It starts out nice, the feeling of a happy lightheadedness. You don't remember ever feeling like this before, not even when you were personally requested by the top science-y people at Rossum to be the programmer. No, not even then. This is a new thrill, it leaves you hopeful and giddy inside. You can still taste her on your lips. Memorizing, but not that hard. You'll do it again. You know you will. I mean, well, you'd really like to. And you think for the first time that, dude, maybe she would, too.
And you're walking back, the dewy pin in your hand because not only is there kissing afoot, but science too and it's like the most euphoric thing ever. You hear her talking to someone, you glance up and see Whiskey or Saunders or whatever and it's an odd feeling, made worse but the sudden explosion and the wetness on your face and then Bennett. Bennett slumped over, a bullet right through her genius.
But it doesn't end there. It's echoed over and over. Each time a different face is shot and slumped and you know it's your fault. You haven't been doing your job. Your job. Destroying the world. And this time you don't even get a mini fridge. What's real and what's the nightmare, there's no longer a clear line. All you know is that it won't stop. Every different face is Bennett and Bennett is every different face. It was only a moment ago that you kissed her. Years, but a moment. You can still taste her blood on your lips. No. No that isn't right. Maybe it is. You killed her and them and her. But you just have to keep working working working working.
You know what you know, you know what you know.