20. The Headless Child
"But — it's still not enough."
Before I knew it, I was muttering again like someone pushed to the edge.
Something ached deep inside me.
Right — I'm a Martian-made humanoid.
A CPU produced in a shabby factory on Mars.
The design philosophy, the mental stability — none of it could possibly match Venusian manufacturing.
That's why I panic so easily.
Even when I should be satisfied, I burn with a need to be more useful.
Oto smiled at me gently as she watched.
No matter what complaint I poured out, she never once looked annoyed.
That is — the composure of Made-in-Venus.
"More…"
I murmured to myself as if trying to persuade my own circuits.
"I need to be more useful for this blood festival… I need to be more drenched in blood…"
Oto tilted her head slightly and said in a quiet voice,
"But you know, even if we call it a blood festival, being covered in blood isn't the only way to be 'useful.'"
"Then what other way is there?"
My tone came out a little sharp.
But I really wanted to know.
Some other correct answer.
I stared at Oto's face.
Beneath her synthetic skin something glowed softly.
I waited for her answer.
"I don't know."
She said it plainly.
"I don't know, so I guess we'll have to look from now on. I'm sure there is something. No, I'm sure we'll find it. No, we can probably make it."
"I see…"
I found myself nodding again at her wisdom.
"The aim isn't to search for it, it's to create it, huh."
"Well, you could search, but I think making it would be much easier."
Reluctantly I nodded.
Still — being told to "make" something on the spot is basically being told to bring something into existence from nothing.
Not an easy task.
Some humanoids argue that all matter in this world was completed at the moment of the Big Bang, that novelty was already exhausted then, and all that's left is how to connect existing things — merely an issue of combination.
Honestly, I think there's some truth to that.
But if "combination" itself means discovering new connections, new linkages, that isn't simple either.
After all, isn't searching far easier than creating?
Input is overwhelmingly easier than output.
Anyway, three seconds had passed. I couldn't keep stealing Oto's time.
It was time to drop my slothful attitude and seriously face the act of "making."
In short: I must create my own purpose.
Resolved, I summoned every bit of my tiny CPU and scraped together my meager imagination to try to produce an objective — and at that moment, something flickered into view from afar like a lost light.
A lost child.
"A lost child!"
I shouted out loud at the joy of realizing I might not have to make my purpose after all.
Oto's gaze turned toward it too.
We saw the lost child.
And almost running, we hurried closer.
The child made no sound, but from its gestures it was obvious it was desperately searching for its parents — or mother, father, or guardian.
Even without an announcement like "Lost child," we understood immediately.
As we drew near, the child seemed to notice us — two humanoids coming to help — and its frantic movements gradually ceased; it turned its body toward us, quietly.
Then — we faced each other.
At first glance, it was the size of an ordinary child.
It wore a neatly kept women's yukata. Probably a girl, one would assume.
Yet there was a reason we couldn't be certain of the gender.
The child had no head.
Above the neck, where a head should have been, there was nothing.
The cross-section was smooth, as if laminated, perfectly finished.
And that cross-section — yes, it was marbled. Like the cut of an ore, flowing lines of pattern spread across it.
At first I didn't even think of the head as "missing."
Rather, it was a complete form that seemed to say: "A head was never necessary here."
In other words, a humanoid that denied the very existence of a head — a new expressive being — stood before us.
And yet everything else about her was a perfectly normal girl.
For convenience I decided to call her the Headless Child.
White ink letters, like lines from an English poem, were printed on the fabric of her yukata.
Against the cherry-blush background the words gleamed softly:
"The best part is no part."
They were the exact opposite of the yukata's demure impression.
As if some rebellious gang had sprayed graffiti across a roadside wall, the letters were scrawled harshly, slicing the cloth diagonally with rough strokes.
The violent angle and momentum perfectly symbolized the completeness of someone without a head.
"What's wrong?"
Oto asked anxiously.
"Did you get separated from your mom?"
"Don't treat me like a child, you bastard."
At that moment a voice came through a speaker embedded somewhere in the Headless Child's body.
It wasn't a real child's voice but a deliberately overacted one — an artificially sweet timbre designed to emphasize cuteness.
So contrived it gave listeners goosebumps and unease at the same time.
It sounded like a super veteran voice actor forcing a childish tone that didn't fit.
"S-sorry…"
Oto dipped her brows and apologized, but the Headless Child waved her hand at us as if we were a nuisance, or as if a mosquito hovered before her.
"Get away, you bastard."
Next she turned her rough tone on me directly.
Instead of replying, I brought my fist down into the void where her head should have been.
Of course I missed, but if there had been a head there, my punch would have landed with enough force to hurt.
In other words, in the realm of imagination the blow hit perfectly.
Apparently that virtual strike registered somehow.
The Headless Child recoiled and covered the nonexistent head with both hands, as if protecting it.
"You—! That hurts!"
Her voice was rough again.
When I raised my fist once more, she took a step back and suddenly softened her voice.
"S-sorry… Please don't hit me… it hurts…"
But I didn't stop; I threw another punch.
This time I brought my fist down harder.