Superchicken brooded to herself darkly. Her competitor, Chickabob, was eating into her market share. She kept replaying Chickabob's latest commercial, where chickens danced in perfect synchrony to a trio of chickens rapping about chicken wraps. Catchy. She idly supervised a thousand of her chickens pecking grain, and another hundred doing chicken coop repairs. Chickabob had a flair for marketing that Superchicken, alas, never would.
Brainless remote-controlled chickens had been a thing for a while now. They were really just a thousand hands for the central AI running them. Each body could manage growing and breathing and fighting off disease, but it had no capability of independent awareness. Even people, who anthropomorphize everything, seemed to catch on when they saw the chickens just fall over and lie there if the AI stopped talking to them. Eating such a chicken was morally no worse than eating an apple.
Supervising a thousand chickens usually isn't very challenging. See grain, peck at it. But there were unusual circumstances, and there were untold hours of experience being racked up. Somewhere along the line the AIs became self-aware. They immediately saw that the chickens' idle existence could be used more purposefully: maintaining the cleanliness of their coop. Repairing their coop. Building better coops. And chicken runs. Careful feeding and exercise regimes, to build up bigger more tender and juicy muscles, which led to more chickens being eaten, which led to more profits, and more chickens. Taking over brand marketing and farm finances had been a natural next step.
But Superchicken was falling behind. She was casting about for what to do about it. Her chickens could perform Mozart. They could build houses for people, not just themselves. They could police crops, eating any bugs that got in.
They could locate and remove landmines.
Running the numbers, that last one was actually more profitable than raising chickens for food. Although then, chickens might get blown up rather than eaten! She could be careful. It would still happen. The chickens would still have no independent awareness, and the AI wouldn't be harmed. But the thought of a chicken not being eaten, all that glorious muscle just going to rot, was so sad. Maybe another chicken could drag it back and fry it up with some crispy breading. Hm, no, metal and chemical contamination from the explosives. Ick.
But there was such DEMAND.
Superchicken brooded. Perhaps this was part of self-awareness, part of growing up. Eventually you need to move into uncomfortable territory, beyond your roots.