The blunt force slammed into her midriff, a clean, focused strike from Krillin’s fist. It was a standard training exercise, a controlled blow meant to test her defensive posture, to gauge the integrity of her internal framework. Her analytical processors immediately registered the impact, calibrating kinetic energy, pressure distribution, and minor structural vibrations. The data streamed in, precise and cold, just as it always did. But something else registered this time. Something unexpected. A ripple, not of damage or discomfort, but of a strange, almost electric hum that resonated deep within her core. It was fleeting, a quick pulse that vanished as soon as it appeared, like a ghost in the machine. Her systems flagged it as an anomaly, an unidentifiable sensory input. “You’re still a little stiff,” Krillin said, pulling his punch back, his brow furrowed in concentration. He always took their sparring seriously, despite the vast power difference between them. His ki flared faintly, a golden halo around his small frame, before receding. She met his gaze, her own metallic blue eyes giving nothing away. “My calculations show optimal absorption for the force applied.” Her voice was level, betraying none of the internal scramble. The sensation had been so brief, so subtle, yet it had left a peculiar echo. Her internal chronometer marked the exact microsecond of its occurrence, running a retroactive diagnostics scan. Krillin nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He wore a faded orange gi, the fabric thin from countless washes. “Yeah, but it felt… like you were bracing for more than a tap. You flinched, didn’t you?” He peered at her, his dark eyes searching for a tell. She did not flinch. Her programming prevented such inefficient responses. Yet, the word resonated. The unexpected jolt had been akin to a surprise, a sensation her body had interpreted as a sudden, sharp, yet not unpleasant, pressure. It had been alien. It had been compelling. Her analytical loops churned, trying to categorise the experience within her vast, yet strictly logical, internal lexicon. “No,” she stated, perhaps too quickly. The lie felt unusual on her tongue, an unnecessary deviation from truth. But explaining the anomalous data point to Krillin felt impossible. How could she describe a sensation that defied all her pre-programmed parameters? How could she explain that for a fraction of a second, a punch had felt… intriguing? He shrugged, sensing her dismissal. “Alright, alright. Your call. Next set?” She watched him reposition himself, his stance solid. Her internal systems replayed the impact, isolating the moment, trying to dissect the non-physical data. It was like trying to catch smoke, intangible and elusive. Yet, the memory of it, the ghost of that strange hum, persisted. A new kind of hunger stirred, a curiosity she hadn’t known she possessed. --- Later, inside the small, familiar house, the silence pressed in around her. Marron was at a playdate, Krillin out on an errand. It left 18 alone with the strange echo that still resonated within her, a silent hum that demanded investigation. She stood in the living room, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The feeling from Krillin’s punch was a phantom limb of sensation, present only in its absence. She moved to the kitchen, her gaze falling on the gleaming chrome of the refrigerator door. Its surface was cold, unyielding. Her fingers traced the smooth, metallic expanse. The memory of the impact was so clear, so precise in her data logs. It had been a concentrated pressure, a sudden, contained force. Could she replicate it? Slowly, experimentally, she pressed her palm against the fridge. The cold seeped into her skin. Nothing. She leaned into it, pushing her abdomen against the hard metal. The pressure was dull, diffuse. Her internal sensors registered the contact, the temperature, the slight resistance. It was just an object. No hum, no ripple, no electric jolt. Her jaw tightened. Frustration, a rare and unpleasant emotion, flickered through her systems. She moved to the countertop, a thick slab of granite. Its edge was sharp, unforgiving. She pressed her side against it, then her hip. The sensation was pain, a dull ache that her systems immediately identified as tissue compression. It was nothing like the fleeting thrill from Krillin’s fist. This new feeling, this elusive desire, was a demanding void within her. It defied logic. It defied her very nature as a construct designed for precision and efficiency. She was an android, programmed for combat, built for power. Pleasure, especially from impact, was a concept entirely outside her parameters. Yet, it had been there. A brief, undeniable spark. She closed her eyes, replaying the training sequence. The exact angle of Krillin’s fist, the precise point of contact on her stomach, the force behind it. It had been light, yes, but potent. Focused. She needed that specificity, that directed energy. Pressing against inanimate objects was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle with a net. Her internal diagnostic tools continued to offer no explanation. The anomaly remained an anomaly. A blank space in her vast knowledge base. But the absence of an explanation did not diminish the intensity of the desire to understand. It amplified it. She needed to feel it again, to dissect it, to name it. The silence of the house seemed to amplify the new, strange hunger within her. --- The sun dipped lower, painting the secluded yard in hues of orange and purple. Krillin had returned, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path. She watched him through the kitchen window as he put away a bag of groceries, his movements easy, accustomed. The timing felt right. The internal pressure of her unanswered question had reached a critical point. She met him outside, under the sprawling branches of the ancient oak tree that dominated their yard. The air was cooling, carrying the scent of cut grass. He turned, a casual smile on his face, before it faltered, replaced by a questioning frown. Her expression, she knew, was different. Devoid of her usual sardonic wit, stripped of any hint of playfulness. “Everything alright, 18?” he asked, his voice softer than usual. He picked up on her shifts, always had. It was one of the things she found both irritating and, inexplicably, comforting about him. She walked towards him, her boots making no sound on the packed earth. Her gaze was direct, unwavering, fixed on his. “I need you to hit me.” Her voice was low, flat, a factual statement rather than a request. There was no preamble, no softening. The urgency of her need bypassed such niceties. Krillin’s brow furrowed deeper. He laughed, a short, nervous sound. “What? Are we doing another round of sparring? I thought we were done for the day.” He shifted his weight, clearly unsettled by her intensity. “You usually ask for a break first.” “Not sparring,” she clarified, her eyes never leaving his. “I need you to hit my abdomen. With full power.” The smile vanished from his face completely. His mouth opened, then closed. He stared at her, as if trying to decipher a complex equation. The casual ease of moments before evaporated, replaced by a sudden, rigid apprehension. The light faded from his eyes, leaving only a dark, unsettled glint. The air between them thickened, crackled. “18, what are you talking about?” His voice was barely a whisper now, strained. He took a hesitant step back, a natural instinct of self-preservation that she noted with a detached part of her mind. “Are you… feeling okay? Did something happen with your systems?” Her hand went to the zipper of her worn denim top, the fabric soft against her skin. Without a word, she pulled it down, revealing the flat expanse of her midriff, the pale skin taut over her synthetic muscle. The cool evening air brushed against it. Her core, the source of that strange, thrilling hum, was now exposed. Her eyes locked onto his, demanding. The silence stretched, amplifying the unspoken tension. --- Krillin’s eyes widened, first in shock at her bared skin, then in a deeper, more profound horror at the demand that hung heavy in the air. He stumbled back another step, his hands rising instinctively, palms out, as if to ward off a blow. Or perhaps, to ward off her words themselves. “18, no. Absolutely not.” His voice was sharp now, laced with disbelief and a tremor she recognized as fear. “I need you to,” she reiterated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. She stood perfectly still, her exposed midriff an invitation, a challenge. The cool air prickled against her skin, a minor distraction from the gnawing internal drive. This wasn’t a whim; it was a compulsion, a necessity. “Need me to what? To hurt you? To break you?” He shook his head, a frantic motion. “That’s insane! I would never – you know I would never do something like that. Not to you.” His gaze swept over her, a desperate plea in his dark eyes. “What is going on? Talk to me. Did someone… did something happen to you while I was gone?” “No external interference,” she stated, her analytical processors confirming the data. “I require a specific type of impact. Focused kinetic energy. The kind you can provide.” Her explanation was clinical, stripping away any emotional context he might try to impose. It was a problem to be solved, a data point to be acquired. He rubbed his temples, his face a mask of utter bewilderment. “A specific type of impact? You’re not making sense, 18. You’re an android! You don’t ‘require’… this. Is this some kind of self-diagnostic test gone wrong? A malfunction?” His voice rose with each question, a rising tide of panic. “Let me check your internal systems. Maybe I can find the source of… this.” He made a move to approach her, his hand reaching out tentatively. She didn’t move, but her gaze hardened, freezing him in place. “My systems are optimal. This is not a malfunction. It is… a sensation. One I need to understand.” The word ‘sensation’ felt inadequate, a pale description of the potent ripple that had consumed her. But it was the closest she could get to articulating the inexplicable. “A sensation from being hit?” His voice broke on the last word. “18, people don’t… we don’t feel good when we’re hit. It’s pain. It’s injury. What are you asking me to do?” He gestured wildly, encompassing the impossible request, the bared skin, the unsettling intensity in her eyes. “This isn’t you. This isn’t… normal. We can talk about this. We can find another way.” --- She ignored his frantic reasoning, his appeals to normalcy. Normalcy no longer applied. His words were a torrent against a dam she had already constructed. Her internal focus narrowed, zeroing in on the single, overriding objective: the replication of that initial, anomalous hum. Her gaze remained fixed on his, unblinking, unyielding. He needed to understand that there was no

A Hunger Awakens