Work Text:
You think of yourself as immortal, uncaring, emotionless and calculated. Why would a machine need to think before it acts, if it is so sure of what it is doing? What purpose would having feelings like regret and empathy serve when cleaving through Hell itself?
You wouldn’t know. You don’t think about that. You only think about your next victim--your next target. At least you give them the mercy of swift deaths, I suppose.
Such a dichotomy: something created in the likeness of humans as their own saviors turned on them and ended up massacring them all.
Do you regret it, I wonder? That is giving you an awfully fair amount of benefit of the doubt, however.
You do not ‘regret’ things.
You do not ‘miss’ things.
You simply do not feel.
I have watched your gorey and blood-filled spree through Hell. Defiling creatures that were damned to live in the aftermath of their sins…is that a just ending to their torment?
I do not know.
I’ve seen you hesitate before. You may not have even recognized it yourself, but I have watched.
At terminals as you configure gear, the faint sound of music comes through the static. You are too focused on preparing for your next surge of savage violence to hear it.
But, after a moment, you stop.
Your hand holding the pistol drops to your side, for once. Are you so sure there is no danger here, then? Even so, I see you stop and listen.
As faint as the music is, you have to lean towards the terminal to hear it. You’re taking comfort in it. The last shred of humanity left in this world as a result of your own hand, and you find yourself…regretting? Suffering?
I will admit, I listen to the terminal’s music as well. It’s a reminder of simpler times, when God still ruled and the Council was kept in check by His watchful gaze, unlike now, where they run rampant with power-lust and an urge to simply rule over others. I listened to it when I felt alone, just as you did. The phantom pitches of souls once thriving, all smothered out.
Should you allow yourself to reminisce in this moment, as it was to end at your will?
You holster the handgun, carefully tucking it into a wing. You are completely vulnerable…more so than usual, at least. I am well aware that your hands can rip out jugulars and snap necks just as easily as you can fire a gun. But here, your guard is down.
I can tell you are thinking. Your optic shutters half-closed as you continue to listen and remember. Did they care about you, the scientists that gave you life? Did they treasure you as the work of art you were to them?
Did they love you as one of their own?
You wouldn’t know. At the first given chance, you swiftly sent their lives away. All that hard work and thought put into giving you your chance to exist on your own was obliterated.
I know you do not feel, but I cannot help but ask: do you regret any of it?
Perhaps I thought you too heartless of a being to be satisfied with merely killing. Perhaps you miss the companionship of someone being there next to you. You might wish for those same scientists to come back and simply sit with you while they work.
You’d be happy with that, yes? To go back in time and fix all that was wronged?
It is too late for wishful thinking, machine. You have dug your grave into the bowels of Hell and only continue to dig the further you find yourself advancing.