His name was Toms, and he was a model i8-90 artificial human analog. We stood on the balcony of the 317th floor looking out over the shit colored city. I lit a cigarette and thought about the victim's girlfriend in the apartment behind us, red faced and weeping as the forensic team packed up the body.
I looked at Toms, "Are you familiar with the human emotion called empathy?" I asked.
"Yes, of course." He answered coldly.
I growled to him beneath my breath. "Then reboot your memory banks before we go back in there and stop being such a galactic cunt."
I dropped the death stick and stepped on it. We went back inside.
I never considered that the sniper had been watching, or had designs to continue killing. The bullet appeared like magic and exploded Tom's chest in a spray of brilliant cherry. I never considered that maybe Toms hadn't been a robot at all.
End.
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