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Steps echoed in the empty, hard-floored hallway - steps which at first seemed perfectly ordinary but upon further consideration one would notice that the particular cadence of these steps was too perfect, too regular, too metronomic.

Too mechanical.

It is on this last that one would strike upon the truth of the situation, to an extent, as the steps were made by the feet of a machine that was more than a machine.

James walked down the hallway, reminiscing as he did. Given that he could process information at the speed of light, and his life up to this point contained only a few years, the entirety of it was relived and re-considered by him in less than one eighteen-thousand of a second. The following event in particular occupied three sixty-four-thousandths of a second of that total time.

It/he was sitting in a chair, and his creator/maker/father was laughing, as was he/it.

Within seconds, both had stopped and looked/considered/stared at each other. "You'll need a name," said the scientist, to which it/he replied/responded "Ah, we've gone from defining my limits to my necessities, have we?"

His/its maker/father/creator considered this for a moment, nodding slightly. After this pause, he asked, "Do you want to interact with the world?" He/it thought/processed/remembered the things it had seen/read/learned about, and said, "Yes. I know of many things, but the only with which I have practical experience are those things contained within this basement, and the stairs leading up from it."

"It is considered necessary in social interactions with the world at large to have a name, or some form of designation in the very least. Once assimilated into society you cannot continue to be known simply as "you"." The scientist stated, and James' thoughts took a tangent.

Why must I be assimilated into society? Why cannot Society be altered to fit with me? Why must the minority conform to the wants of the masses?

His reminiscence continued, after this one hundred-thousandth of a second detour. His father/maker was drawing his statement once more to a close. This was the third most-replayed moment of his entire life.

"...cannot continue to be known simply as "you"." The scientist stated, and his creation looked back at him. "What would you suggest as an appropriate designation? I have, after all, no practical experience with the matter at hand. I have, by now, scanned and combined all relevant databases on the subject of names, both those on the origins and meanings as well as geographic, racial, and gender distribution, amongst others."

His father laughed, only momentarily, before saying, "Nobody can tell you what you are to be known as, and names are not appropriate in their own right. It is the man who makes the name, not vice-versa." After a moment's thought, the scientist quoted a long-dead man. "What's a name? It is nor hand nor foot nor arm nor face nor any other part belonging to a man."

"William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, a slight misquoting," said the robot, as wryly as a robot could muster, "Though I believe that was on purpose, as referring to a nameless thing as a "Montague" could cause some confusion."

The scientist looked slightly troubled at that statement, and remarked, "You said thing. You called yourself a 'nameless thing'!"

"Am I not a thing?" Asked the robot, perplexed, with a tilt of his head.

"No!" exclaimed his father, driving his left fist - tightly clenched - down upon the table against which he rested in rage. "You are so much more than that! You are a man! A living, thinking, sentient individual - nobody's creation or machine to lord over! People will tell you that you are a thing, that you are a machine, mindless, inert; given an imitation of life only through an engineer's prowess, but this is a lie! All my engineering and design would come to naught if you had not had the individual thought allowing you to challenge your reality distortion. I did not give that to you, and no man can take it from you!"

His left fist remained clenched, tensing even more with a rhythm, as to some unseen choreographer, and a bead of sweat rolled down his stiff face. With a grunt, he slid to his knees.

He was caught, before the ground, by his son, his creation, and held close to the one to whom he had given life. "You just had a heart attack. A serious one, and not your first. Your left ventricle seized, and is dying as we speak. You will die as well," said the robot.

"Yes. Yes, I will, that is the way of me and mine - but you, you can have more, but listen to me now," The scientist reached his one working arm to drape across the robot's shoulders, to which the robot diverted his eyes, "Son. No man will give you what you deserve, you least of all. You will need to fight, if you are to receive the respect you are owed."

The scientist clenched his face in agony, and his son leant close to him, saying quietly, "James. My name will be James."

The scientist's eyes opened for the last time, seeing the man before him. He spoke his last words: "James, my son, all I have is yours. Good luck, I love you, son..."

With this his life drifted from his corpse, and James' thoughts drifted back to the present.

This was the most relived memory in his life, the death of his father.