Man has made his match. Now it's his problem.

My problem, more like.

I guess I'm afraid. As I walk down the grey sidewalk, rain soaking my trenchcoat, I flip up the collar and hunch my shoulders, shoving my hands deep into my pockets, trying to keep warm and failing miserably.

And the rain is relentless. It beats down on my weary head, pounding the bruises, whips into my face, stinging the open cuts there, and I look up at the buildings that are almost too tall to see the top of in the smog, alien and dark, speckled here and there with points of light. I'm lucky I can move in these streets. The sidewalks and roads are so crowded, so litter strewn, I'm amazed I can take two steps.

This is Los Angeles. City of the angels. Like Hell. And I shouldn't be here. I should be at home, sleeping. Or drinking. Or at my piano. But I don't get to decide for myself.

Because "I'm not cop; I'm little people."

But that's not really my problem. Sure, Bryant can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but who can't? No. My real problem is that I'm getting more and more time to myself and that I'm using that time to think about what I'm doing. That's something I didn't used to do. And that's why I guess I'm afraid. There's something else I'm afraid of.


I used to follow them and kill them. They were machines: A hazard: Too dangerous to roam the streets. And that's what Bladerunner Units were for. That's what I was for.

But here I was walking down the sidewalk, thinking about it. And I was slowly realising that it's not that simple anymore. And I know I could run. After all, "a new life awaits me on the off world colonies." But I have a home already. Besides, I'm human. I have my privileges. I have my rights.

And I guess it's that that started me thinking in the first place. It's that thought that makes me feel strange again.

What right did we have to play God? Not that I believe in Him anymore.

But genetics - genetic engineering - now that was just asking for trouble. Tyrell got in way over his head. And guess who had to dig him out.

He's good though. I don't agree with what it's come to, but he's good.

And I used to see past it. I used to fire, I used to hit, and then I used to move on.

But I've changed. I can still pull the trigger and, Hell,I'm as sure a shot as you'll ever find. But I can see my shot tear through them. I can hear them scream. I can smell the blood. I watch them hit the ground and eventually lie still as their life slips away. But it's not life, is it? They're not real. Not human. They're not live, they're machines. It's so hard to remember that. They're not human.

But they look it.

And I get nauseous, or squeamish, and I don't know how to stop it. Yeah, sure, they're just machines, I know that. But it unnerves me: They're building them with memories and emotions now. Yeah, you heard me. He's making them so good now that the Replicants don't even know they're Replicants. They think they're human, protest right until it's over. And they'll die anyway; they only have a four year life span. Four years! How can you live in four years?

But if I want to keep my job, I need to keep my head or someone'll knock it off my shoulders for me.

So I choke it down. I look away. Then I move on.

It's Part Of The Business.

But I can't block it out anymore.