Turrets are disposable. Replaceable. Cheaply made, yet highly effective due to their bullets. If one is attack by a fatal "critical error!", four more will take its place. The black of assembly lines. Failing turrets. Many more to assist in testing and non existent cake, perhaps a short opera to wrap things up with a ribbon. Nothing a little sniper can't do. Yet turrets, contradictory to popular belief, can also feel pain. Perhaps there is no word that comes to mind when they think of the emotion, if you can really call them emotions. They certainly felt something when a bullet hit its target and the familiar smell of crimson was found. Yet they never questioned this peculiar feeling, and through simple communications with fellow comrades, thought it best not to ask the white face that loomed above about it.

Fact: A turret is not information seeking. Such tasks were not made for the simple minded turret, and were instead entrusted to the Fact and Intelligence cores. They were fine living in simplicity, ignorance. They would continue to murder without question, so long as they were spared from the claw of the white faced lady. Perhaps they didn't call it murder, target acquired, gotcha, whatever their mechanics told them to call it. It was more like saving themselves from replacement. Cheap replacement was worth a human life.

The machine's vocabulary is quite limited in terms of the dictionary: "Target lost, are you there, put me down, critical error, deploying." Deploying. Infamous last words, possibly the most mentally painful to the a turret and physically to those on the receiving end. This particular turret didn't quite know how to explain his feelings, no different from the ranks of turrets roaming in the back, lasers at the ready. He was turret #3890, no name, no purpose expect to aim for the fleshy skull. Yet when the white shirted female hit the ground, blood pouring free from a meaty wound like...like...the turret did lacked the words to describe what the gory scene really looked like...what was the feeling? A foreign sense that pulled on his bullets and made them feel heavier than usual. Lead that weighed him down to the white panelled floor. Pannels that would soon drag her body to the incinerator and be done with it. The thing searched for answers, but his programming found none. Deploying. Target lost. Are you there? Put me down! Deploying. More blood flooded to his "feet", and turret #3890 offered the only words of comfort he could.

"No hard feelings." he chirped, awaiting the next testing subject.

AN: I can't tell if I love turrets or hate them with a firey passion. I curse whenever I end up shot up with bullets, but also can't help feeling sorry when I kill them. Aggh. Now I find myself surfing the internet for a decently made turret plushie that isn't sixty bucks.

I haven't been uploading anything lately. I apologize for that. I just haven't been in a writing mood, that's all. I'll get started on Disparity in Rarity and Bloodline right away.