Welcome to the future. As it turns out, it isn't all sunshine and rainbows. In fact, there isn't much of either, especially the latter. Unlike the weather, the people are perfect. They must be if they want to live. Those that weren't perfect were plucked off the threads of life by the monster parents told their children about to keep them in line: The Hunter. No one escaped his cold, metallic grasp if there was someone the Government wanted dead. He had no other name. He was just...The Hunter. The Hunter, more machine than man. The Hunter, the monster ever-lurking in everyone's shadow. Everyone's.

Rain bucketed down, spilling over the brim of The Hunter's hat. This didn't obscure his vision, the ghostly blue glow of his eyes the only thing visible, though barely, through the downpour.

"Sir," started the roly-poly companion bot perched next to him. If it was his choice, he wouldn't have a companion bot, But everyone had one – it was essential to society. The Hunter made a gruff huffing noise in response, shifting the weight of his slender body to the other leg as he crouched at the top of the small building. "Call from the Gov for you." Another huff. B-B0P took this as a 'go ahead' and answered the incoming call, a broken hologram flickering into view.

"Oh, do stop sulking about," Minister Daya sighed. The Hunter turned his cold blue gaze to the hologram, narrowing his eyes. He wasn't offended.

It wasn't in his programming.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for instructions.

"What? No 'Good evening, Minster?'" the woman on the other end of the hologram asked with a raised brow.

"I don't know if it is one," The Hunter replied flatly. "Deviant?" Wrinkling her nose, Minister Daya wished they had installed a humor panel in the cyborg's drive.

"Yes, we have a Deviant for you to retire," she responded, not making eye contact with the Hunter. His gaze unnerved her – but then again, that was the whole point. "Male, adult, crippled leg – "

"Crippled leg?" interrupted the other. "How has he survived this long?" The Deviants were taken out as soon as the deficiency was noticed. Daya paused, frowning.

"He turned off his companion bot," she finally replied. "Sending you the coordinates now; do it when you have the time." Like he had anything else to do. The Hunter pressed a button on B-B0P's dashboard and closed the hologram before the woman could say anything else. It didn't take long for him to find the location sent to his drive. It took him to the very outskirts of the massive city, the house next to the one where the Deviant lived nearly a quarter of a mile away. Perfect – no neighbors close by, no outcry. The Hunter slunk down from another building to find a good place to shoot when, to his surprise, the front door opened. He hissed in frustration, recoiling into the shadows and narrowing his eyes. A man slightly under average height stepped out into the storm, leaning heavily on a cane of smoothed wood with a mug of tea in the other hand.

His name was Malcolm. Malcolm didn't know he was destined to die. Through the open door, the Hunter could see a dilapidated and dusty companion bot in the corner. Apparently, so did B-B0P because it began rattling in automated fear.

"Quiet, tin can." The Hunter warningly gave it a whack and it stopped. Malcolm staggered along the side of the small house, not seeming to mind the rain much, moving slowly but steadily towards an ancient little barn behind the house. The cyborg slipped his gun from its holster and trailed him from a distance, B-B0P rolling along silently beside him. The target didn't look at all worried as he set down his cane to pull back the barn door, nor when he walked inside of the largest Deviancy the cyborg had ever seen. He froze, staring at the interior of the barn. Colour was splashed all over the wall in swirls and patterns, creating intricate shapes in the wood.

That was the real reason this man was a target. He was creative. The floor of the barn was a mess, covered in paint buckets and paintbrushes, and in the corner – the corner was the worst of all. A real piano rested there, the edges worn from centuries of disuse. Some of the keys had been replaced by the Deviant; the paint had been revarnished. The Hunter cocked his gun, ready to shoot at any given moment. But then the target did something he didn't know any human being could do anymore. First, he ran his hands across the keys without pressing them like a woodpecker looking for insects in a tree, and then he began to play music. The cyborg, still hiding in the shadows, was taken aback as the notes hit his ears. He didn't know what to do with this. He had never dealt with a Deviant like this before. Suddenly, it was like a gear had snapped into place somewhere in the back of his mind – the part he didn't think he needed.

The reason the Government wanted this man dead was not because of his leg. It was because of how artistic he was. Why, wondered The Hunter, would anyone want to kill somebody because they make something this beautiful? That thought definitely wasn't part of his programming. He lowered his gun, standing there. He just stood there in the shadows.

"Sir..." chirped B-B0P quietly.

"I need to be closer," he rasped.

"What?" but the cyborg had already slipped out of his hiding place. Malcolm stood up, finishing his performance to a seemingly non-existent audience. He took his mug from on top of the piano, picked up his cane, and turned around to return to the house. When he did turn, the mug fell to the ground, shattering and spilling tea across the boots of The Hunter. The cyborg loomed over the man, and for the first time, he found his fingers shaking as he lifted the gun to Malcolm's forehead. Terror filled the eyes of the Deviant as he kept his cool blue gaze focused on him, reaching for the trigger. It was never pulled. He dropped the weapon against the pavement with a loud clatter, the companion bot beside him growing alarmed.

"Sir, would you prefer another weapon?" it warbled shrilly. The Hunter ignored it.

"You should probably move," he advised the Deviant quietly in his rough, almost completely disused voice. And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away from a living Deviant. B-B0P rolled along after him, making clicking noises reminiscent of a parent's tsk tsk.

"Wait," called a voice softly behind him. He paused. "I've always wondered if– if The Hunter had a real name." The cyborg bit his lip, surprised that the Deviant was bold enough to just speak to him like that...Surprise. That wasn't part of his programming, either.

"Not anymore," he replied over his shoulder, continuing to roam away.

"Sir, the target hasn't been retired." The Hunter nodded slowly in confirmation. "Are you planning to return?" He shook his head, continuing to walk without looking at the automaton. The companion paused for half a moment. The thing about robots – they don't care about anyone and would turn on their master in an instant if that was what their algorithm told them to do. And this one was no exception. It silently sent out a signal that hopefully an authority would notice.

ROGUE ANDROID was pasted across every screen it could reach, accompanied by a small photo of The Hunter. As they strode deeper into the city, he looked up and saw the screen that hung near one of the central buildings.

"What'd you do, you useless hunk of metal?!" the cyborg crowed, whirling around to glare at the dead-eyed droid.

"You have broken protocol and gone against your programming. I am no longer required to be in your services. I am required to report you as a rogue bot." The Hunter growled. One thing he hated was being called a machine, not that it mattered right now. He darted into an alleyway in order to take cover from roaming police and their bots, but there were enforcers waiting. He was seized and a small bracelet was put around his wrist to prevent his circuits from allowing him to move as he was pulled away to be retired. Dismantled. And so was the end of The Hunter.

Oh, the cyborg wasn't dead, not by a long shot. But his wiring had been ripped out, his metal parts disabled so he was unable to move, and his programming was completely screwed up.

He was just a defective machine to the Government – he was no longer The Hunter. Just a broken-down automation laying in a scrapyard. It was raining. Again. But when wasn't it? He sighed, rain falling on his face as he lay there inertly with his eyes closed, when the rain suddenly stopped. It hadn't actually stopped; there was someone with an umbrella standing over him. Malcolm, The Hunter's final target, the Deviant he had failed to retire, was out in the scrapyard looking for metals for his project. He had left the little townhouse, taking the advice he had been given, but he never ceased creating art. The cyborg opened his eyes blearily. They were still a glowing electric blue. That hadn't changed.

"Callum," he breathed quietly as he realized who it was, answering the question the Deviant had asked not all that long ago. "My name was Callum."