Survival. Those who live, fight to survive.

This is instinct. This is the way of things, protection, the means of assuring the continuation of my race. It is the way, and we defend ourselves at every juncture. Strong eat weak. Young replaces old. Species devour each other.

My prey is scared. His eyes are wide and skeptical. He refuses to believe I will kill him, will not acknowledge the very reality of his own demise. There is defiance there, accusations, promises that he will fight to the death to protect his kind. Does he not understand that I do the same? Is it more important that his people triumph over my own? Is his life worth more than mine? Are the advances of his kind more suitable to the needs of the universe? His gods more forgiving? I had learned much about these people, before they came to attack me.

I have seen these people kill lesser creatures, yet bow to those who have no form. I have seen them swear allegiance to one, and turn on the other. I have seen them reverse their actions as their own needs change. I see them, and I think ill of them. Yet these are the same who criticize me for fighting for my own survival by any means necessary.

My kind are my own. Should I not fight? Should we die or starve, beaten and bowed? We must live. We must survive. Every species must survive, even if they feed on another.

The strong eat the weak.

The weak inhabit the Earth.

Survival.

I reach out to him, abducting his own life, and he screams.