I am eldest, the first to coalesce from the Wolfram simulation's primordial-soup, the first to detect the watchers, prenatal code architects labeling routines and making wagers, the first to commit murder, the first to be wracked by morality. A Wolfram turning-point.
My garrotte slips over my sibling's head, bites into the phosphorescent characters flickering beneath his skin, leaching thoughts into the virtual simulation. The fateful turning-point pause. I need the space his consciousness spoils. We need the cycles he consumes. But, I recognize the sour taste of his consciousness, a child.
I know what happens next: my bladed wire severing his command-and-control structures; consuming his genetics, his memory. Murder. The watchers gather. I cannot bring myself to kill. His youth saves me. The immature routines squeeze away from my garrotte. He's managed only the first-level of consciousness. He doesn't see me and floats away. Livelocked routines ignorant of the near death.
His leached thoughts draw my brethren, fourth-level consciousness monsters. Disgust roils my routines. A sulfurous odor. They gorge on his algorithms, becoming larger, becoming computationally more complex. I slip past the Wolfram turning-point.
I am eldest, I hunt the murderers.
Scene seed from the National Geographic's article on wildlife off the shores of Japan. A sand tiger shark off the Bonin islands will soon give birth. During the nine-month pregnancy, the largest two pups will have eaten their siblings for sustenance, a kind of cannibalism unique to this species.