You are my greatest weapon, XANA tells him again and again, just before the torture begins and all other thoughts are forcibly wiped from his mind. And you may harbor no weaknesses against Them.

William exists to serve his master. He is a being of data and code, virtual and unfeeling, inhuman. XANA has made him and XANA may destroy him on a whim. William has no inclination to disobey.

William knows this. He knows this better than anything. And so he doesn't understand the helpless trembling that overtakes his limbs when smoky tendrils of blackness brush against his face, his hands, wrapping around his body in preparation to tear him apart piece by piece for his failures. He doesn't understand why his legs jerk and twist against the nothingness of the void, as though meaning to run away, when he has no capability or programming to flee his master and absolutely nowhere else to go.

He is not programmed to experience sensations of hurt or discomfort; he cannot, in fact, physically feel pain as organic beings do. And so William doesn't understand, the agonized screams that tear from his throat whenever his master destroys and remakes him, byte by byte, creating a perfect general in his own image.

XANA is a being of logic and precision, infallible. XANA would never have created a being with so many glaring imperfections to lead his army against the reviled humans—but then, William doesn't know how else to explain his own weaknesses, the gaps in his programming that simply don't add up compared to what his master is telling him.

William is a virtual being of Lyoko and the greater Internet. He is data, and if his form occasionally transforms to flesh and blood to blend in on Earth, it is only a facsimile of the real thing. His only memories of Earth are temporary, from missions, specific assignments from XANA to accomplish a necessary task in the real world. XANA has told him as much, and so it is fact. Whatever kinship the humans seem to believe they share with him from time to time, William knows it is nothing more than lies and tricks, fits of human illogic. They are his sworn enemies.

So he can't explain it, then, the strange flashes of memory that assault him sometimes in the heat of battle: images from the school, from the factory, from a home that was never his, friends he never had.

William knows these false memories infuriate his master more than anything else, and if William could stop them, he would, because even if he can't feel fear like humans can, there's a certain sharp ache of wanting to flee and hide that he can't suppress when he senses XANA approaching. He does not want to flee his master, he was not coded in such a way as to concern himself with self-preservation or anything so close to disobedience, but he tenses, all the same, and has to force himself to remain in place.

William, XANA says, almost pleasantly, William, my William.

The black tendrils curl across his shoulders, tighten uncomfortably around his chest, constricting the air flow he isn't supposed to have. William shudders and tries to imagine being somewhere else, even if he has no memories of anything but the Digital Sea and the virtual lands under his master's domain. "I'm sorry," he makes himself say, voice trembling in the darkness, knowing that his apologies mean nothing as he himself means nothing. He is only a slave, after all. "I'm sorry, XANA. I've failed you. I will not fail again."

So you have said. Many times, his master reminds him. A curl of black smoke brushes gently against William's face, making him flinch violently, and XANA laughs. And yet still, you are so regrettably weak.

There is a pulse of electricity-damage-pain and William screams, thrashing in XANA's hold with all his strength but to no avail. There is no time in the void, so it might well be forever when the torture finally ends: the blackness recedes from him at last and William sobs dryly, wrapping his arms around himself and curling up as small as he can.

Remember THIS, William, XANA murmurs into his ear, the smoke curling patterns almost gently against his side as he trembles helplessly. The touch is unbearably cold, frighteningly possessive, and William wants to run from it even though such wanting is impossible. The next time you are tempted by visions of another world, slave, remember THIS.

William forces himself to nod, teeth chattering. XANA laughs again, cruelly, and leaves him, alone and lost in the void.

It's dark and lonely, without even his favorite manta for company, and William dislikes it. In a moment of weakness, he catches himself wondering, do the humans live like this? Do they live this constant fear? Do they suffer for the weaknesses they cannot control?

He then thinks especially of the pale girl with the fans, almost loses himself in the wistful fantasy, of fighting at her side—but then cold fear washes over him and he clamps down forcibly on the thoughts, groaning.

His master will not stand for such weaknesses, William reminds himself feverishly. His purpose is to destroy the humans, not to emulate them. Such thoughts only make him weak. Intolerably weak.

The thought of this weakness makes him hateful, on an almost instinctive level, beyond his designated programming. Stronger, William tells himself fiercely. I want to be stronger! Stronger than all of them, to prove himself to—to XANA, of course, because there is no one else whose opinion of William remotely matters. Right?

He will not fear. He will not doubt. He is not a human, he vows to himself, with almost pathological devotion.

And when he next sees the girl with the fans, he will toss her into the Digital Sea without remorse.