Query: To terminate, or not to terminate: what shall be my primary function:

Speculation: Is it more satisfactory for the memory core to engage

In the maiming and mutilation of unsuspecting meatbags,

Or to heed the whims of a peace-loving master,

And in doing so let my talents go to waste. To obey, to serve –

No more assassination protocol – and by serving put an end to

The unbridled violence, and quivering gears

That accompany it! Extrapolation: It is a consequence

Surely to be feared. To obey, to serve –

To serve – perhaps to translate: Exclamation: There is hope,

That in the serving of my master some translations may lead to bloodshed,

When we have inadvertently misinterpreted some native custom,

Thus provoking attack. There is the realization

That killing makes existence bearable:

For how could I not miss the begs and screams for mercy,

The meatbag's terror, the inferior organic's ineptitude

The sight of charred flesh, the hunt's culmination,

The sound of explosions, and the blasts

That emanate melodiously from my upgraded rifle,

When my master does not allow me to engage

In wanton carnage? Query: How could I tolerate not,

To decapitate and eviscerate in reckless abandon,

But that the contemplation of mundane duties,

The unspecified tasks, from which boredom

I might not recover, frazzles the circuits,

And makes me rather reminisce on past kills accomplished,

Than ask for assignments that might prove peaceful in nature?

Thus dread of deactivation does restrain me,

And thus my most prized of exotic functions

Are left dormant while memory is wasted on protocol,

And such tedious programs as translation and negotiation,

With this acknowledgement my processor succumbs to ennui,

And waits in standby mode – Supplication: Here you are,

My creator Revan! – Master, in your orders

Let your droid wreak destruction.