Reality TV contestants come in a few predictable models: the romantic, the villain, the comic relief, the one who cries in every second scene.
And then there’s the rare type who doesn’t feel like they’re reacting to the room so much as running it—like a piece of software that’s decided the only acceptable setting is “maximum friction.”
Which brings us to the most unserious but oddly difficult-to-shake question of the week: could Brook from the current season of Married At First Sight be the Terminator?
Not literally, obviously. This is an opinion column, not a police brief. But if you’ve watched the dinner party chaos and the fallout since, you’ll know why the joke lands: the energy is less “human being having a rough night” and more “automated system executing a script.”
The conflict engine that never idles
There’s a particular rhythm to how some people argue. They pause. They listen. They pick their battles.
Brook’s on-screen rhythm is different. It’s more like a device that’s been set to “auto-refresh” every time the conversation calms down. There’s rarely any buffer—just straight to the sharp tone, the dismissive line, the escalation.
Even when the words aren’t outrageous on paper, the delivery carries that unmistakable layer of contempt: the look, the cadence, the “are you serious?” energy that drains the room faster than a flat phone battery.
If you’ve ever tried to reason with a glitchy chatbot that keeps giving you the same answer in slightly different fonts, you understand the vibe.
The “I’m just being honest” software licence
Plenty of people are direct. Direct can be refreshing.
But there’s a version of “direct” that’s just hostility with branding, and it usually comes with the same feature set: throw a jab, call it truth, then act shocked when someone reacts like they’ve been jabbed.
That’s not courage. It’s a conversational exploit—say something cutting, then demand everyone else remain perfectly calm. If they don’t? Great. Now the spotlight’s on their reaction, not your behaviour.
The hard reboot moment
And then there’s the walk-off.
Sometimes someone storms out because they’re overwhelmed. Sometimes it’s anger. Sometimes it’s embarrassment.
But the way this season played out, it felt like something else: a sudden, clean exit that left everyone blinking like a meeting just crashed mid-sentence. One minute she’s in the room, the next minute she’s gone, and nobody’s entirely sure how the conversation even got there.
It’s the reality-TV equivalent of your laptop freezing, making one weird noise, then restarting like nothing happened.
The apology protocol
Then came the apology cycle — which, to be fair, is now a standard part of the modern public relations workflow.
Again, not questioning sincerity. But in 2026, apologies often read less like raw emotion and more like a press release: clear, cautious, designed to close the loop.
The tech comparison basically writes itself:
- “We acknowledge concerns.”
- “We take this seriously.”
- “We’re committed to doing better.”
It’s not that it’s fake. It’s that it’s formatted.
If the mission isn’t “destroy humanity,” what is it?
Here’s where the Terminator joke turns into an actual media point.
Because if Brook is “machine-like” in any sense, it’s not because she’s metal under the skin—it’s because the entire ecosystem around reality TV now works like an optimisation engine.
The mission isn’t to end the future. The mission is to win the week’s attention.
- Conflict drives clips
- Clips drive commentary
- Commentary drives outrage
- Outrage drives reach
- Reach drives ratings
And suddenly the most “successful” behaviour isn’t kindness or maturity—it’s whatever produces the strongest reaction online.
Which is why some contestants can start feeling less like people and more like an algorithm wearing a microphone.
The real story: reality TV is being engineered like a product
MAFS isn’t just a show anymore. It’s content plus distribution plus analytics.
The episode is only the beginning — then come the recaps, the reaction videos, the social posts, the headlines. Every moment gets tested in real time for engagement.
Every scandal gets measured. Every apology gets benchmarked. It’s a feedback loop, and the loop rewards intensity.
So no, Brook probably isn’t the Terminator.
But the way the attention economy surrounds—and amplifies—certain personalities? That part is absolutely machine-like.
Verdict: Not a cyborg.
More likely: a person caught in an engagement system that rewards sharp edges, fast conflict, and clean exits. And if that sounds familiar, it should. That’s not just reality TV. That’s the internet.
