A/N: This might or might not be a one-shot. Meant lightly, but take it seriously if you want to; the writing quality sucks because I can't get my coherency to behave today.

Target sighted at Ninth and Forester, locked in, murmured the computer voice in the man's brain, playing its part in this hunting. It had no feelings about what they did, the two hunters as one, fighting the forces of evil – no, for the computer, it was simply Tuesday.

"Evaluate." The word – an order – came from the man himself, a harsh mutter at such a level that anyone who might be walking by him, in the dead of night as it were, would only think he was another overdressed crazy talking to himself. He'd learned at an early stage of this development that the computer couldn't take orders from his brain, though they were intertwined, and would only respond to verbal cues. That was a difficulty, but there were ways to work around difficulties. Every single one.

The Civil War wasn't won in a day, after all.

Strength level four-point-zero-three, danger level eight. Repair unnecessary. Estimated age three years; no further information is available. The computer's voice was androgynous, though it tended towards female at times like this, when it was in effect telling him not to ask for more information, because it couldn't even hack to find what he wanted. He liked that and hated it at the same time – it reminded him of being admonished by Mary, and while that could be a painful memory at times, pain was what made a person stronger and prepared them for tough times ahead.

He nodded to himself, not bothering with calculations of odds in his head. That was what the computer was for, they had told him: to calculate the odds for him, to tell him when he needed a repair, to inform him where their adversaries laid traps or found prey – those were all things the computer did, and he didn't have to worry about. With the computer, he had eyes in the back of his head and everywhere else.

For the most part, he just had to worry about accuracy and what was broken, and those were two things he was very good at. If one of his legs gave out in the middle of fighting multiple enemies, or he suddenly found himself faced with a target, with no warning from the computer, he could cover as much of himself as he needed to and give himself enough time to get out an effective weapon.

Yes, he was nearly a master of this art; and the art of hunting such creatures as he did couldn't be taken up by those with a weak or compassionate heart at the core, who would take pause at driving a stake through the heart of a teenager that might look like their children or other such relatives did. That, in particular, was why he never stopped to look at his prey for longer than was necessary – he was a compassionate person, and each and every monster he killed reminded him of his long-dead sons. With each and every monster he killed, he reminded himself that they could have been the ones who killed Robert, or Tad; otherwise he might find himself caving in and letting them win a battle or two.

He couldn't allow them even one battle. A battle they won was the equivalent of another dead hundred in the land he had fought for, and he would not let his people die.

The computer's voice rang in his head again, almost smothered by the roar of a taxi cab that was almost certainly going at illegal speeds. Five hundred yards to Ninth and Forester. Target is not moving.

That was a good thing: if the target, the prey he so coveted, had been on the move... Well, he wouldn't be stopping and waiting for the crosswalk light, that was for sure. He didn't like staying still when the target wasn't. It gave him a sense that he had to follow as quickly as possible, whether that meant straying into the road while cars were moving or jumping over rooftops at top speed, both of which exposed him to many opportunities for injury to catapult into his life.

He had been far too exposed to injury in his previous lifetime, before the computer merged with him and became a part of him, to relish the thought of risk-taking now. While some might say that injury and fright were the essence of man, he took pain as a given thing and went on with it; he wouldn't spend an hour agonizing or boasting of his most recent "trophy," as some of the others in his division did.

The cyborg shook his head and moved from his spot with heavy footsteps when the sign told him it was safe to walk. He couldn't be thinking of those mortal idiots at a time like this, when he was about to close in on prey. He had to be thinking of other things – how to deal with this target, what they might fight like, how harsh the injuries to the computer's self might be. Those were the most important thoughts, the ones that deserved a place above the others, and they followed the order of importance he had been taught when he first awakened with the computer. Worry first about the target, then the technology, and then his own mind and body, even if most of it wasn't even his original body.

And if he was prepared to face this target, perhaps he'd have a reason to push those lackadaisical men back in their place.

The computer said the target's age was estimated at three years, but that was the default estimation when there was no more information in the database on a given target – it could be a very unknown being of any age and still be estimated at three years. This could be his chance to prove he could take down the more advanced monsters, or it could be the standard prey, but either way he got some recognition for it.

So long as he was prepared... but he was prepared for anything.

He was Abraham Lincoln, vampire hunter.