And in a strange, unexpected way, Midnighter appreciates that. People always get so weird about the computer, even Andrew used to poke and prod, asking questions about what it was doing or telling him. Drawing undue consideration for the thing made it that much harder to ignore the shit Midnighter didn't want to deal with, like how he's run through thousands of simulations on how to kill all his friends.

It's like remembering to breathe; once you start thinking about it, you can't stop. Best leave it to your subconscious and get on with the business of living life.

So Midnighter kicks off the last of the horse's armor (he thinks he'll name this one Dopey, because it hasn't seemed to remotely notice the death of its master) and keeps the thing trotting along the sidelines as he searches for an opportunity for more violence. He slides the turban and veil back on, obscuring his face once more in a mess of loosely wrapped fabric, now tatty and bloody but still dark as when it was first dyed.

"You think so, huh? Apparently he won, last time. This time. You know what I mean."