Robot Wife

"It really sucks when you're programmed to kill your betrothed," she tells me as I block her lazer eyes with one force-field, and parry the blow of her rocket arm with another.
"I mean, it's not like I had any choice in the matter. I actually thought he was kind of nice."
Grimace, throw back the weight of her foot, jump up before she crushes me.
"Then--why--don't--you--STOP?!?"
She sighs, a mechanical simulation of breath, and then sweeps around and tries to cut off my head.
"You supers. You think everything is that easy, don't you? Well, not everyone has free will. When you are programmed, disobeying a direct order can cause system shutdown, circuit malfunction at the least. It's the rule, so we don't get out of hand." Hanging out of the sixteenth story window, I leap sideways onto a turret of the building. "Nonsense! Rules don't make that happen, only your belief in them does! You don't have to be evil! Besides, Jeremy is really kind of cute, and intelligent, and very sweet. You'd be doing a grave and terrible thing for some unknown employer, and I really think Jeremy merits more than that. You should at least find out why you were summoned to kill him before simply following orders; it's not logical." I plead, ducking as Emilie throws a chunk of masonry. She pauses, considering.
"Perhaps I could do a little research," she concedes, as I smile in relief.

The office of The Employer is deep in the heart of Very Splendid City, a place with gambling and music and politics galore. He sits in a huge comfy chair, half submerged in a jacuzzi, half surrounded by monitor screens and computer wires.
"Why should I tell you the reason for E-13's objective? Jeremy Stone needs to be killed. That's all there is to it." He stares at the two of us with obvious disdain. Emilie shuffles her metal feet. I look up in resolve.
"You will tell us because it would be dangerous not to do so. A man's life hangs in the balance. That is more important than any objective."
"Ho-ho!" he laughs, pudgy eyes glinting. "We have a fighter on our hands! Very well... Mr. Stone, whether he knows yet or not, is the heir of a soon-to-expire competitor's business. I need to make sure it goes instead to the other nephew, who is- shall we say- on more amicable terms with my own corporation."
"I see. So you would kill him for more money."
"Business is business, my dear."
"Then like all businessmen, you know that one day your corporation will dissolve into another, just as you have devoured others. It is an endless cycle of greed. Unless you stop, I will be forced to close your account early. "
"Will you, now?" his eyes narrow. "But you haven't even met my latest creations yet." He presses a button under his desk. A door slides open on the side of the room. "Business is booming. There have been many more models since Emilie, or E-13, as she is properly called. Let us see how you deal with them."

And, yes.
Robot ninjas pop out.
Crap.
Being a superhero, though of course not through any sort of school or accredited training program or whatever, I should be able to handle this, right? I mean, I read Dr. McNinja! I should have that whole one-against-many rule on my side. Even if they are robot ninjas...
SLAM! reeaallly did not see that one coming. I was too busy thought-monologuing and one of the attack ninjas sneaked up behind me and...Ow. My head hurts.
I whip around and bash the robot on his very shiny metal nose, which obviously ends up hurting only myself. Another extends a scintillating octopus-like protrusion, reaching for my face, but I wise to it and leap upwards, landing upside down on the ceiling, and ram my fist into the back of its neck, sending the head spinning across the room. One creeps up behind me and this time I kick backwards into its chest, sending it crashing out the window of the very tall skyscraper. Smash! One is down with twisted legs. Klunk! Another piles on top of its ally. And another. This isn't so bad, I think, whistling, only then I remember I can't whistle, I've tried several times but just can't get the cheery layers of it,  when another robot takes advantage of my distraction and hurls me out the window as well.
Only they don't know I can fly. "HA!" I cry triumphantly. "Thought you could get rid of me that easily, did you?" I surface back up to the cracked window, hands on hips, "You'll have to get a lot more creative--"
Just as the nose of a heat-seeking missile-launcher pokes out over the ledge, and one of the robot ninjas smiles and says, "Okay."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

After an epic battle with the missile, huffing and with torn sleeves, I flop back onto the window sill and puff, "Now listen, Mr. Employer Guy, I'm gonna give you one last chance--"
They all burst out laughing. The goons, the girls in the jacuzzi, even the robots. The Employer, wiping tears from his eyes, replies, "Seriously? After that humiliating performance, you still think you can insist upon anything from us? You're nothing but a small-time would-be hero, engaging in the marital squabbles of others to distract from your own pitiful life. There is nothing you can do in the matter. Stone will die, as millions do every day. Water under the bridge, my dear. Go home, to whatever small town you are hailed as a hero in, and get a real job."

Now, this is where he really messes up. Ya see, preying on a person's tangible inner doubts like that can produce one of two consequences. The first, the one he hoped for, is that the person will give in to those doubts, accept that they are a reality, and go cry in a corner and hang themself. The second--and more likely--is that they get angry. Really angry. And I'm this type. This is like the time I was the last one left on my dodgeball team in PE, hiding behind the garbage cans, and the teacher said something taunting and I ended up striking out the entire other team in my sockfeet. And then there's the hockey rage of seventh grade...ya really don't wanna make me mad. I'm not responsible for the very unladylike consequences...besides, I've never believed in a concrete "Reality" of any sort.
So, naturally, I burst into flames. My eyes are flame. My hands are flame. My feet are flaming jets of fury and I really don't want to recount what happens next, except that Emilie does not kill Jeremy Stone, and that I remain, as always, an innocent and obscure superhero who really does try to do the right thing...
Just, doesn't always succeed in reigning in her own pride.