In a future landscape a kill-droid questions the purpose of his own design and questions his ability to feel human emotion.
Here I am standing in a dirty hotel room with a gun in my hand. It feels slightly heavy, and I can feel the cool metal through my leather gloves as my finger gently tugs the trigger. Before me is a man on his knees aging approximately 63 years, 27 days, 8 hours, 32 minutes, and 45 seconds. If he were standing he would be 5 feet and 9 inches tall. He would weigh 180 pounds if he weren’t so sickly; instead he sits at a tiny 165, weak and defenseless.
I stare into his sunken tear stained eyes behind golden frames and I can see his fear. His heart rate increased from 67 to 85 BPM, his sweat glands are opening, his saliva glands are closing, and his muscles are tightening. There’s a 34% probability, that he will try to pay me, a 16% probability that he will start to pray to his deity, and of course a mere 5 % probability he will try going for the revolver taped under the night stand. I know all of this because I’m programmed to know this, I’m just a walking calculator with a gun.
However one thing I cannot calculate is the emotion he must be experiencing; that ultimate human thing known as fear, pain, and suffering.
I don’t even recall why I’m here or how I got here. I survey the room and recognize the usual traits of a human “flop-house”. Curtains are drawn with blinking neon dancing against the window. Tacky human striped wall paper scrubbed for various stains, and water leaks. The floor covered in shag carpeting, and a nice business suit crumpled on the floor belonging to my mutual acquaintance. The only light source appears to come from a dim lamp, with 60 watt bulb running on 10% energy. The only furniture in the room is a night stand , and a bed with what appears to be a 18 year old girl tied to it, gagged, and blind folded.
My focus returns to the man who is eyeing the night stand carefully. “Please don’t do this, you know who I am. I’m very wealthy, and I have friends in high places. You want the girl? You can have her, I can get you many girls I’d you’d like.” Statistical analyst concludes, 99.9 % chance that he’s lying. “Plead for sparing denied. Command I have target in sight, do I proceed?” For a moment his face changes as he analyzes what I just said. He’s realizing that I’m a kill droid. “Oh shit,” he murmurs quietly to himself.
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