03:59.

Darkness was all he could see. His mind kept him straight, guiding him through the basement's many vaulted hallways and corridors. He was rather glad for the sightlessness, knowing what disturbing acts of debauchery took place here. But why did he come in the first place? Why grope through this maze of shadowed passages?

For her.

She was of course beautiful in her voluptuous female form, but more than that, the woman had a soul. Like many machine programs, she had an integral, useful flaw: she had the ability to siphon true emotions from others, but was unable to generate her own. This fascinated him. As a part of the machine world, he found this essence to be most attractive, but it wasn't until he had taken her away from that simple existence that they fell hopelessly in love.

On this night, he asked her to come alone, and this was his biggest mistake. But having protectors alongside her would have ruined his fleetingly traditional attempt at a marriage proposal. It was exactly two decades since they had freed themselves, and his pathetically human leanings told him it was time to bind their code.

He would kill anyone who had a part in destroying that event.

The hallway finally opened into a bar filled with hopeless batteries, and he felt at least some sympathy for them. He had shed most of his humanity to live indefinitely as a program, pushing headlong into world of code. There was so much that was lost in the transfer, yet so much he gained, and deep inside he wondered if he was still himself. Nevertheless, a strong distaste began to grow toward those who were of flesh, limited by the nature of which they existed... and if any of them had hurt her...

"Attention," he spoke. "Is there anyone here with the alias of 'Leech'?"

"Shaddap!" cried a messy lump of a man leaning over the counter. He burped up a considerable amount of fluid afterward.

"The Leech," he repeated. "Where is he?"

"Who wants to know?" asked a calm, centered voice from an unknown direction.

"Merove," he replied, giving himself a disposable nickname.

"We don't need you high class pansies around here," spoke the man.

Quickly discovering the source of the sound, Merove scampered after him. "Sir, I take strong offense to your remark." He hadn't quite gotten to insulting in the English language just yet.

"What of it?" he replied. "Exactly what are you going to do?"

To this question, Merove thought of many things. Violent pod rejection. Total lobotic collapse. Or he could just strangle him.

"Wait," he continued. "I've seen you before..." He got up get a better look. "Yeah, You're Lambert Meroveque, the snob."

"Shit," spoke a tall, gangly drunk in the back. "That pig wouldn't be caught dead here -- not to mention alone, without bodyguards." He walked over to defend his shorter, crass friend.

"I want to find the Leech!" Merove shouted, distracted. "Is it you?" He jabbed a finger at the cursive one. In response to this, the man reached his unusually long fingers outward, grabbing Merove's arm. "You want to start something, huh?"

Merove prepared to attack him with his free hand, but the short one shoved him backwards onto the floor. The next few blows landed on the Frenchman's chin from a leather shoe, but it wasn't worse than anything he had felt in his existance. On the next swing, Merove grabbed the attacker by the leg and brought the man down with him. Soon he had climbed over the short man's chest, delivering hard fists onto his face. The drunk backed away slowly as he watched what was happening.

Merove wrapped his hands around his throat. The bar goers were stunned as the short man struggled for breath, working his fingers against his tight clench. Someone was going to die -- right there, tonight.

Then came a sickening tear and a yowl of pain rang out. Though he had not lost his grip on the victim's neck, a stream of blood now spilled from under the Frenchman's ribcage. The other pulled and shoved as much as he could, but Merove's attack would not relent until he was dead.

Very soon, he was.

Merove collapsed onto his victim, impaling the knife further into his own chest as his life began to fade.

"Holy hell..." said the drunk.

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