A tight little breath. The thing about programs is that nothing is chance. Everything is predetermined, controlled. Something in her switched to add that wobble to her tone, to make her sound vulnerable, maybe even upset. If it was a conscious choice, then it was a manipulation. But don't humans also have daemons running in the background that they can't control, borne of past experience and personality and evolutionary psychology and genetics, little programs that they're unaware of and can't control but programs nonetheless. He's always sort of thought of everyone like they were really advanced computers.

"I'm not afraid of you," he explains, though maybe he is a little, because she's strong, and she has the gun now. If he believed in anything he would probably be praying. "But if you're not real, then what the hell is real?" And what was real, how much of everything she does and says is designed? Can she lie? If something makes her activate tear ducts because it seems situationally appropriate but she can't really experience the emotion of sadness, aren't those tears a lie?

God, this is fucked up. He can't think when she's standing this close, it's too uncanny valley. He takes a step back, rubs the short buzzed hair at the back of his head in agitation. "I can't do this. You're — I thought you were perfect." Perfect, or perfect for him? How deep does this go? Jesus. He's verging on hyperventilation now.