LOVE MADE ME DO IT.

Don’t think: Your body will ever be yours. Though last night I touched myself, green garlic on my tongue, spiced Goya in my veins.

He’s stumbling through some nameless back alley street on the outskirts of the city, of society, obscured behind some ramshackle building that doesn’t have a name. The virus infecting his circuits is affecting his sense of balance, and he’s dragging himself forward, supporting his weight against the crumbling stone walls. The homeless don’t give him any mind, sitting by their respective fires and makeshift beds fashioned from the scraps that they scavenged from trash thrown out by the city’s (relatively) middle-class. Who can blame them? It’s about survival, and if there’s anything living on the streets teaches you, it’s to turn a blind eye towards anything that doesn’t affect you.

He doesn’t remember how he made it this far and the static that was in his ears is replaced by nothing, recognizes the possibility of complete auditory center shutdown but remains unfazed. Maybe if he was human he’d care a little bit more about the fact that, for all intents and purposes, he’s now deaf and also happens to be missing half of his right arm, but he’s not human and protos aren’t generally programmed to instinctively gravitate towards self-preservation.

Instead, they’re programmed to pursue a purpose, an end goal, through whatever means necessary and with complete disregard for personal cost.

He stops momentarily at the mouth of the alley, a split second that somehow seems to stretch on forever, tugging off the helmet he wears as part of his standard military-issue full-body armor, titanium producing a dull thud when it collides with the citadel’s steel floors. Synthetic eyes remain glued to the towering structure sticking out of the city center and into the sky, a monument to both human capability and human greed in its own fucking right.

He grits his teeth at the sight.

He’s snapped out of his little reverie by the WARNING! signs flashing before his eyes, vision tinted red, pace quickening as he follows directions supplied by an internal positioning system.

Gael. Gael. Gael.

“Find Gael, his name should be in the system, he’ll help you. Now go. Go!”

WARNING! VIRUS INFECTION AT 87%! IMMEDIATE EMERGENCY SYSTEM REPAIRS ADVISED! COMPLETE SYSTEM SHUTDOWN IMMINENT!

THREAT DETECTED! REASONING CENTER HIGHLY SUSCEPTIBLE TO VIRAL CORRUPTION!

There’s a click, inaudible to the human ear as he releases the latch to the 28A steel blade designed into his left forearm; it snaps open, similar to a switchblade except much longer and much, much sharper, and in one fluid motion makes a shallow, clean cut across his nape, slicing through the three cables leading up into his ‘brain’.

He feels no pain. After all, designing a killbot to feel pain would be rather counterintuitive, no?

A single thought occupied the confines of his artificial consciousness even as he dragged himself forward the rest of the way, even as he banged his fist against the doors to gael’s garage, once, then twice before he simply forces them open, the mechanism of the lock snapping like a twig under the strain.

I can’t forget. I can’t forget.

He remembers everything so clearly.