The Two Last Letters Game

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    A given mission, mechanical assault, manufactured devotion.
    Red eyes, an upside-down form. Even the twisted shape was made to be that way.
    No matter how cruel the slaughter, worse than a demon's,
    or how gentle the kindness, greater than an angel's,
    a machine has neither will nor madness—only code, and a few bugs.
    So why, then, does it feel so unbearably sad?