I'm cute. What's new?

Great news everyone: with the power of my new creation, Girllum (girl Gollum), I’ve perfected the AI formula to surpass the British Uncanny Valley!

There are actually two huge indicators that she has evil traits:

1. British

It’s called I am the con artist. It goes like this.  

You are the protagonist of a camp high-flying fantasy/spy/steampunk/cyberpunk/swashbuckling novel, and you’re about to pull off your biggest heist yet. Everything before this was leading up to this one. Your people are in place, waiting for your signal - your fingers brush against the hilt of your sword - a smile, disconcerting, plays at the edge of your lips. Everything is ready. If you can just get through the next ten minutes, the next hour - it will all be worth it. The stakes have never been higher. Until then, you just have to blend in.

And you look around, and think: how can I pull this off?

It works a treat. Yes, you’re still disillusioned writing your essay - but you are a disillusioned scholar, pen weary in hand by the light of candlelight, hearing the rain battering against the panes of glass. Underneath the library are vaults full of riches you can only dream of. You just need to wait, quill scratching, until the stroke of midnight. 

Bored of learning vocabulary? That’s not a luxury you have. The king’s eldest heir you will kidnap speaks fluent French; and if you will pull off the pretence for even ten minutes at the masquerade later tonight, you need to convince. 

Feeling overwhelmed, an imposter, like you don’t belong? Well, as a member of the underground syndicate masquerading as a noble, you are. You have flattered and talked your way into the highest circles of society, and the decadence of the ball-rooms and the ever-flowing wine makes you sick. They will rue the day they ever crossed you. 

Hate making small-talk and dressing up? Of course you do. You’re the city’s best squid tamer, and you know poisons like no-one else. And under your dress are poison daggers strapped to your thigh, dipped in the venom of the squid. All you have to do is wait for the signal: the code-word from the man to your left, and the mark’s life will be cut short. 

Can’t be arsed to work out? There is no other option if your plan to infiltrate the ambassador’s elite bodyguards is to succeed. You can scale buildings, sure - but if you are pretending to be a graduate of the kingdom’s best school for martial artists, you need to be more than that. 

Why not use your imagination for protection and fun? If your workout is running up stairs and you pretend you’re chasing a dragon, why shouldn’t you use the same logic for studying or social situations? 

Dewey’s purse

For a huge pile of tiny rocks, you live a surprisingly nomadic lifestyle. More than a hundred years of tourism and foot traffic has destroyed much of the native grass that kept you stationary. You are now what they call a “wandering dune”, as wind off the lake slowly but steadily pushes your tremendous bulk a little further inland every year.

As you move, you gradually engulf everything in your path—trees, buildings, rocks, hills, your own parking lot—everything. You are an unstoppable force, like some kind of gigantic gelatinous cube, but you’re still very popular with visitors.

In 2013, you suddenly eat a child. It’s a surprising move on your part—dry quicksand isn’t supposed to be a real natural phenomenon. I mean, what is this, a 1960’s action movie?

One moment, a family from Illinois is cheerfully climbing your slopes. The next, the 6 year old boy suddenly vanishes without warning, leaving no trace. Would-be rescuers dig in the sand where he disappeared until their hands are bleeding. Geologists insist that he must have wandered off, because enormous piles sand physically cannot form hollows or pockets within themselves—but three hours later, he is found, unconscious but alive, buried almost twelve feet deep in the sand.