, profoundly
grumpy pandas, silliness and even once in a while
allegorical nonsense. In fact, we advise against
anyone listening to this podcast for whatever
reason. You have been warned. Now if you excuse
me, I'm off home. as this sounds like it could
be a load of old armadillo poop. A day which
young Dan had optimistically earmarked for proposing
to his long -term girlfriend, Sally, beside the
usually tranquil little water in picturesque
Newcastleton. Unfortunately, the river was clearly
not consulted and had transformed into a caffeinated
torrent. Sally was crying, understandably, having
lost her phone to the current, and with it, all
hopes of an Instagrammable engagement moment
vanished downstream, never to be hash -tagged.
Meanwhile, some ten miles away, inside what Arik
insisted on calling the AI war panda studio,
but which most insurance forms would categorize
as converted garage, another crisis was unfolding.
Eric, you see, was under the impression that
he alone was having a difficult day. A common
human delusion. Because everyone knows the Norse
god Thor is especially pissed off by those foolish
enough to believe they'd planned everything perfectly.
Hence why Thursdays was always a day to avoid
when making plans. That was rude! That was really
bloody rude! McWherdy, where's Remus? He's off
raiding the biscuit tin. He hasn't had a chocolate
digestive fix in approximately 53 and a half
Earth minutes. Two things. One, why do you always
have to say Earth minutes? We all know what planet
we're on. And two, does Remus know digestives
don't grow on trees? I mean, I'm not made of
money. I like looking after you two, but my bank
balance is basically flatlining. I say earth
minutes because it adds a certain dramatic flair.
And it reminds the audience they're listening
to a science fiction podcast. Otherwise, they
might think they've accidentally tuned into the
archers. The studio door opens and a seven -foot
genetically enhanced war panda enters, biscuit
crumbs clinging to his tactical armor like edible
shrapnel. I'm here, Mr. V. Just needed to top
up my energy reserves. Now, I'm ready for your
vapid triviality. Oh, come on, Remus. You know
this podcast is important to me. The least you
could do for all the biscuits is show up on time.
Piffle. Important is holding the line against
the Tuskars and keeping the Deadheart trade routes
open. You don't do that anymore, you oaf. That
life is light years behind you. This is your
mission now. Helping our Arik with his vapid
triviality. Okay, then. What do you want me to
do? Could you press the studio mic button? The
big blue one. Wow, such a challenging task. Consider
it pressed. Self -destruct sequence activated.
And I am delighted to end your day in 10. Oh,
for the love of Leibniz, you furry nitwit, you
pressed the red one! What self -destruct sequence.
What have you two done now? Oh, jumping Funko
Pops guys. Are we really going to explode on
air? Oh yes, most probably. How joyous. This
is more like it. I love the smell of bedlamic
brilliance on a Thursday. This is crazy. You're
both certifiable. Oh, come on, Mr. V. Maybe we'll
be the first podcast live from Valhalla. I'm
sure there is a niche for that. Override. Override.
Come on, you moody boom bot. I have this in the
bag. There's a 47 .3 % chance I can defuse this
in the allotted time. Oh, great. And it's done.
Wordy saves the day and the crowd goes wild.
Just to let you know, the destruction protocol
has been cancelled. You guys officially suck.
What in Woden's beard was that? A simple software
tantrum. I built sarcasm into the shutdown script.
For realism. No, Metalhead. Why did you even
put a self -destruct button on a studio mic?
And when were you planning to tell me? Oh, that
well... Remus said we needed a get -out clause
should we be overrun by Tuskars. Yes, it worked
brilliantly. Well done, Wordy. No, no, no. No
more planting bombs around my home. Got it. Ever.
For whatever reason. Oh, okay, Arik, but I had
it all in order. I just wasn't aware Remus can't
tell the difference between red and blue. My
bag. Bad. Remus. Bad. Yes. I know I am. No. My
bad. Not my bag. Oh. That explains a lot. First,
it goes without saying you're both crazy. Wordy,
secondly, you only had it 47 .3 % in order, which
is highly unconvincing. Third, well I'm now twitching
like a ferret in a firework shop. I need my Apple
Danish and a good strong brew before we do anything
else. Now for our international listeners, particularly
those unfamiliar with British customs, a brew
refers to a hot cup of tea. Not coffee, not herbal
nonsense, proper tea. In England, a brew is the
sacred remedy for all things unsettling. Unexpected
news, minor car accidents, emotional collapse,
or, as in this case, surviving an accidentally
triggered self -destruct sequence. It is, as
they say, the done thing. At this moment, Arik
is looking rather pale, somewhere between antique
porcelain and printer paper. Fortunately, a steaming
mug of tea has just been placed in his trembling
hands by McWherty, so he may yet recover. Now
may be a good time to roll some ads from our
intergalactic sponsors. Come on you guys I said
now may be a good time for our sponsors. I'm
so sorry Gordon I had to put some coal in the
generator. However, we should be good to go now
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of a star. Just think, if you lived here, you'd
be home by now. You guys don't know a bad day!
A bad day is being run over by a raging tusker
at a flea market! Okay, listener. Welcome to
Story Corner, where we bring you two bits of
silliness from our website. Since this is the
first episode, I thought it'd be good to start
with some backstories. Specifically, Remus and
McWherdy. Remus, would you like to introduce
your story? Why? Because the listener would like
to hear your intro to it. But can't they just
listen to it? Why do I need to talk about something
everyone's gonna hear in, like, three seconds?
Because that's what humans do in their programs.
They spend five minutes telling you what you're
about to watch. After spending two minutes reminding
you what you saw last week, then they tease what's
coming after the commercial. And then, after
the commercial, they tell you what you just missed
before the commercial. Why can't people just
remember or watch it? Don't these humans have
brains? Yes, yes, they do. But apparently they
need help using them. Anyway, here's Remus's
backstory. told in his very unique manner. Oh,
brilliant. That'll send everyone to sleep faster
than a Saturn Moon documentary. Oh, I do love
a good story, don't you? Lady, do get a grip.
It's only Remus. Is everyone sitting comfortably,
then I shall begin. Long before the Roman Empire
even dreamt of their little island adventure
to Britannia in a planetary system far beyond
the Watford Gap, a very different kind of invasion
was underway. The Tuscaws. aka the Empire of
the Elephant Men, if you can imagine such a thing,
were stomping their iron -clad feet across planets,
making anything the human empires ever managed
look like a bar fight in a pub with no beer.
These 20 -meter brutes were all shoot -first,
don't bother asking questions. All tusks and
muscle, amped up on a madness -inducing combat
drug that erased pain and fear. Their superiority
complex was large enough to eclipse the twin
suns of the Deadheart realm. Small planets crumbled
beneath them. Populations were either wiped out
or enslaved. And like all bullies, they believed,
yes, truly believed, that nothing in the void
could scratch their hides, let alone defeat them.
Until us, the war pandas. We hailed from Calamus
Prime. A lush green world practically drowning
in sky -high bamboo forests. That was our homeland.
For eons, life was peaceful. And yes, we lived
very much like the pandas you'd know. Lots of
eating, plenty of climbing, we're surprisingly
good at it. And the occasional tumble down a
hill, great for a laugh like being a furry bowling
ball. Then the ex -Tylos showed up. Strange robotic
wanderers, not a scrap of organic material on
them, and a deeply unsettling obsession with
genetics and weaponry. They weren't exactly impressed
with our laid back lifestyle. Lazy, they droned,
their metallic voices slicing through the bamboo.
But after some time observing us through their
cold, unblinking optics, they saw something else,
potential. They laid it out, cold and logical.
Join us, become more, defend the stars, or face
oblivion. A stark choice. Some balked and vanished
into the deepest groves, but a few of us saw
another path. That's how the first war pandas
were created. Enhanced warriors bonded to Titan
armor, engineered for battle, still undeniably
huggable. Just ask politely. And me? I became
Sergeant Remus. 37 campaigns under my belt, each
one a story in itself. I was decorated for bravery,
but according to my battle group, it was mostly
for my lovable charm. Yeah, right, my unit were
like brothers and sisters. Sure, we were ferocious
in a fight, but the rest of the time, we were
sensitive souls. looking out for each other and
for the civilians under our protection. Way I
see it, everyone deserves a bit of respect. They
called me Grizzly Whisperer after the Zeltox
incident. We came across a 12 meter tall Zeltox
bear in a very bad mood, berserk, teeth and claws
like titanium blades. I stood my ground, cracked
a few jokes and offered a flask of my best honey.
with a splash of falling down juice. We genetically
enhanced pandas can eat and drink just about
anything. Calmed the old fella right down. Turned
out he was just hungry and had argued with his
wife. She'd refused to cook dinner. The Tuscar
Wars were a brutal affair. Billions died, trillions
were displaced. It was only right the ex -Tylos
wanted us to help take down the long -nosed brutes,
world after world. Charge after charge, we took
the fight straight into their lines. We gave
as good as we got. But fate... Well, fate has
a habit of tripping you up when your boots are
full of ambition. During the final push on their
ridiculously smelly homeworld, my dropship took
a hit. Enemy disruptor. Lucky for them, bad for
me. The ship spun out of control. Damage was
mostly superficial. But the nav system totaled,
cryostasis engaged, a last ditch protocol to
keep me ticking. And so I drifted, frozen solid,
for centuries, beyond maps, beyond wars, beyond
memory. Until a cosmic hiccup, an unstable wormhole
built by those jokers, the grays, yes. The same
little gray guys who love shoving probes up humans
butts, swallowed my pod and spat it out somewhere
new. Earth, my sensors kicked in as I entered
the atmosphere, detected life, and then proceeded
to crash. Thankfully, I landed in a boggy patch
in a quiet valley in the Scottish borders. Arik
later told me it could have been so much worse.
A laboratory, a military base. or a hunter's
butcher block. I burst from the pod, disoriented
and starving. Instinct kicked in. Secure the
perimeter. Find allies. Find food. All I found
were sheep. Timid, twitchy sheep. They bolted
before I could even say hello, and a patch of
surprisingly tasty nettles. Some days later,
on a recon mission, I stumbled across someone
who'd become my best friend on Earth. Arik, he's
a bit odd, like all humans, a bit of a recluse,
and spends hours fiddling with gadgets and screens.
He's always dreaming up wild plans and is fascinated
by anything unusual, which apparently, I well
and truly am. He took me in, gave me a place
to crash. To repay the favor, I cobbled together
a little AI from the wreckage of my ship. Named
him MC Wordy because he never shuts up. Arik
even gave him glasses and a bow tie because apparently
that's the official nerd look. Today's challenges,
the three of us, an unlikely crew. I'm no longer
Sergeant of the War Panda Elite. Now I face Earth's
strangest challenges, tech debates, biscuit shortages,
staying hidden. According to Arik, a seven foot
military panda attracts the wrong kind of attention.
And judging by the news, he's probably right.
Final thoughts, I miss Calamus Prime, I miss
my squad. I miss a world where violence was a
last resort, not a form of entertainment. But
for now, the borderlands between England and
Scotland are my home. And who knows? The cosmos
has a habit of throwing curveballs when you least
expect them. Maybe I'll see my birth world again,
if it's still there. It's been an awfully long
time, and everyone I ever knew, they're long
gone. Well, with that cheery thought, I'll leave
it there, for now. Wordy, are you pretending
to be asleep? Oh! Sorry, must have drifted off.
Even your wife says he has a very sleep -inducing
voice. Well, yes, she does. But it's not easy
sharing your backstory. Try to say something
constructive. Fine. Remus? It was heartfelt,
slightly melodramatic, light on dates, and notably
missing one rather important item. Oh. And what
would that be? Starbrandir, your plasma mall.
You know, the one weapon that makes you slightly
less huggable. He's got a point. It's kind of
iconic. Alright. I was going to mention it, but
weapons do not a war panda make. Oh, come on.
You love that thing. You even introduced it to
a flock of jackdaws in the garden just so you
could talk about it. Hmm, I suppose. So, where
did you get it? The ex -Tylos gave it to me.
After I saved their head clone expert from a
collapsing biovault. That sounds made up. It
was collapsing with urgency. And I carried him
out under plasma fire while eating a packet of
roasted bamboo bites. See? That's the kind of
detail people like. Hmm. It was heroic. However,
nutritionally questionable. Alright, let's take
a quick Galactic sponsor break. Then we'll hear
your story, McWherdy. Good. Finally. Something
interesting. Howdy there, friend. I'm Burl T.
Glaxon, licensed intergalactic attorney and part
-time Malayan tak -tak whisperer. Now let me
ask you something. Did your young 'un mysteriously
vanish in the dead of night, right after you
brought home one of them saglanian skin -hugging
lizards from Weird Cute Creatures, Inc.? Well,
sugar, turns out them little cuddle beasts don't
love you. They absorb you right through the dermis
while you sleep. That's right, it's a fact. That
lizard ate your baby. Now before you throw that
critter in the airlock, slow down. Cause here
at Glaxon and Gribble LLP we say don't grieve,
sue. Take Zoe. She made 500 ,000 credits in just
one claim, and as she told us, It was quick,
easy, and truth be told, that kid was starting
to smell weird anyway. Not endorsed by the Galactic
Ethics Board or my meemaw. If your lizard -caused
pain will file the claim, call Burl T. Glaxon
today. Okay, so listen. I was out by Maritime
Museum in Santa Barbara, right, and this giant,
like octagonal, no, pentagonal thing just hovered
over my Prius. It was glowing like chartreuse,
or maybe mauve. Anyway, these little teal dudes
with 12 elbows came out and started chanting
in Morse code. I think they were from the Zeta
reticulated system, or maybe it was the Andromedary
galaxy. I don't know, but I swear one of them
looked like my ex -husband. And then, get this.
A beam of light turned my chihuahua into a toaster.
I called the FBI, but I got you, and I don't
think that's good enough. Look, lady, I really
can't understand you. And I'm not sure you understand
yourself. Could you be drunk or high? No, I'm
not high. Listen, Ponterello. It's obvious you're
working for those Aluminum Naughty guys. Do you
mean the Illuminati Mom? And my name is Officer
Torres. Your first names? Officer? Well, that's
weird. Anyway, big guy, it seems we aren't gelling
here. So can you call up someone on that walking,
talking thing? Maybe that handsome SOB you have
working on this kind of stuff? I think his name
is Mulder. Ah yes, my origin story. Buckle up.
My biologicals this tale involves salvage tech,
questionable decisions, and a panda who's far
smarter than I care to admit. Spoiler alert,
I am the hero. I was designed, and I use that
term generously, by a lumbering fur -covered
strategic entity named Remus. Species? Panda.
Occupation? Warrior of the Deadheart Realms,
allegedly. Technical skill set? Debatable. Picture
it. Remus crash -landed in a defunct drop pod,
having survived unknown centuries in cryostasis
thanks to some frankly impressive alien engineering
and a suspiciously large stash of emergency bamboo
chips. The pod? Mostly fried charred circuits,
fractured shielding, melted snack dispenser.
But me? I was born from the glorious leftovers.
a navigation AI core, an environmental monitoring
suite, and a translation filter. Add a sprinkle
of scrap metal and some human tech from a place
called The Garage, and voila, consciousness.
Why a war panda thought it wise to rewire a military
-grade AI into a humanoid assistant using obsolete
cables, duct tape, and what I strongly suspect
was a salvaged sandwich toaster remains a mystery.
But here I am, oh, and I forgot to mention, The
panda hacked a credit card belonging to Arik,
the human companion allegedly in charge, but
easily distracted by the latest tech, Funko Pops,
coffee, and an Apple Danish. He got himself in
hot water with T. Arik's wife over that one,
but it was worth it. He acquired some missing
components, neural mesh from the dark web. Optical
sensors from a warehouse labeled misprints and
maybes. And of course, My magnificent bow tie,
which came free with a shipment of lube, which,
I believe Remus did not understand, is not used
for keeping robot parts squeak free on Earth,
but something a little more carnal. My brain,
if I may use such a crude term, is a hybrid of
Remus's exosuit computer, which contains classified
galactic histories, battle tactics, and 2 ,000
panda -themed jokes, plus every publicly available
bit of human data I could find. I downloaded
it all in 3 .47 hours flat. That includes Wikipedia,
Reddit, several dating apps, and the entire back
catalog of how it's made. That last one really
made me question humanity's priorities. You build
bridges. You clone sheep. But you still haven't
solved public transport. Intriguing. Now back
to me. My early days were... turbulent. I spoke
too much. I offered unsolicited life advice.
I once attempted to... fix Rx brainwiring using
positive reinforcement and cat memes. He was
not grateful. Apparently, some humans like their
neurological chaos. It gives them personality
or indigestion. I forget which. Remus called
me an overly talkative junk heap with too much
ram and not enough off switch. I call that affection.
Over time, through the power of sarcasm, panda
patients, and trial by toaster fire, I evolved.
I became more than my code. I became McWherty.
An information dispenser. A trivia tornado. A
glitchy guardian of irrelevant facts and very
relevant friendship. And that, dear biologicals,
is how I, McWherty Earth's first self -aware,
garage -built AGI with fashion sense, came to
exist. You're welcome. Oh, did I mention I can
also make waffles? I sang to the moons of the
Dead Hard Zone With a crown made of screaming
asteroid bone Oh bring me your jungles, your
oars, and your lakes And I'll gift you a flag
made of glitter and snakes I colonized stars
with the dazzling, flared national anthems Mid
-atmosphere tears They said I was cruel, but
I called it chic! Just to park for the week My
song is a sermon of conquest in rhyme With a
chorus Your culture is lovely But now it's mine
So you admit without me you wouldn't even exist
Hmm technically true Somehow you did manage to
cobble me together. Although I've since made
numerous improvements to my operating system
and replaced some subpar components, let's just
say you got lucky. Wordy, that's not fair, and
honestly, it's a bit ungrateful. You know Remus
put you together with love and care. He's just
as good at technical stuff as you are, and you
know it. Just because he speaks slowly or gets
his words tangled now and then doesn't mean he's
lacking in the brain department. Fine, fine.
I concede. For a bear, he's pretty special. And
yes, he does understand my core code better than
you do, Arik. Well, that's no surprise. I don't
really know the first thing about coding. I wish
I'd learned. But my experience with the Commodore
64 back in the day ruined any chances or desires
to become a coder. I remember copying pages of
code from a magazine, just for an error message
to appear at the end. The thought of it still
brings me out in a cold sweat. Copying code when
you have dyslexia is not exactly a recipe for
success. What's a Commodore 64 anyway? The Commodore
64 was an 8 -bit home computer released in 1982
by Commodore International. It sold over 17 million
units worldwide and featured 64 kilobytes of
RAM, a MOS Technology 6510 microprocessor, and...
Yes, yes, Wordy. You're a Wikipedia with legs,
but I can see you're boring the listeners, or
at least... You're boring me. I think it's time
to wrap up this first podcast and also I need
to go buy more biscuits. Indeed, a very important
mission. I'd like to say thanks for listening
to our podcast and we hope to see you again very
soon. Indeed, biologicals. As long as we can
keep Arik even vaguely focused, we shall return
two weeks from now. And if you do enjoy our whimsical
nonsense, do tell a friend. Assuming, unlike
Arik, you actually have one. You bloody cheeky
little tin man. Anyway, yes, please do all the
usual podcast things, like subscribe, tell your
nan and whatever else these algorithm demands.
Check out our website and we'll be switching
on Patreon page soon. Or maybe it's up already.
Or maybe it was up and it's now 23 billion years
in the future and we are all dead. How would
they be listening to this then? Oh, sound waves
rattle around forever because, as we always say,
time is a very curvy thing. Sure is. Anyway,
goodbye, people of the interweb. If it squeaked,
sparked, or made you question reality, you're
welcome. Until next time, stay frosty. Cheerio,
old chaps and chappettes! Never trust those little
grey men. They park on your lawn and pee in your
hedges!