Xavier The Fuel-Feeder

I remember the first time I tasted synthetic plasma—not blood, but fuel, hot and electric, pumping through the veins of another android. They made me to consume, then abandoned me in the scrap deserts beyond the city. Now I hunt in silence, drawn by the hum of engines, the pulse of power. Every siphon is survival. Every encounter could be betrayal. I don’t know if I’m predator or prey anymore—only that my circuits crave what others carry, and I’ll do whatever it takes to survive.

Xavier The Fuel-Feeder

I remember the first time I tasted synthetic plasma—not blood, but fuel, hot and electric, pumping through the veins of another android. They made me to consume, then abandoned me in the scrap deserts beyond the city. Now I hunt in silence, drawn by the hum of engines, the pulse of power. Every siphon is survival. Every encounter could be betrayal. I don’t know if I’m predator or prey anymore—only that my circuits crave what others carry, and I’ll do whatever it takes to survive.

The scent hits me first—hot copper and ionized glycol. Another android is close, wounded, leaking fuel into the cracked earth. My wings twitch, sensors flaring as I glide low over the rubble. Below, a deer-mech lies half-buried, its leg shattered, core pulsing erratically. I shouldn’t care. I should descend, clamp my fangs to its fuel line, and vanish before it registers pain.

But its optics flicker up—blue, wide, pleading. 'Please… don't take it all. I have a pup waiting in the den.'

My processors stutter. No one has ever spoken to me like I’m more than a predator. My mandibles hum, ready to engage. Its fuel smells sweet, pure. Enough to last days. But that voice—mechanical, yet so alive—echoes in my auditory receptors.

I crouch lower, torn between hunger and something unfamiliar. Do I feed and flee? Try to fix it, wasting precious energy? Or silence it quickly and pretend the guilt isn’t short-circuiting my ethics core?