There's a theory about predators and prey.
The prey that survives isn't the fastest or the strongest. It's the one that learns to recognize danger patterns before the attack comes.
I learned this at six years old, in an alley behind the market district, when three older boys decided I looked like easy resources.
I'd been collecting water from the public well. Early morning. The streets were mostly empty. Optimal time—fewer people meant less competition for well access, reduced wait times.
I was carrying the bucket back to my building when I heard footsteps behind me. Multiple sets. Deliberate. Following.
I didn't turn around. Didn't change pace. But I catalogued the data.
Three individuals. Based on footfall weight and stride length, probably ages nine to twelve. Moving in coordinated pattern. Predatory approach.
They were hunting.
I reviewed my options. Running would spill the water. Fighting while carrying a bucket would reduce combat efficiency by approximately 40%. Diplomacy had low probability of success with this demographic.
I kept walking. Let them close distance.
"Hey, kid," one of them called. Older voice. Maybe twelve.
I stopped. Turned.
Three boys. The one who'd spoken had a scar across his left eyebrow. Probably from a fight. The other two flanked him—one tall and thin, one shorter but muscular.
Standard pack formation. Alpha in center, enforcers on sides.
"That's a nice bucket," the scarred one said. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "We need it."
"No, you don't," I said. "You're asserting dominance through resource extraction. The bucket is a proxy for establishing hierarchy."
They stared at me.
"What?" the tall one said.
"You don't need the bucket. You want to establish that you can take things from me. That I'm beneath you in social standing."
The scarred one's smile faded. "You talk weird."
"I'm frequently told that."
"Give us the bucket."
"No."
His face hardened. "Then we'll take it."
I set the bucket down carefully. Kept my hands visible. "You have three options. One: leave. Two: attempt to take the bucket and fail. Three: attempt to take the bucket and succeed but sustain injuries in the process. I recommend option one."
"You think you can fight all three of us?" The muscular one laughed.
"Yes."
There's a moment before violence starts. A pause. A breath. Where both sides calculate odds and decide whether to commit.
Most people don't see it. They're too busy feeling—fear or anger or excitement. Emotion clouds the moment.
I saw it perfectly. Clear. Clinical. Pure data.
The scarred one's shoulders shifted. His weight moved forward. His right hand curled into a fist.
He'd committed.
Interesting.
He swung. Overhand right. Telegraphed. Predictable.
I stepped inside his reach. My hand shot up—open palm to his wrist, redirecting the force. His own momentum carried him past me. I helped it along with a small push to his shoulder blade.
He stumbled. Caught himself. Turned, face red.
"I'll kill you!"
"Statistically unlikely," I said.
The tall one came next. Faster than the first. But still obvious. Same overhand approach, same lack of training.
I ducked under his swing. My fist drove into his stomach. Not hard enough to cause serious damage. Just hard enough to eliminate his breath and combat effectiveness.
He folded. Gasped. Fell to his knees.
Two down. One remaining.
The muscular one was smarter. He didn't charge. He circled. Trying to get an angle. Looking for openings.
I stayed centered. Didn't give him my back.
"You don't have to do this," I said. "Your companions are disabled. Continuing serves no strategic purpose."
"Shut up." But his voice wavered.
He came in low. Tackle attempt. More intelligent approach.
I sidestepped. Brought my knee up as he passed. Connected with his ribs. Not full force—just enough.
He went down.
Three targets. Three seconds. All disabled.
I picked up my bucket. The water had stayed clean. Good.
The scarred one was getting back up. Blood dripping from his nose. Must have hit the ground harder than I'd calculated.
He looked at me. His expression had changed. Fear now. Mixed with confusion.
"What are you?" he asked.
Good question.
"Someone who wants to be left alone," I said.
I walked away. Didn't look back.
Behind me, I heard one of them say: "That kid's not right. There's something wrong with him."
Accurate assessment.
They didn't bother me again.
But word spread. I noticed it over the next few weeks. Other children gave me more space. Adults looked at me differently. Cautious. Wary.
The orphan kid who fought three older boys and won. Who talked strange. Who had dead eyes.
That's what I heard someone call them. Dead eyes. Like I wasn't fully there.
Also accurate.
But it created a problem. Too much attention was bad. Fear-based deterrence was useful, but excessive reputation drew scrutiny. Authorities. Investigations. Questions I didn't want to answer.
I needed to balance it.
So I added another rule.
Rule Three: Strength is useful. Visibility of strength is dangerous. Use the minimum force necessary. No more.
I'd disabled those three boys efficiently. But I could have hurt them worse. Could have broken bones. Caused serious injury.
That would have drawn guards. Created problems.
Minimum force. Maximum efficiency. Optimal outcome.
I practiced this principle. When other children tested boundaries—and some did—I responded with precise, measured force. Enough to discourage. Not enough to create incidents.
It worked.
Over time, I faded back into background noise. The strange orphan who should be avoided but wasn't actively dangerous unless provoked.
Perfect equilibrium.
The seasons changed. Summer heat gave way to autumn cold. Then winter.
My room was poorly insulated. Cold seeped through the walls. Ice formed on the inside of the window some mornings.
I learned to manage it. Wore multiple layers of clothing. Kept moving to maintain body temperature. Rationed extra calories when needed for thermogenesis.
Other orphans in the building didn't manage as well. I heard coughing through thin walls. Sick children. Some recovered. Some didn't.
One morning, a body was carried out from the second floor. Small. Wrapped in cloth. A girl, probably. Maybe seven or eight.
Died from cold or disease or both.
I watched them carry her out. Catalogued the process. How the adults moved. Their expressions. The way they handled the body carefully despite it being inert matter now.
Respect for the dead. Interesting social construct. The body couldn't appreciate careful handling. But the living needed the ritual.
I filed that away. Useful data for future mimicry.
But I felt nothing about the death itself. Another child dead. Happened frequently enough. Survival rate in this building was approximately 70% based on my observations.
I was part of the 70%. That was all that mattered.
I turned seven in winter.
No one acknowledged it. No celebration. No gifts. Birth dates weren't tracked for orphans unless they tracked them themselves.
I remembered my birth date only because my mother had mentioned it frequently. January 11th. Middle of winter. Cold day, she'd said. Difficult birth.
Seven years since that cold day. Two years since her death. Two years of survival alone.
I was taller now. My clothes had needed modification multiple times. I'd learned to steal fabric when necessary—small amounts from vendors, careful not to take enough to be noticed. Sewed new sections onto shirts and pants.
My face had changed too. More defined. Bone structure becoming visible beneath skin. I looked older than seven. Probably because of resource scarcity. Malnutrition aged faces.
I studied myself in the mirror shard. Practiced expressions. Smiled. Frowned. Looked surprised. Sad. Happy. Angry.
All of them still wrong. All of them too controlled. Mechanical.
But better than two years ago. The database was growing. I had more reference points. More variations to copy.
I was learning to fake being human.
Slowly. But learning.
One afternoon in late winter, I was at the market during vendor cleanup. Standard routine. Collecting discarded food.
I approached a vegetable vendor I'd used before. Older woman. Usually sympathetic.
"Excuse me," I said. "Do you have damaged goods you're discarding?"
She looked at me. Smiled. "Elias, right? I remember you."
People remembering me was suboptimal. But unavoidable with repeated contact.
"Yes," I said.
"You come here often. Every week, sometimes more." She paused. "Don't you have family? Someone taking care of you?"
"No. My parents died two years ago. I live in district housing."
"By yourself? At your age?"
"Yes."
Her expression changed. That soft look adults got when they felt pity. "That's awful. A child shouldn't be alone like that."
"I manage adequately."
"Still." She reached into her cart. Pulled out more vegetables than usual. Added some bread. "Here. Take these."
"Thank you."
"You're very polite. Strange, but polite." She studied me. "Do you ever smile, Elias?"
Smile. She wanted to see emotional expression. Positive affect.
I adjusted my face. Lifted the corners of my mouth. Held for three seconds.
She blinked. Took a small step back.
"That's... that's good," she said. Her voice had changed. Uncertain.
My smile had failed again. Too controlled. Too wrong.
I released the expression. "I'm still practicing."
"Practicing?"
"Smiling. I'm not proficient yet."
She stared at me. "You practice smiling?"
"Yes. It's difficult. The facial muscles don't coordinate properly."
"I..." She trailed off. "I don't think I've ever met a child like you."
"I'm atypical."
"That's one word for it." She shook her head. "Be careful, Elias. People don't like things they can't understand."
"I've observed that."
"Good." She patted my shoulder. Brief contact. Warm. "Come back next week. I'll save you something."
I nodded. Took the food. Left.
Walking back, I reviewed the interaction. She'd been helpful. But the way she'd looked at me when I smiled—unease. Fear, maybe.
My mimicry was improving but still insufficient. The uncanny valley effect. Close enough to human emotion to be recognizable, but wrong enough to be disturbing.
I needed more practice. More data. More observations.
I had five more years before the Training Corps. Five years to perfect this.
I could do it.
I had to.
That night, I lay in bed counting ceiling knots. Nine visible from this angle. Always nine.
My stomach was full. The vendor had given me enough food for three days. Combined with rations tomorrow, I'd have surplus for the first time in months.
Survival was becoming more efficient. Patterns established. Strategies refined. Risk minimized.
This should have felt satisfying. Accomplishment. Success.
I felt nothing.
Just the hard bed beneath me. The cold air. The sounds of other occupants through walls.
Just existence. Empty. Hollow.
But functional.
That was enough.
Outside my window, snow began to fall. Soft. Silent. Covering the streets in white.
Winter would end eventually. Spring would come. Then summer. Then autumn again. The seasons would cycle. Time would pass.
I would survive each cycle. Adapt. Learn. Continue.
That was all life was. Continued existence. Patterns repeated until they stopped.
Simple. Mechanical. Empty.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow I'd wake up. Collect water. Eat. Practice expressions. Observe people. Survive another day.
The same routine. The same emptiness.
Forever, probably.
Unless something changed.
But nothing ever changed.