[His frown deepens around another momentary silence, thinking it through. It's a hard thing, he thinks, to put into words, but the certainty is there in him all the same. That whatever he is, it's something false, something artificial. The moments tick by one by one as he gathers himself, fumbles after the words he needs in order to form an explanation.

This kind of thing, this conversation, it's not something he's accustomed to having.

Eventually though his lips part, and he tries.]

I don't think it's about living, or actions. It's about what we are, what we're made of and why. I was cloned from the cells of my maker, cultivated specifically for high resonance with Kerberos - the thing that makes me what I am - I'm not something that was ever supposed to act on the world in ways other than the purpose for which I was intended. I don't see how something like myself could have a soul. I'm just a copy, of sorts. One of many.

[Or well, there were many, once. Now there are only two. But this, he thinks, is irrelevant.]