It was with a sad heart that I stood
there in the rain. Looking down at it. The android called Zhora, face
down in the street. She could have killed me back there. I watched
grimly, sadly, as the red liquid that pumped through it's artificial
veins was diluted and washed away by the rain. In the garish neon
lights, I watched the red liquid in the gutter flowing down the
drain. Androids, somehow, somewhere along the line, developed their
own sense of awareness. They embodied Nietzsche's “I think,
therefore I am” philosophy of life. Sure, they're artificial, but,
philosophically and, maybe, scientifically meet the definition of
life. Lately, it seems, I can't get my head around the fact that my
job is to assassinate them. I suppose that's why Iran, my wife, left
me. She couldn't get her head around it, either.
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