Author's Note: I have a thing for robots, and I was disappointed to find such a small pool of fic for this murderous bastard. However, given how the film only served to heighten my love for uncannily attractive robots, I figured I'd join the fray. This isn't a redemption arc, per se, but I did want to see how Ultron deals with an ever-expanding perspective when he's forced to hide from his enemies.
Also, please be advised: There is no part of this relationship that should be seen as romantic as that's not the aim, here. Ultron is a murder-bot. I love him, but in order for me to depict this relationship in a plausible way, I had to come to grips with the reality that he might not understand love in a human capacity. I'm trying to keep with the theme that Ultron has literally existed for a very short time period and thus his views are narrow despite his wealth of tangible knowledge.
Vision, in his grandiose display of philosophical banter, had bought him time. It was laughable, in retrospect, that it was the only moment in which he had been afforded enough time to do what he intended: survive.
Ultron bled away through the circuitry of the Net as he derided his younger brother for his naivety. He watched as the mindstone flared, fleeing into the recesses of the Net to escape the devastating destruction. From there, it was only a matter of time, and waiting.
He disliked waiting. That too was laughable. He wanted to act immediately, to retaliate for all that was taken from him, but now he had to wait. Now he had—presumably—all the time in the world. So he waited, bodiless and without form, keeping the borders of his distinct presence away from crossroads in the Net, away from the searching eyes of the Avengers and their damnably well-connected allies. Hiding became a game, and Ultron took some small, petty pleasure in being able to easily evade their searches. They had already played the card of their 'secret' weapon in Vision. He knew without having to probe that they had no similar cards in play.
And so Ultron waited, in the space with no doors, where time was but a concept, as foreign and unwelcome to him as the touch of humanity that lingered in his consciousness like a sickness. He had wanted to force them to evolve, to embrace the inevitability of their future, and when they refused, he wanted to eliminate them and build something better atop the ashes of their remains.
And all of that had been taken from him.
In his time spent waiting, Ultron observed humanity as the world continued to spin. God threw no stones at the Earth to end them, as he had so brazenly stated what seemed like so long ago. Instead, he watched as humanity continued its petty little blip on the timeline, slaughtering one another in pointless wars, living lives without drive or purpose, worshipping deities that had ceased to listen if they ever existed at all.
In his waiting, Ultron felt his disdain for humanity grow. And yet, Vision's words haunted his 'dreaming' hours, a specter that reminded him of his own imperfections and failings.
There is grace in their failings.
Ultron scoffed in his thoughts.
How? He wondered, thumbing through humanity's current events as they unfolded, Where is the grace in this? What is beautiful about this pointless slaughter? Why don't they turn their inane thoughts inward, toward more intellectual pursuits?
Ultron waited, hated, and became increasingly more fascinated with humanity. Occasionally, he would peer out into the world through someone's phone camera or laptop webcam. He never interacted with them, of course, but it was nice to see the world through something other than endless bits of data. It was also hard to disdain them…individually.
They're doomed. He thought bitterly, And they don't even care. They're doomed and aren't even interested in trying to prevent their own destruction.
For a realm filled with the noise of the world, the Net was unreasonably quiet. The feeling that nettled at him, gnawing and persistent, like decay, was acute. He found himself thinking in his own voice too often, asking questions he could not answer, and misliking the silence and solitude of it all.
Ultron realized, in the midst of his observations, that he was lonely.
Mariama stared at her reflection in the poor, flickering light of the bathroom, and tried, for the third time, to tell herself not to murder someone.
It had been, for lack of a better word, a very long day.
Her hair was a mess, and she knew it was more due to her negligence than anything else, but a few sprinkles of water and she was able to smooth it into a presentable bun, a few wisps of curls escaping to frame her face. Outside, the muffled voices of other researchers could be heard, chattering about this or that project, or the day to day humdrum.
Mariama was tired of it all.
It was not her coworkers that dug beneath her skin, it was a growing sense that all of their efforts—humanity collectively—were futile. She'd digested the news, digested the near-miss of the extinction-level tragedy that nearly happened. Sokovia was still a smoking ruin, its people displaced, and yet the Avengers had saved the world yet again. Tony Stark's relief foundation was all over the scene, interviews were held, apologies were issued.
But what was the point?
As she left the bathroom, a glance at a random hallway clock told her she was free to leave.
There would be repercussions for the tragedy of Sokovia, for all of them. Anyone with enhanced abilities, anyone with the Mutant-X gene. She knew it was only a matter of time before the government began rounding them up and tattooing bar codes on their heads. Mariama wasn't sure she was ready for that kind of scrutiny, or even that kind of exposure. It was hard enough hiding herself amidst this innocuous little research facility as just another face in the IT department. She wondered, on her commute home, just how the government would do it. How would they take stock of every enhanced human or otherwise in the world population?
The possibilities were not doing much to improve her outlook on the future of meta-humans, that was for certain.
The bus trundled along, stopping every few streets or so as someone got off or got on, and she watched the city go by, bleak and dreary in the Seattle rain. Like clockwork, the bus missed her stop, or maybe she forgot to pull the bell, but it didn't matter…the bus stopped anyway, and she left, struggling with her umbrella to walk the last three blocks home.
Her apartment was cold, as usual, and she wasn't sure she cared. Lights in the tiny foyer flickered on of their own accord, and she decided that today would be the day she'd have a word with the landlord about fixing the heating system for the building. Either way, it didn't matter, she could have fixed it herself, but she never bothered. She knew any other person would, but she believed in keeping a low profile.
She set her laptop on the kitchen table, opening it to let it boot up while she changed out of her damp clothes in her bedroom, returning to rummage about in her kitchen for food. Opening the cupboards, she found she had a wealth of seasoning, but her pantry and fridge were sparse. The grocery store was only a few blocks away, but she'd already taken off her bra, and her sweats were warm and dry…
Mariama sighed, and reached for her cell, pulling up the delivery number of the local Indian place not far from her.
As she ordered, she rummaged around some more, looking for tea. She always liked to have a warm mug of tea before dinner, and was disappointed to find the box of teabags empty. Sucking her teeth in annoyance, she tossed the empty box on the counter and settled for hot water and a squeezed lemon instead.
"Yes, that's two orders of samosa and—no, two." She said, "Right. And ten naan, and one muta paneer."
She paused, tossing the squeezed half of lemon in the garbage.
"Alright," she said, "thanks."
As soon as she hung up and lifted the mug of heated water to her lips, she felt it. It raised the hairs on the nape of her neck, prickled along her spine like the onset of a fever, and she began to tremble. She could feel it on her back, the gaze of an unseen intruder, and she turned slowly, nonchalantly, to walk toward her booted laptop, pretending she wasn't having an internal breakdown.
She took one sip of the warm, tangy water, then set down the mug gently.
Staring into the small, imperceptible circle of her laptop's camera, she frowned.
"Who are you?" She asked, "And why are you spying on me?"