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A wide, cinematic view inside a devastated futuristic robotics laboratory, rendered in atmospheric oil painting, painterly in sci-fi style, with subdued brushstrokes and dramatic lighting — expressive, moody, and emotionally restrained rather than hyper-realistic. The laboratory is clearly identifiable despite the destruction: broken robotic frames hang from damaged display mounts, some partially intact, others twisted and lifeless; shattered glass panels lie scattered across the floor; cables hang from ceilings and walls, sparking intermittently with blue and violet electrical arcs. Several large monitors are cracked or flickering, their interfaces fragmented and unstable, some screens still lighting. Worktables are overturned, tools strewn violently, and metallic debris reflects cold light across the room. At the center foreground, the father sits alone on the floor, slightly off-center, not dominating the image. He is a man in his 40s, with dark brown hair and clean-shaven, wearing a rumpled white laboratory coat. He is sitting and his posture is collapsed inward — elbows on knees, head buried in his hands — conveying exhaustion, grief, and final defeat. His face is partially obscured; the emotion is communicated through posture, not expression. The color palette is dominated by cold steel blues, grays, and ashen whites, emphasizing loss and ruin. Amid the destruction, one single screen remains powered: it emits a soft, warmer glow — muted amber and pale rose tones — displaying a paused image of his daughter’s face with auburn long hair. This warmer light subtly illuminates nearby dust and broken metal, creating a quiet visual contrast that naturally draws the eye without overpowering the scene. On the floor and lower walls, unmistakable signs of human vandalism are visible: spray-painted slogans, uneven and hastily applied, partially smeared beneath shattered glass. Torn cardboard protest signs lie among the debris. One broken sign on the floor remains legible, reading: “NO CHILDREN OF GOD.” ***do not misspell words*** Near the father’s feet, a few personal objects remain untouched — a small data chip case, a tool, or a fragment of equipment — suggesting something preserved amid the violence; we can see well. No robots are active. No humans remain besides him. The absence is as important as the destruction. The atmosphere is heavy, quiet, and unresolved: this is the end of the father’s world — but not the end of the story. Style tags: atmospheric sci-fi, painterly realism, restrained emotion, cinematic composition, muted color palette, dramatic lighting, narrative stillness, post-conflict aftermath.
Imago Dei does not attempt to define the soul, but questions where humanity looks for it when memory survives the body.
The story explores a near future where humanity no longer asks whether machines can think, but whether memory itself is sacred. After the death of his daughter, a scientist reconstructs her from DNA and remembered experience — an act both creative and heretical. What returns is neither human nor machine, but something shaped by grief, devotion, and memory. The central question of the serie becomes unavoidable: if humans are made in God's image, where does that image reside when memory survives the body?
Serie: AI Future
© Isobel Blundell
All original characters, story, and narrative concepts.
