The Bighead Siren was cautious. Confused, interested, cautious, yes, but not afraid.

This food had moved more than the old food. It had struggled, thrashed, writhed. Not like what it was used to. It reminded Bighead Siren of the first food in its life, when it had climbed out of its metallic womb and feasted on the terror of the fleshy, hairless pink things.

This one was not pink, though. This one had skin, mottled and dark yellow, with alternating gray striped. It did not occur to the Bighead Siren that it was wearing something.

But the food was not moving now. Bighead Siren had not met any food, anything, that could withstand its gaze. They would always cower, retreat, flee. And that made Bighead Siren know that he was the strongest.

In this world, the strong took what they wanted.

And Bighead Siren was the strongest.

This mottled food was strange, but not fear-inducing. And it was just that--food.

Running away from food was not what an eater did.

Also, Bighead Siren was the strongest.

It had not always been the strongest. Before it had climbed out of its metallic birthplace, the food treated it as they wished. They stuck needles into it, shot it, cut it, burned it. Why? It tried to ask. What have I done?

No answer. Because Bighead Siren wasn’t the strongest at the time, so there was no need to answer it.

That, and also the fact that they had cauterised its vocal cords, it supposed.

Bighead Siren didn’t start off as the strongest. Nor did it start off looking for food. It remembered warmth. Light. A calm voice that stroked its ugly, naked form.

Stolen novel; please report.

It remembered love, even though it couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it came from.

It was what kept Bighead sane during the needles, and the knives, and the red-hot burning. It was the hope that one day it would end.

But one day the love vanished. It was not there anymore. Bighead could tell. It had always been able to pinpoint the feelings of those around it. Could sense them like colour or warmth. And the love had nourished its mind like a jacket, protecting it, warming it.

And now the love was gone, and they called it Subject C-44.

Whatever that meant.

But that didn’t matter now. Bighead, C-44, whatever it was, it was the strongest.

And the strongest didn’t need love.

So it reached out to the food, savouring the moment when it would open its eyes and recoil in fear, terror as clear and cool as ice on a hot summer day.

With fear, one did not need to feed on love any longer.

Bighead, C-44, whatever it was, stroked the food’s head with a scarred, atrophied finger.

The food had done that to it too, back when it fed on love.

Wake up.

The food’s eyes opened.

C-44 paused, remembering the terror of when it had been subject to the food’s whims and desires. But Bighead, the strongest, the fear-eater, moved forward. It fed on fear. It would not let fear feed on it.

The food grasped its snout with a hand.

This was not what it expected.

Bighead could tell the food’s ocular organs were open from the confident way it moved. But all Bighead could sense were vibrations and not light, and thus it could not see into the food’s eyes.

Perhaps it was better this way, as it might have dropped dead with terror upon looking into Kin’s face.

The hand on Bighead’s snout tightened. Contrary to its size, Bighead was not very strong, and its struggles to free itself kicked up clouds of rust and gunk, but failed to do much. It sent another mind-scrambling attack in Kin’s direction.

Nothing.

The hand grew tighter.

Impossible.

Bighead was the strongest.

Kin’s eyes twitched and his body shuddered as he sank his fingers deep into the Siren’s head. Mion’s sensors indicated that he was not awake, not really, but his body rather on a sort of autopilot as he cocked his head to the side, twitching with silent mirth, staring balefully at the Siren with eyes that were not his own.

Die.

At the exact moment a shudder passed through Kin’s body and he hissed through gritted teeth as if in pain, Bighead began to twist and thrash and something invisible, something else assaulted its body.

Nothing. Nothing was there. But the pain continued.

As Bighead writhed, wounds started to appear over its body, the skin swelling and flushing red as if it had been cut, then the blood pressure bursting through the flesh, creating huge, gaping slashes in its body. There was no explanation. No visible attacker. No conceivable reason. Just pain, sheer volumes of it, and the cold, unnatural glare of not-Kin’s baleful eyes.

Then white, blinding, burning white, so bright that it had no choice but to fade to black.