Archive of Our Own ^beta

The hunter had become the hunted.

Anti-Mechon bullets rang out from every direction, denting Xord’s normally impenetrable armour. It hurt his pride more than it hurt him physically, but he knew he’d be in for some trouble if certain parts of him got hit. There was the precious Core Unit containing his organs, for one; and if his tank sprang a leak, he’d effectively bleed out. If he was toppled, those areas would become even more vulnerable. Fortunately, his assailants didn’t appear to be aware of his weak points. In fact, it almost seemed as though they were firing at random.

He’d fallen into their trap: the carcass of a large Armu had been left in a particularly rocky and overgrown section of his hunting grounds on the Bionis’ leg, and upon seeing it, Xord naturally descended to claim his free meal. It was bait. As he tucked in, bullets started raining down upon him. It was evident that his assailants had been tracking him for some time; every part of this encounter was by design. There was no doubt about it: they fully intended on taking down Xord, the presumptive commander of the Mechon that razed Colony 6.

“You can’t keep hiding from me!” Xord boomed, frustration straining his voice. “I’ll find you! I’ll flatten everything around me if that’s what it takes!”

Even with his advanced motion detection and olfactory processing, Xord could neither see nor sniff out the source of the anti-Mechon bullets. The foliage was too dense, and the scent of the partially eaten Armu masked everything else in his vicinity. He couldn’t approximate the distance between him and his assailants, either. He tread in a clumsy circle, dragging the head of his hammer through the overgrowth. When he felt the hammer smack into something, he perked up; but it turned out to be a stone protuberance, which he proceeded to destroy in rage.

A bullet pierced the lighted vein on his right shoulder, causing it to go dim and expel fluid.

“Dammit!” Xord snarled, instinctively attempting to apply pressure to the wound. His arm became stiff; he could still move it, but he found himself unable to swing his hammer with his regular amount of force. It was beginning to look like his best option would be to flee, but Xord wasn’t willing to admit that the Homs had the upper hand. He didn’t want to make himself look weak. He was full of violence, and that violence was exacerbated by his hunger. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d devoured each and every one of his assailants, proving his superiority.

And then he would be able to polish off the rest of that Armu, too.

If Xord continued standing his ground, his assailants would run out of bullets eventually—but how much more would he have to endure? Ideally, he’d put a stop to them himself before he had a chance to find out. He lumbered toward the face of a nearby cliff and scanned its surface, trying to catch a glimpse of movement amid the crags.

Something stirred. Xord reacted with a blast of electric ether, causing part of the cliff to crumble. There was a scream, and a body was carried down by the rockfall. Grinning inwardly, Xord reached into the rubble and retrieved his prize: a Defence Force sniper, badly injured, but still alive.

The assailants ceased fire.

“I’ve got you.” Xord spoke quietly to his prey, his grating voice reduced to a purr. The Homs’ quaking body became suffused with the red glow of Xord’s eyes as he brought him closer to his face.

“It’s too bad you didn’t let me eat that monster!” Xord teased. “Maybe then I’d be too full to eat you.”

After giving the sniper a moment to reflect on the thought, Xord dropped him into his gaping maw, tossed him back, and slammed the panels down on top of him. Inside, the body reacted with a current of electricity, causing it to break down and deliquesce into ether. It slid through his lattice of teeth and down the pipe to his abdomen, where it pooled inside his tank.

Once he was finished, Xord peeled open his jaws to show the remaining assailants all that was left of their companion: a red smear across his sheets of teeth.

“But,” he said, “it'd take a lot of Homs to fill me up. I could eat every last one of you!” Xord licked his absent lips with a tongue he didn’t have; then, darkly—hungrily—he added, “And I will.”

The panels came crashing down.

His assailants resumed firing with a vengeance. Xord tried to gauge how many were left based on the number of bullets hitting him at once, but he couldn’t keep track of them amid the noise. He was being targeted from both the front and the back, and while the assailants behind him remained unaccounted for, Xord reasoned that there were likely more of them hidden in the crags. With his shell for protection, he wasn’t overly concerned about taking damage from behind, so he focused solely on the cliffside.

His assailants seemed to know he was onto them. They suspended their frontal assault.

“You can thank that lousy friend of yours for blowing your cover,” Xord said, sweeping his field of vision across the face of the cliff. “One move and you’re dead!”

He watched and waited with dogged determination as bullets made craters in his shell—and when another sniper inadvertently made their presence known, he fired away. Then, he gleefully disposed of the body. He gave his undercarriage a few pats, vocalised a belch, and did not excuse himself.

It was all a performance. Xord knew what he was, and he wanted his assailants to detest and despise him. Every move he made was a deliberate attempt to get under their skin. Wherever they were, he just knew they were beside themselves with animosity. That power he had over them was almost as satisfying as they were to eat.

Turning to face the cluster of trees behind him, Xord shouted, “Don’t think I forgot about you lot!” He drove his hammer into one of them with just enough force to knock another sniper out of its boughs. He snatched her off of the ground and raised her into the air, letting her dangle over his jaws. Again, his assailants—there couldn’t have been more than two of them left—ceased fire.

Before Xord could let go, the sniper wailed, “No! Please—please don’t!”

Xord turned to stone.

He held her there for a moment, his red eyes locked with her grey; then, he slowly closed his chest and brought down his arm. He opened his hand, allowing her to sit on his palm.

“I-it’s you,” he choked. She was many years older than he remembered, but it was undeniably her: “Désirée.”

“How do you—” She, Désirée, managed to look even more terrified than she had when she was about to be eaten. She was defenceless; she was two storeys above the ground, where her rifle lay. All she could do was gaze into the glassy lenses of the Mechon’s eyes.

“Désirée! It’s me! Dad!” Xord exclaimed, gesturing at himself with his hammer’s handle.

“H-how dare you! My father is dead!” Désirée cried. “Y-you ate my partners! You monster!”

“I—” Xord couldn’t think of a rebuttal. Instead, he insisted, “It’s me, it’s really me! Xord! That’s my name! And you, you’re Désirée! What do I have to say to make you believe?”

Désirée buried her face in her hands. “You ate them…”

“I’m… I’m a Mechon,” Xord said, cringing at his own words. “I’m sorry.”

Désirée looked up and glared at him. There were tears welling in her eyes. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it, you sick…”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” He was still unable to think of an excuse. These were not the circumstances under which he wanted to reunite with Désirée. His need for meaty sustenance couldn’t be avoided, but it would have been easier to explain over a meal that wasn’t a Homs. Something like that big, juicy Armu.

Now that the shooting had stopped, the carcass was his for the taking. With only a middling amount of fuel in the bottom of his tank, and with someone he couldn’t possibly let himself eat in his grasp, he was even more tempted to feed. It was something he needed two hands for, though, and he would have liked to avoid subjecting his daughter to another gruesome display, even if his prey was nothing more than a dumb beast that he hadn’t even killed himself. But he was so hungry.

“I need to eat. This is what I am now,” Xord said, prying his eyes off of the Armu. “Sometimes, I get… carried away.” Though he wasn’t necessarily lying, he didn’t sound the least bit convincing. He couldn’t even convince himself. It was true that he needed to routinely ingest large volumes of life-based ether to continue operating, but he didn't necessarily need to eat Homs, and he certainly didn't have to play with his food. His behaviour was nothing short of sadistic, and he knew this, but no one had ever challenged it before. He went out of his way to avoid thinking about it; and because he knew how divorced from his humanity he had become, he also tried to avoid thinking about Désirée, for her own sake. But there she was, in his hand. The two of them were in mutual disbelief.

Désirée wiped away her tears with the back of her arm. “How did this happen?”

Xord froze at the memory of his own brain in the compartment under his throat. He couldn’t tell Désirée what had been done to him, because he intended to have the same done to her. It turned out that she wasn’t a child after all—she looked to be around twenty—meaning Egil would likely comply with his wish to have her undergo the procedure.

And then, at long last, she would be safe inside a Mechon’s armour. Safe from Egil’s slaughter, safe from Metal Face’s claws. Safe from the jaws that had nearly devoured her.

Xord regarded her soft features, knowing that even the bones giving them form would be excised. It needed to be done; he knew that. Still, giving it thought was enough to draw a gasping sob out of him.

“Da—” Désirée cut herself off.

If Xord could smile, he would’ve been holding back a big grin. Dad. Finally, she accepted him. As uplifted as he felt, he found his gaze sneaking back to the Armu. He was unbearably hungry, or perhaps he had merely convinced himself of that out of caution. That hunger took hold of his thoughts, distracting him from his conflicting emotions.

“I have to put you down for a minute,” he blurted. “Stay right here.”

“What?”

Xord set the back of his wrist on the ground and tipped his hand, causing Désirée to slide off. She rose to her feet, barely supported by her quaking legs. Xord made a choking noise when she looked toward the trees, knowing full well that she was trying to locate her rifle. To his relief, she stayed still.

Xord glanced from Désirée to the Armu and back, again at a loss for what to say. “Uh. ‘Scuse me,” he mumbled, crouching down and letting go of his hammer. With no other warning, he proceeded to tear the carcass asunder. Désirée looked on in horror as he ravaged the corpse, stuffing big hunks of flesh and strips of hide into his maw until he couldn't eat any more. What remained was unrecognisable as an Armu: a pile of carnage studded with several bloodied ribs.

Xord corrected his posture, straightening his back and lifting his laden abdomen so that he stood tall on bullet-buffeted legs. Now that his tank was full, he wanted nothing more than to make use of his bounteous energy. His Face Unit was in terrible condition, but aside from his right arm, it remained operable. He was still capable of flight. While he was ambidextrous, it would still be in his best interest to see what Egil could do for him in terms of repairs. He’d been planning on going to Galahad Fortress, anyway.

Xord extended his left hand toward Désirée, only to recoil when he saw that it was dripping with blood. “Oh,” he grunted. He wiped both hands on the grass—his left more hastily than his right—then offered her the cleaner of the two.

Désirée didn’t move. “What are you going to do with me?” she demanded.

“I’m… gonna take you somewhere safe,” Xord told her with a semi-confident dip of his head.

“Safe?” Désirée retorted. “What does a Mechon know about safety?” After letting the words linger for a moment, she drew a deep breath. “You would’ve killed me by now if that’s what you wanted. And now, I… I take it I don’t have a choice.”

Xord silently beckoned her with his finger. She capitulated. On wobbly legs, she tottered up to Xord’s hand and climbed on. He gently closed his fingers around her, trying his best not to squeeze too hard.

“I’ve got you,” he said in a soft voice. It was the closest he could come to embracing her, even if she couldn’t reciprocate. It hurt Xord to think that if she could, she probably wouldn’t—but he would love her all the same.

After reclaiming his hammer, Xord tucked in his limbs and blasted upward like a rocket, beginning his long ascent to the base of the Mechonis’ sword. He and Désirée spent most of the trip in silence, but it didn’t matter. Xord was happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely felt that way. With his daughter at his side and the ether soothingly combusting in his engine, he was at peace.

When they were about halfway to their destination, Désirée spoke up.

“Those two, I… didn’t know them very well. I don’t even know their names,” she said over the muffled roar of Xord’s engine. “We were rookies, all of us. They had us transferred to Colony 6. I thought they wanted us for reconstruction; I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t realise it until those guys were gone, but it was a suicide mission. None of us were supposed to make it back alive.”

Xord grumbled something that wasn’t quite a word.

“We were supposed to do as much damage as possible so our superior officers could finish the job, I think. Why else would they send out a bunch of new recruits? I barely even knew how to aim a rifle.” She sighed. “They didn’t tell us what we’d be up against. I didn’t even know there were Mechon like… you.”

“Mechon with faces,” Xord murmured.

“Mechon the size of a bloody house, I mean. Ones that used to be Homs. But sure, I guess it’s pretty unusual for a Mechon to have a face.”

Xord was hesitant to elaborate. He didn’t understand Egil’s goal well enough to be able to convince Désirée that becoming a Face was in her best interest. Though, even if he did let her in on his plan, she had no means of resistance. Still, Xord didn’t want to risk turning her off of the procedure. He’d have to make it a surprise. When she woke up in her invincible body, she would understand.

“Being a Mechon… it ain’t so bad,” Xord said. With a nervous chuckle, he added, “Beats being eaten by one.”

“What is wrong with you?”

Xord didn’t know where to begin.

Désirée said, “When you were saying those things about… wanting to kill us, and eat us… I swear it was your voice. But it didn’t sound like you. You sounded really… sick. I don’t know. It’s just, even now, I can tell something changed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Xord. But he did, at least a little.

“Never mind.”

After a long stretch of silence, Xord, having had time to gather his thoughts, said, “Things look different when you’re on the Mechonis.” He couldn’t see the Bionis, which had fallen into the distance behind them, but he knew Désirée could. In the shadow of the Mechonis’ sword, the colossal forms of both titans were in view: two enemy combatants engaged in an eternal war, a war that their denizens had inherited. And though it was the Mechonis’ sword that pierced the Bionis, the Bionis’ Monado had severed the arm now visible in the waters below.

“The Mechonis,” Désirée repeated. “Is that where we’re going?”

“Yes. It’s not safe on Bionis,” Xord replied.

“I wonder why,” Désirée said under her breath. “I don’t get it. Why do Mechon eat Homs? Are we some sort of delicacy? Is that why we’re at war?”

Her naivete was almost endearing. There was a time when Xord, too, thought of Mechon as nothing more than mindless automatons that preyed upon Homs. They were “the enemy”; “the other.” Xord couldn’t have possibly known of their leadership and his cause. Why wasn’t Egil more outspoken? Why did he hide behind his legion of machines?

It was simple. Infestations were not treated by reasoning with pests.

“You never told me how this happened. Who did this to you?” Désirée pressed.

Xord said, and immediately regretted saying, “You’ll see when we get there.”

By then, they had reached the bottom of the Mechonis’ blade. It wouldn’t be long until they arrived at the fortress.

Désirée was predictably uneasy. “What do you mean by that?”

Xord didn’t respond.

“Dad? Dad! Where are you taking me?”

With Désirée struggling in his grasp, Xord unfolded his limbs and came in for a landing on the base platform. He proceeded up the ramp and entered the Face maintenance bay. Egil was standing before the terminal on the observation deck, just where Xord hoped he would be.

“Egil!” he called.

“Bronze Face?” Egil looked up, only to recoil at the sight of Xord’s busted armour.

“I got her,” Xord said, holding up Désirée.

“He—he’s not a Homs!” she cried. “What is this?”

Egil studied her. “Your daughter?” he inferred. “But you said she was a child, did you not?”

“This is her, I know it.”

Egil gave him several blinks, but maintained his neutral expression. “In any case,” he said, “this specimen is eligible for the procedure. I have no reason to deny her of such.”

“Procedure? What—”

“Shh, shh. It’s okay,” Xord said in a hushed voice as he lowered his arm. He flashed Egil a murderous look before adding, “Don’t worry. You’ll be okay.”

“No! No! I don’t want this!” Désirée wailed, fighting to escape. “Dad, please! Let me go!”

It hurt Xord to see her in so much distress, and suddenly he was afraid that what he was doing was wrong. No: he was saving her. If he failed to act, it would only be a matter of time before she was killed, especially with her being a soldier. He repeated those words to himself: It’s okay. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay.

Egil entered a command into the console, summoning a M3X unit that Xord didn’t recognise. Attached to its undercarriage was an extension resembling a three-fingered appendage. It hovered over Xord’s hand and he loosened his grip, allowing it to grab hold of Désirée. She screamed and kicked and reached desperately for her father’s hand as it carried her away. Xord put down his arm and watched in sombre silence as she was taken away. When he could no longer hear her, his heart fluttered with hope. He’d done it. He had secured her future as an undying machine. Never again would she be in danger, and never again would she feel pain.

She’d come around, Xord told himself. She would understand.

With Désirée gone, Egil turned to face Xord. “This damage, was it caused by anti-Mechon bullets?”

Xord was barely paying attention. “Think so,” he replied.

“I was of the belief that anti-Mechon technology is in short supply. If the Homs have expanded their arsenal, I may have to revaluate our strategy moving forward.”

Xord nodded.

“I will look into this. But first, your Face Unit must be replaced.”

“Replaced?”

“Performing the necessary repairs would require more time and resources than replacing the Face Unit outright,” Egil explained. He pointed at one of several support systems along the walls—structures that must have been installed while Xord was isolating on Valak Mountain. “If you wish to have your Face Unit replaced, position yourself under that crane.”

Xord knew better than to ask what would happen if he didn’t want to get it replaced. Few people were intimidating enough to force Xord to think before speaking. He obediently made his way over to the support system and backed himself against it.

Egil opened an application on the console and entered a series of commands. A crane descended from the top of the support system, hooked itself under Xord’s shell, and raised him several metres into the air. Shortly after, a lift carrying two M64 Operative Units came down from a shaft in the ceiling. They flipped Xord’s head back, making the inside of his shell the last thing he saw before his Core Unit was disconnected.

...

When Xord was pulled out of sensory depravation, he found himself in a pristine new Face Unit identical to the one he’d inhabited before. His tank felt empty, yet he maintained control of his faculties. He must have been running on some other kind of power. Whatever kind of power it was, it didn’t stop him from feeling hungry. He was deeply uncomfortable, but he’d just have to ignore it. Something much more important required his attention.

The first thing he saw was another Face anchored to a support system on the other side of the room. It had its head down, but Xord was able to see light beaming from its eyes.

“Hello,” he called out to it, shifting slightly and swaying on his crane.

It took several seconds for the Face to react. The lights in its eyes flickered weakly in acknowledgement, then recognition, transmitting an unconscious signal: <Dad…>

It was not a voice that answered him, and that answer did not come in the form of words—it was just a notion of familiarity, small and uncertain. Even though Xord couldn’t hear her, he knew by instinct that the tiny notion had been thought by her brain.

Deep inside that great machine, his daughter’s heart was beating.

Xord attempted to comfort her. “Désirée,” he said. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Her eyes began to pulse. <Where am I? My eyes—everything is red! What is this screen?> They pulsed faster. <Oh! My arms! I can’t feel my arms!> The hammer slipped out of her grasp and came crashing down upon the metal floor. She jumped, and continued shaking as she broadcast a series of SOS signals. <Help! Help! What was that? Where are my arms? Where are my legs?>

Xord didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t anything he could do. Désirée’s panicked signals were blaring in his receptors and he had no way of tuning them out. It was even more disturbing than it would be to hear her scream, because she couldn’t scream. She had no voice. She was trapped inside a body she didn’t know belonged to her, unable to move, unable to cry, unable to close her eyes and pretend just for a moment that everything was the way it was supposed to be. Her terror could be neither seen nor heard, but it could be known, and that knowledge was too much for Xord to take.

He wanted to send her a signal of reassurance, but he couldn’t summon the feeling inside his own mind, much less transmit it. He didn’t have any reassuring words to speak aloud, either. Maybe he would have known what to say when he was his other self, before he’d forgotten so much of who he used to be. He could think so much clearer back then. Sometimes he remembered what it was like—and nothing horrified him more than the realisation of what he had become.

He didn’t know how to be a father, not anymore. He should have known that by now. He should have known he couldn’t be trusted. Xord saw himself back in the ether mine, gorged and blood-drunk in the wake of his massacre. He saw himself at the scene of the ambush with Désirée hanging over his jaws. And he saw Désirée before him, eyes still flashing rapidly, cursed to pilot the same damnable machine he had used to bring about so much wanton destruction.

What had he done? What had he done?

“You’re both awake,” Vanea remarked from the deck, snapping Xord out of his thoughts. “I will have you released.” She activated a mechanism, lowering both Faces and unhooking the cranes from their shells.

When Désirée was freed, she fell forward onto her chest and lay there, armour clattering against the floor. She transmitted a distress signal:<Ow—what is this? What is all this metal? I’m stuck! Get me out!>

Vanea was taken aback. “Is—is that the new Face?”

“Yes,” Xord affirmed, watching his daughter spasm piteously.

“This should not be happening. I oversaw the procedure; the central processor appeared to have been installed correctly. Could it be defective?”

“Central processor?” Xord repeated in a wary mumble.

Metal Face’s voice echoed in his head: "I heard they got chips in their brains, those Faces. They act just like regular Mechon. You’d never guess there’s people inside."

“N-no,” Xord choked. He didn’t have a central processor, and neither did Metal Face. Why did Désirée need one? Why didn’t she have a voice?

The distress signal continued to shriek in Xord’s receptors. It was overwhelming. Between that, his guilt, and his increasing hunger, he felt like he was on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He needed to get out, but he couldn’t possibly abandon Désirée. To keep himself from moving, Xord focused on how heavy he was and tried to convince himself he was made of lead.

“The central processor must be replaced. She will have to be put back under,” Vanea said dolefully. “I will begin the preparations. More ether cylinders are required.”

Xord didn’t hear her, nor did he notice when she left. <Stop! Stop! Please, stop!> he begged Désirée through a series of frenetic flashes, matching the frequency of her signals. <You’re hurting me! You’re hurting my brain!>

Désirée’s transmission was cut off, replaced by a sharp iteration of, <?>

With the distress signal no longer penetrating his receptors, Xord was able to regain some of his composure. Slowly, he blinked, <Désirée, that was me. I sent you a signal.>

<What is happening?> Désirée flashed in alarm. <These aren’t my thoughts! Am I losing my mind?>

<Désirée, please calm down. All of this is confusing, I know. I’m trying to he—>

<Someone’s in my head. There’s someone in my head.>

<Désirée, cal—>

<No! Get out of my head! Get out!>

Trying to get through to her was proving futile. Xord could stop returning her signals, but he couldn’t block them out. Though she might not have realised it, she was directing all of her thoughts at him, causing them to be picked up by his receptors. It made Xord uncomfortable—he felt like he was violating her privacy, but it was by no will of his own.

At last, he found it within himself to step forward. He made his way to the other side of the room, where Désirée lay prone. He reached for her hand. “I’m here. Let me help you.”

Désirée’s body jerked when he touched her, and she broadcast a note of surprise: <!>

As Xord wrapped his metal fingers around hers, he couldn’t help but think of how small her hands had once been, and how now they were just like his. Her blonde hair, her grey eyes—every modicum of individuality she possessed was gone, and never again would Xord hear her voice or see her smile. He only knew it was her inside the machine because she had recognised him, if only for a moment.

Xord dragged Désirée’s limp arm into her line of sight. “Look, here it is,” he said spiritlessly, still holding her hand. “Your arm.”

<That’s not my arm! It’s yours!>

“No, it’s—” Xord fell silent. Words weren’t going to work. He signalled, <Focus. Try moving it. Try really, really hard.> It was a conveyance of the arm’s articulation, and a gradual flexion of the forearm. There were no muscles, he stressed, so there wasn’t anything to strain. Her body wasn’t tense; her brain just thought it was.

<But this is—> Désirée didn’t give the thought a chance to fully develop. Her arm rose by a few centimetres, and Xord let go of her hand. Her arm remained stationary in the air, held there by her own will. When it occurred to her what was happening, her arm came crashing down. She burst into hysterics. Her transmission was completely incomprehensible, as if her brain was incapable of processing what she had seen.

Xord staggered away from her, brain full of nonsense and static. It was a raw, visceral expression of something that was beyond terror, the kind of unholy despair only felt by someone the instant their world shattered. It dredged up memories Xord had all but forgotten: that first night; the soldier, disintegrated alive; the corpses, so many corpses entombed inside of him; the hammer, the howling, the hours spent alone in the dark; and having to accept what he had become, and what he would forever be.

He wouldn’t wish it upon anyone—yet before him lay his little girl, imprisoned inside the same infernal machine, chest full of jaws that hungered for the flesh of Homs.

Xord didn’t know he was panicking. It didn’t feel like he was. His breathing and heart rate were normal, and there weren’t any parts of him that could feel tight or tense; but his mind was consumed by dread. He was in the very cell where he’d spent that night—he hadn’t realized it until just then—and for a horrifying moment, he thought the night had never ended. The blood and vomit had since been cleaned up, but the place still reeked like death; and though his tank was empty, there was a heaviness inside of him that made him feel ill in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. He felt the weight of every Homs he’d ever eaten, felt them squirm like maggots in his belly. It had all begun with that terrible night—the night that had broken him, and the night after which things were never the same.

<No! Please, no! I don’t want to be a Mechon! I don’t want to eat Homs! I don’t want—> Désirée had begun bombarding Xord with visions of him devouring her brothers in arms during the ambush. Watching himself kill through his daughter’s eyes was monumentally disturbing. He could perceive her pain as she witnessed her companions’ final moments, pain that only worsened when Xord taunted them and gnashed his teeth and patted his belly and belched. Was that disgusting, boorish pig what Désirée saw when she thought of him? Was that what Xord had become?

<—to be like Dad!>

“Xord,” Vanea called, having returned to the deck. “Xord!” She proceeded to repeat his name several more times in increasing desperation.

Xord finally lifted his head, feeling nauseated. He let out a laboured moan.

All Vanea could offer him was a look of pity. “The preparations have been made,” she said. “And—I must remind you that your own supply of ether cylinders will soon run out. You will have to find another source of fuel, I am afraid.”

Xord whimpered. He was so overwrought that he had forgotten what was to become of Désirée. “You can’t do this to her,” he sobbed, bringing his fist down on the floor. “Please, just let her be. She’s my daughter! I-I don’t want to lose her.”

“She cannot function in this state. This procedure will help her. The central processor will aid in the integration of her Core Unit.” Vanea’s voice was wavering in a way Xord didn’t like. “She will still be in there, I promise.”

Xord stomped toward the barrier. “What a load of rubbish. You think that I’ve forgotten the botch job you did on my head?” he growled. “I’d say I trust you far as I could throw ya, but I reckon I could throw you to the other end of Sword Valley.” He came closer. Coldly, he said, “Lay one finger on her and I will.”

“Xord, you must leave! Please!” Vanea begged. “I do not know how long the cylinders’ charge will last. If you don’t do something, then…”

“Then what?” Xord retorted. “If I get hungry enough, it’ll be you I go after first. Should’ve known this’d come back to bite you in the arse." He snapped his jaws, making it clear that he wasn't just speaking figuratively. “This barrier ain’t gonna stop me,” he added, giving it a thwack with his hammer. “The doors are open. I’ll take the lift.”

“No, you are wrong! There is organic matter inside of that Face!” Vanea exclaimed. “I programmed that system. Any amount of foreign ether from the Bionis will trigger a response!”

“What?” cried Xord. When he concentrated, he could smell them: Désirée’s tender lungs, heart, and brain. Her circuits were awash with augmented blood, rich with ether proteins. Xord whined miserably. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He was starving. He wouldn’t be surprised if his insides started to corrode from his body attempting to eat itself. While he was still firmly in control of his faculties, he had no way of knowing how much time he had left. With an anguished wail, he took off down the ramp, folding his body in mid-air.

The vast whiteness of Valak Mountain was calming. Xord stood in the snow, belly mercifully full of Aries meat, and wished he could just become part of it. Snowflakes fluttered onto his armour and evaporated instantly from the heat of his circuits. He was numb: numb to the heat, numb to the cold, numb to all the feelings he’d felt not even an hour before. That was how it always went. He didn’t question it. It was easier not to.

What Xord did find himself questioning was why he’d stopped being numb, even if it was just for a moment. Why did remembering that night make him feel broken all over again? He was upset with himself. He’d already lived through that night, and he knew that if he actually got to experience it again, he would enjoy it. He would’ve eaten that soldier right up like the good servant he had become, and he’d be grateful for the generous reward that followed. He admitted it would’ve been uncomfortable to be unable to work it off, but having too much energy was preferable to having too little.

He had eaten dozens of Homs since then. In fact, they were his “favourite food.” He didn’t need a tongue to be able to taste their fear—and it wasn’t an acquired taste. He had relished that very first soldier, though his enjoyment of the act had disturbed him more than the act himself. It was something he didn’t understand, but that was another thing he tried not to question. He couldn’t stop thinking about his close call with Désirée, though. If he hadn’t given her a chance to scream, he would’ve been happy to have eaten her.

All of those Homs he ate—who had they been? Xord didn’t have the depth of mind to consider that, not in the moment. He saw them in terms of what they could do for him, which was exude that delectable fear. That fear didn’t nourish him, however; it just gave him a rush of dopamine, which was hard for him to get out of anything else. But what was it about murder that gave him such a thrill?

Murder. He never thought about it that way. He didn’t relate to Homs anymore. He was a predator, and they were prey. Xord might’ve still had a conscience and the capacity for morals, but he had no reason to abide by them. The love he had for Désirée, that wasn’t because of morals. It might not have even been love, considering how much he struggled to grasp what that word meant. He just wanted what was best for her—was that not love? He would always do what was best for his little girl.

But Xord didn’t know what he was doing. He never did. He had just enough self-awareness to recognise this, but he couldn’t figure out what had him so confused. The cerebral part of him was so sluggish that it was difficult for him to think the right thoughts at the right time. He could still do a lot of things without having to think very hard, though he didn’t necessarily do those things well. At times like this when he was alone, those sober thoughts were finally allowed to flourish—but they were never anything but a burden.

He didn’t want to think about Désirée, or her terror, or the way that terror had so deeply resonated with him. It just reminded him of how broken he was, and how he had ruined Désirée, too. It was time to move on, just like he did every other time he ruined someone’s life. It was time to burn ether and wish he didn’t have to think.

But he did, and in the sprawling white emptiness, there was nothing to think about but the past—all the things he should’ve felt bad about, but didn’t. Did he want to feel bad? That would just be a sign of weakness, wouldn’t it?

But what else did weaklings do?

They ran away. Running from enemies, running from problems, running at the slightest hint of adversity—none of that demonstrated strength of character. Xord had a fire inside of him, and it burned in tandem with the ether in his tank. His spirit. His body. He resolved to never stop feeding those flames. His failure to keep his first batch of captives alive had sunk his morale, but it didn’t have to be the end. He had something else to fight for, something he’d convinced himself he wanted more than anything else.

Désirée was waiting for him back on Mechonis, and what was he doing? Moping about with his thumb up his exhaust pipe. There had to be something he could do for her. He wouldn’t be able to fix her, of course, but surely he could help her make the best of her situation. He could be her teacher. He could walk her through everything she needed to know about being a Mechon, just like how he’d shown her how to move her arm. He’d teach her to balance on the balls of her feet, and he’d show her how to tuck in her limbs and fly. She would probably enjoy flying, Xord decided. At the very least, it didn’t seem like she was afraid of heights.

Xord had lost most of his memories of Désirée. He couldn’t remember what she was like in her early years, nor did he remember her becoming an adult. He just remembered what he expected a child to look like, and that that child was his. But now he had a chance to make new memories with her; to be there for her; to help her learn; to hold her hand, even if that hand was big and made of metal.

He might have thought he’d forgotten how to be a father, but he never stopped being her dad.

Xord jetted toward Sword Valley with an urgency he’d never felt before. He hadn’t been gone too long. Maybe there was still time to stop Vanea. If not, surely he would be able to persuade her to reverse the operation. Would she give her life to preserve just one of Egil’s drones?

Egil. Xord hadn’t considered the possibility of him being there. If Egil boarded his Face Unit, it would be Xord who’d be paying with his life. From the perspective of Yaldabaoth, Xord was about as threatening as a Dobercorgi—and Egil wouldn’t hesitate to put his lapdog down if he tried to bite.

Xord told himself not to worry about it, again recalling that it hadn’t been long since he left. While Egil happened to be there when he arrived with Désirée, it didn’t seem like he was involved with Face maintenance in any way. Hopefully he had given up his spot at the terminal to Vanea and gone to look brooding somewhere else.

Xord didn’t let his concern slow him down. The azure flames trailing behind him burned hotter and brighter than any fire that had ever burned in his forge. He shot over Sword Valley, locking onto the fortress when it entered his field of view. Upon landing on the platform, he was horrified to find that the ramp had been raised.

He pounded on it with his fists. Bashed it with his hammer. Blasted it with his cannon, fully charged. Anything he could think of doing to it, he tried. It didn’t break. It didn’t budge. It was just like the barrier. Xord took off and circled the fortress, desperately searching for another way in. When he couldn’t find one, he returned to the platform and collapsed onto his knees, weeping invisible tears. He stayed there for what felt like hours. He didn’t know what else to do. If he kept waiting, surely the ramp would come down eventually.

Although Xord’s model guzzled ether like a drunk, maintaining an idle state helped reduce his fuel consumption a little. Still, the distance between Valak Mountain and Galahad Fortress was great. He already had only a little over half a tank left, which was about as much as he’d need to make the flight back. He didn’t have a plan in mind for if he ended up having to wait a long time.

Xord lifted his head when he heard the whir of a mechanism. The ramp came down and a Face trudged onto the platform.

Xord rushed toward it with outstretched arms, crying, “Désirée!”

The Face stopped and stared at him unblinkingly.

Xord put his hands on its shoulders. “The central processor! Did they put in the central processor?” He shook the Face, causing its chin to rattle around inside its armour. “Tell me you’re still in there!”

The Face shoved Xord away, blasting his receptors with an indecipherable signal.

This was precisely what Xord had been fearing. Feeling hurt, he signalled,<Please, return my signal! They said it’d still be you inside!>

The Face blinked, <!#I%D!!—on’t know you—!!@L %!—eave me alone.>

Xord’s arms fell to his sides. He watched the Face continue on its way across the platform. When it reached the edge, it folded itself up and flew away.

Xord tried his best not to let the blunder discourage him. The ramp was down now. Désirée had to still be inside. He burst into the maintenance bay, where a lone Face was suspended from a crane. Its head was flipped back and the compartment under its throat was open. There was no Core Unit inside, only a neat assortment of wires. Her brain, her heart, her lungs—anything that could be considered “Désirée” had been removed.

“Where is her Core Unit?” Xord bellowed to no one. The terminal on the deck was unmanned. Seething, he made a run for the lift. Upon reaching the floor above, he found himself in front of a narrow passage. If he tried to force his way through, he would get stuck like he had in the tunnel—and there wasn’t a convenient throng of people waiting to be feasted upon nearby. Xord could smell ether on the other side, but it had an unappetising chemical odour. It was the blood of the Bionis, the same caustic liquid that formed a river in the depths of the ether mine.

Xord stood there, heaving his shoulders and thrusting his chest as if he were fighting for breath—yet his lungs rhythmically expanded and contracted in spite of him. He was at a complete loss. He was too close to being hungry to continue waiting, but too emotionally exhausted to consider going back to the mountain for another meal. It wasn’t fair that his machine body had been deliberately engineered to be so inefficient, just like it wasn’t fair that Désirée had to have a computer installed in her brain. No matter how they were programmed, Xord could think of no fate worse than being a Faced Mechon.

How could he have seen this coming? Death had always been a possibility in Sword Valley—as much as Xord wanted to believe he was invincible—but how could he have predicted something even worse? Homs being turned into Mechon—if he hadn’t undergone the transformation himself, he would’ve never believed such a thing was possible. The Bionis and Mechonis existed in diametric opposition; Homs were not meant to don the vesture of machines. To make his servants obey, Egil needed to rewrite the most fundamental aspects of who they were. Ultimately, it wasn’t their minds that he prized; it was the blood pulsing through the machines’ vitreous veins, and the organs that ensured it would continue to flow.

They might not have even needed minds at all. After all, it wasn’t Egil’s blood that coursed through Yaldabaoth’s veins.

So then why was Xord obligated to think? Why couldn’t central processors function without the accompaniment of brains? There must have been some value in a Homs’ intelligence, something that could not be programmed into a machine. It would have been a waste for Egil not to take advantage of it. Maybe Metal Face was wrong, and Vanea had been speaking truthfully. Maybe Désirée wouldn’t just be a drone.

Xord returned to the maintenance bay and idled by the vacant Face Unit. It wasn’t Désirée. It was just a vehicle that, if damaged, could be replaced—just like Xord’s had been earlier that day. The model, which had originally been built in Xord’s likeness, now served as a standard issue suit, and a great quantity of them had been produced. His was the face that countless others wore, all considering it to be “theirs”; yet to Xord, it was categorically his. When he looked at the thing that had once hosted, and would soon again host Désirée’s soul, he could think only of himself—and when he thought of himself, he just thought about how badly he wished he could be something else.

Something that wasn’t so hungry.

Xord needed to eat soon, but Valak Mountain was so far away. He didn’t know if he’d be able to make it. Only then did it dawn on him that he could’ve taken something back with him, but it was far too late for that. What would happen if he ran out of fuel in a world where organic life did not exist?

That wasn’t completely true. Désirée was somewhere inside the fortress. It might not have been possible to reach her, but his body would probably keep trying to force itself through the passage until it gave out. Xord was suddenly grateful that he couldn’t fit.

In his desperation, he broadcast a wide-range signal and prayed it would reach a Mechon’s receptors: <I’m running low on fuel. My model operates on organic ether. Please. I am unable to provide for myself.> As long as a Mechon was in range, it would be at his beck and call—even, presumably, if it was a Face.

He waited. He didn’t have any other options left. His mind, his heart, his belly—every part of him felt empty, just like the Face Unit in front of him. He was too out of sorts to be mad at himself for having become so weak. His thoughts were becoming frazzled, and in time, he wouldn’t be able to think at all. The tingle of static in his head began to rasp like sandpaper.

“Room service!”

The carcass of an Ansel came spinning up the ramp, leaving a spiral of blood in its wake. Xord didn’t care where it had come from. He was an animal. He dropped his hammer, lurched forward on his knees, and grabbed at the carcass with shaky hands. Within seconds he had engulfed the entire bird, save for a few feathers.

A hoarse laugh sounded from the platform. “What would you do if I told you it was poisoned?”

Xord was too groggy to make out the words, but he recognised the voice. He let out an exaggerated groan.

“I’m joking. Even if I wasn’t, you’re made of metal. You’d be fine. Probably.” Metal Face strutted up the ramp and arrived claws-first in the maintenance bay. “Not so tough on an empty stomach, eh?” he jeered, looming over Xord’s prostrate body. “You’re lucky I was feeling so generous. I could’ve had you grovelling at my feet!”

Righting himself, Xord grumbled, “Why did you do this for me?”

“It’s not like I had anything better to do.” Metal Face turned away and stared down at his bladed fingers. “Consider it an apology. I wouldn’t have these claws if it weren’t for the ones you made me, you know. It’s just hard to think of you as Xord, the blacksmith when you look the same as every other one of those rust buckets.”

Xord was so relieved to have something in his belly that he was almost willing to accept Metal Face’s apology; it was easier for him to dismiss his cruelty now that he knew Désirée was safe. Xord couldn’t bring himself to make his gratitude known, however. He didn’t want to admit that he’d needed his help. Other Mechon were simply tools; Metal Face had acted of his own volition, and he had the capacity for judgment. Xord knew he was judging him at that very moment, even if his words suggested otherwise. His affability was always a charade.

Metal Face studied Xord with his four penetrative eyes. “You’ve got that new Face Unit smell. What happened to your old one? Huh?” Inside of his machine, Mumkhar was most assuredly grinning.

“Wear and tear. It’s what happens if you work hard enough,” Xord asserted, flexing his muscle-less arm. “What, don’t you know what that’s like?”

Metal Face laughed. “Please! That’s not something I have to worry about. Unlike you brown bargain bin bots, this baby’s built to last!”

“I see you got your head replaced,” Xord said curtly. “Too bad they didn’t give you a new brain.”

“Oh, admit it: you’re just jealous my brain’s inside a real head.”

“With a mug like that, Egil would’ve done you a favour by getting rid of it.”

As they engaged in what was impossible for Xord to confirm as either banter or genuine hostility, another lift carrying two M64 Operative Units descended from above Désirée’s Face Unit. Between the units was a large triangle of metal with a cylindrical battery compartment and a dome at each point: two opaque, one resembling glass.

The commotion seemed to catch both Faces’ attentions at once, and they abruptly stopped bickering.

Metal Face exclaimed, “Oi, look! They’re loading in a Core Unit! Who’s inside, who’s inside?” He proceeded to hang his head and heave a disingenuous sigh. “Perhaps we’ll never know.”

Xord clenched his fists, hammer trembling in his grip. “I know damn well who that is!”

“Do you really?” Metal Face said, head still down. “My condolences.”

Xord forced himself to ignore him. He needed to have faith in what Vanea had said. All he could do was watch as the M64 units wired Désirée’s Core Unit into her machine; he didn’t dare act at the risk of interrupting the process. He prayed Metal Face would show similar restraint.

“Seems like a lot of trouble,” Metal Face said, craning his neck. “But what can you do? Guys like me are hard to find.” Xord could hear Mumkhar’s smirk in his voice. “Still, you’d think those Machinutters would’ve figured out something… less invasive.”

Xord shivered. Inside of those domes were things no father would ever want to see. As long as he didn’t enhance his field of view, he could pretend the wire-embedded lump visible inside one of them was anything else. It was one of those moments where he wished his ocular lenses were lidded. He had so desperately wanted to be there to see his daughter’s machine eyes light up, but he hadn’t considered the things he would have to see first.

“This is boring. I guess there’s no point in sticking around,” Metal Face said. He slunk toward the ramp with grace unbefitting of his size. “Next time you need food, you’re on your own.”

Xord’s tank was far from capacity, but the fuel supplied by the Ansel would last him a good amount of time if he made an effort to conserve it. Xord couldn’t quite gauge if it would be enough for a flight to Valak Mountain, though. If worse came to worst, he could always broadcast another signal.

The M64 units were hard at work. They lowered their specialized appendages into the Face Unit’s throat chamber and retrieved wires, which they then threaded through perforations in the base of the see-through dome and attached to what looked to be a cybernetic implant just above the brain stem. It was the central processor, without a doubt. Xord had seen a similar, but more rudimentary-looking apparatus nested in his own brain. This implant was sleek, giving it the appearance of a manufactured product. Just like the Face Unit that had once belonged only to Xord, it had likely been mass-produced.

"That’s what Egil wants: an army of drones with no minds of their own.”

Xord was beside himself with a mosaic of grief and regret and what felt like a million other emotions that his mind couldn’t even begin to interpret, all of which culminated in the moment he looked too close and thought too hard at once. Earlier that day, when he was holding her in his hand—why did he let go? What kind of father would let go?

He could still hear the echoes of her screams, and that final image of her face—haunted eyes as wide as chickens’ eggs, mouth agape as those screams erupted from her lungs—was seared in his memory. When he thought of her, that was all he could see. He saw her reaching out for him with her little hands, pleading with him, giving him one last chance to change his mind—but all he did was stare like the cold-hearted machine he was.

Did she remember his betrayal? Did she remember that he had made the decision to have her transformed? If she didn’t, it would be a lot easier for Xord to forgive himself. He could pretend all of it was just something that happened for no particular reason, much like his own transformation; and he could pretend the only reason he was there was to help her. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could just shrug off all of his responsibility and guilt? It would make him feel so much better if he could just forget about his involvement, even if he would never forget her face and her screams and the third of what was left of her: the wrinkly, half-synthetic thing suspended in the semi-translucent fluid inside the dome.

Xord couldn’t look away. He watched “her” pulsate and wondered what she was thinking about. Maybe she was dreaming. That was what he told himself, if only for his peace of mind.

After connecting thick tubing to outlets below each of the metal domes, the M64 units stopped working and flickered their lights at each other, seemingly engaging in a private conversation. Xord hadn’t thought Mechon were capable of communicating autonomously. Perhaps they were preprogrammed with that dialogue. No matter the case, the units slid their appendages under the Core Unit, hoisted it up, set it inside the Face Unit, and pushed it into place with an audible click. They then shut the doors of the compartment and returned the Face Unit’s head to its correct position. The units angled back their torsos, lights flashing, and shortly thereafter the lift ascended up the shaft.

Then, it happened: the Face Unit’s eyes lit up. Désirée’s eyes lit up.

Xord approached with caution, managing to tread lightly on his feet. “Désirée,” he said in a weak voice. “You’re there, aren’t you?”

Upon seeing him, Désirée began to convulse, causing her otherwise stiff body to rock and gyrate on her crane. As she dangled precariously, she transmitted a signal that was eerily coherent: <Bronze Face. Return my signal.>

She had acknowledged him in a formal way, not unlike the way Egil did. It was very different from the recognition she had communicated upon awakening, which unambiguously identified Xord as her father. Now, she addressed him as something comparable to a senior colleague.

As much as his daughter’s behaviour unnerved him, Xord complied and repeated her light pattern. <Affirmative.>

<Connection successful. Output and input systems are fully operational.> Désirée’s head repeatedly hitched to the side and snapped back into place. Then, her eyes began to flash out of sync with one another, transmitting profoundly corrupted data: <0!!?!#!!?&?!?!%?!?&>

The abstraction Xord’s receptors planted in his head was so jarring that it nearly knocked him off his feet. He had received corrupted signals before, but their effects tended to be mild, like a blip of static electricity in the brain. Whatever concept Désirée had failed to convey was almost physically painful to behold. There wasn’t any emotion attached to it, unlike the series of distress signals she had broadcast before. It seemed as though the conveyance was powered by emotion, but the emotion itself had been suppressed.

Yet, the corruption wasn’t nearly as harrowing as the transmission that had preceded it. Xord didn’t need to hear a voice to be able to tell that whatever had sent that message was not Désirée. It came off as inhumanly competent and seemed to possess an intuitive understanding of its capabilities in a way only a machine could. Before she’d gotten a functional central processor installed, Désirée had been completely oblivious of her ability to signal. How could she know about inputs and outputs and two-way communication?

Xord wanted to believe that the central processor had equipped her with a bank of Face-related knowledge, like the information Egil had taught Xord himself, but that wouldn’t have explained why her transmissions left such an uncanny, artificial impression.

Désirée’s eyes went dark and her body stopped seizing. Seconds later, she came back to life and tilted her head back. Xord followed her gaze to the deck, where Vanea was standing. For all he knew, she could’ve been there from the very beginning of the procedure. His eyes had been on the Face Unit the entire time.

Xord’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. He needed to say something. He just didn’t know what. It would have been easier to let his other set of jaws do the talking, but Vanea, like always, was out of reach.

She was silent as well. She didn’t speak softly to the Faces like she usually did. She didn’t even acknowledge them. Perhaps she didn’t know they had noticed her; she tended to draw their attentions herself. She stood with her head down, pecking at the control panel with long black nails.

When Désirée’s crane descended and set her on the floor, she maintained her stiff, upright position. Her eyes, still fixed on Vanea, began to blink. Without any further acknowledgement of Xord, she spun herself around and headed toward the ramp.

Xord pursued her, sparing Vanea from choice words that remained unchosen. <Désirée!> he signalled as she stepped onto the platform.

She turned around. <I have already been issued an assignment. What is it that you want, Bronze Face?>

<I want my daughter.>

Xord couldn’t possibly know if it was Désirée staring at him through the machine’s glowing eyes, but the fact that she just stood there, staring, was enough to make him believe.

His eyes pulsed warmly, rhythmically. <That’s right. You. My girl, my little girl.>

Désirée—it was her, it had to be!—fought to lift her right arm, her entire body quaking from her tremendous effort. She raised her tightly gripped hammer little by little until a sudden tremor freed it from her grasp. After several agonizing seconds, she was holding her arm out in front of her—just like Xord had taught her.

Xord came forward and reached out for her hand, but to his dismay, she resisted and continued raising her arm—and drawing it back, and bending it, and rotating her torso. With her elbow pointing skyward and her chest facing her right hip, she became statue-still.

“Désirée? What are you—”

In one fluid movement, her fist flew out and shattered Xord’s face plate like porcelain. Broken white pieces bounced off his chest and dropped like pebbles onto the platform.

Désirée stood with her fist in his forehead, knuckles grazing the dented, sparking machinery just above his eyes. Xord could still see, and his entire field of vision was filled by his daughter’s massive, trembling arm. He had no words, no thoughts, no embryonic precursors to ideas that could manifest as visual or conceptual data. It was as if his actual head had been smashed.

Désirée withdrew her fist and let her arm fall directly onto Xord’s chest. It slid off and returned to her side, where it teetered forward and back. She was still staring at him with those four burning eyes, and not even his unfeeling body was numb to their heat.

With a cock of her head, she blinked, <That damage looks serious. I would strongly advise requesting re—#!!!!&!?H?8!>

Xord hid what was left of his face behind his hands and heaved a sob from deep within his core. He drew it out into a breathless wail, a noise that embodied the kind of despondence only a bereaved father could know. He might as well have lost Désirée for real.

When he at last fell silent, he peered out from between his fingers and choked, “Désirée… why…”

Désirée brought a shaky hand to her belly and convulsed in what might have been a fit of laughter, but could have just as easily been her grappling with her body for control. <&H—You kn—%#A—You know what you did.>

“B-but—”

Désirée gaped at him, head rattling, eyes flashing like strobe lights. In Xord’s head, she screeched, <S!!!&?#???U!??!>

Xord whined pathetically and clutched the discs on the sides of his head.

Slowly, Désirée brought her fist up to her neck. Two fingers shot out, snapping back her head.

“D-Désirée?”

The little door under her throat opened. Her fingers entered the cavity.

Xord uselessly held out his hand. “You’re not… No… Please, no…”

Désirée dug under the wires and pinched them between her fingers and her thumb. She fired a punctuated signal, making each concept explicitly clear: <I… hate… you.> Without breaking eye contact, she ripped the wires out of her Core Unit. Her lifeless body hit the floor face-down, the impact dislodging the Core Unit and sending it skidding across the platform.

Xord stumbled up to the triangle of metal, gait unsteady, legs buckling with every step. He picked it up and cradled it in his arms. The fluid inside the see-through dome was full of frothy bubbles, but Désirée’s brain continued to pulsate. She was alive. Dreaming.

“I love you,” Xord whimpered, gently rocking the Core Unit. “Forever, n-no matter what you say. I’ve got you. My girl, my little girl. I love you. Always.” He continued to babble disconsolately between sobs until his words were little more than nonsense. “I’m sorry. Désirée, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry… Please…”

He didn’t know what to do. He could bring the Core Unit to Vanea, but she’d just have it put back inside a Face Unit. Désirée wouldn’t want that. Xord just wanted her to be happy. What would it take to make her happy? He didn’t know, nor did he ever. He continued to rock her, cooing things that weren’t words and deluding himself into thinking she was listening.

Xord held her against his chest, against his heart and the other segregated organs that constituted his being. Inside their Core Units, their organs pulsated in accord. Xord held her in a tight metal embrace, held her as tenderly as one could without the soft cushion of flesh. He ran his finger down the see-through dome, stroking hair that wasn’t there; and the memory of her blonde locks reduced him to tears he couldn’t shed. He knew he would never see her again, but he could hold her, at least, and this time, he wouldn’t let go. He would never let go. All he ever wanted was for her to be safe. He would just have to protect her himself. He’d be her armour. He would hold her close to his chest, close to his jaws, close to his heart. He’d keep her safe.

Even as Xord grew weary and his mind became numb, he didn’t stop rocking. He was fully engrossed in the movement, so much that he didn’t have to think about anything else. He didn’t have to think about where he was, or what he was, or what he was holding, and why. He didn’t have to think about his hunger. A flicker of electricity escaped from under his panels, curious, like the tongue of a snake. The scent of ether wafted from the three cloches: sweet, tender. In the see-through dome, Désirée’s brain pulsed evermore. Soft. Warm. A delicate pink dumpling steeped in broth. What could be hidden under the other two domes? Xord couldn’t resist the temptation. He couldn’t stand it. It was too much for him to bear.

He could feel the pull deep inside of him, but he refused to believe it was hunger. With what little consciousness he had left, he lied to his enfeebled brain, made it play make-believe. It was okay, he told it. He’d be her armour. He’d keep her safe.

He hugged her tighter. Pulled her closer. Closer. So close. She couldn’t have possibly been closer to him, to his heart, to the panels that opened and closed.

In his crackling jaws, domes popped and metal crunched.