Might you in fact be a creature of flesh and blood?
I think so, yes.
It was the anguish of loneliness and pain that he woke up to. Out of the nothingness, he was made as an answer to a prayer of a boy who was still a baby and oh so very powerful. Ignorantly powerful and yet so small and weak.
Helplessly… painfully weak.
The first sight to ever greet him was not the yellow metals, or the white sea of plastics, for those elements had not yet existed. It was his existence. White. White untouched by the darkness that consumed all. A darkness that hid the roaring murmurs and whispers, that hid the wailing that was crying out for him. The kind that felt wrong against the whiteness of his being as it stirred and crawled over his skins in its glaring, ah'ing and chuckling.
Sickening. Wrong. Impure.
Frightening.
The kind that would make a young boy wailed in pain and loneliness.
He had never asked why he was here or what his purpose was, because he already knew. He knew what he was meant to do.
"Purification… in progress," a monotonous but icy voice slipped out from his lips.
He swung. He swung with the cold iron bat in his hands, cutting the darkness. As he did, bright red painted the blackness, the colour shining through the breach in the blackness, growing brighter, larger until the rays itself cut through without his help, stripping the colour of the nothingness that hid the corrupted chittering children.
Revealing all to his sight.
A room, a red infested room.
Hundreds of big hollowed eyes - ghouls and spectres - the thought came, bidden. They surrounded the space around him, or should he say, surrounded the bright burning face of a little boy who sat in the middle of the sea of corruption. So weak and small amongst monsters and ghosts.
Stay away… stay away.
Red sunlight bathed the red room as the whispers reached a lulling tone, but he didn't stop. He swung and he heard the sound of surprised moaning and hissing of ghouls' smokes spilling back in his face as a spectre was sent flying through the mass of corruption. He swung, he kicked, he grabbed and dragged the ectoplasm beings across the floor, he threw them off. He crushed and broke their form beneath his black shoes.
He and the burning red sun continued their onslaught until he alone stood over the pool of ectoplasmic goo with the sun bathing his back. The boy in question still wailing, eyes still screwed close in his tears and despair.
He was crying, crying so hard that all he remembered was his face burning and the hot tears spilling down his cheeks, and the pain in his chest becoming unbearable.
He wanted momma. He wanted momma to hold him close, to sing a lullaby, to rock him and tell him stories. He wanted someone to chase away the darkness, someone strong and tall, unshaken and fearless at everything and at the darkness, especially the darkness.
Who was everything he wasn't.
And here he was, his savior with the red sun crowning him from behind. His savior who was unmoved at his tears, who stood and watched because it was the sun who answered his need for love and care. Grey slender arms reached out to the boy. Grey to compliment white. White whispering dress to the black of his leggings and shirt beneath his tunic.
A faceless face with white long wavy hair spilling down her side, swaying and moving with its own mind. A face that shifted and blurred, bared for all to see while his hid beneath a stiff black cap. She was beautiful and unreal, unreal like dreams… She was everything opposite and yet similar to him.
Hush now… her lulling whispers spoke in reassurance.
The boy in her arms now cried into her dress as she cocooned him, murmuring mama over and over again. He made a promise he be a good boy. That he would be compliant. That he would listen and that he was sorry. Please, please don't leave me, his pleas soaking the white silky dress. He only came to a stop when he coughed violently, his chest heaving as he grasped and struggled for air.
It was at this point, the boy's savior realized why he was so weak despite being powerful.
"He is ill," he spoke grimly.
And unhealthy. And underweight. Skinny. Weak. Pitiable.
He needs food.
Pale white fingers graced the child's cheek, wiping a stray tear off and the boy felt a little bit better, his burning red face paling a bit when his coughing finally stop. The child looked up, realizing it was not the slender tendril-hands that did it, but those that belonged in a fingerless glove, from his cold stiff savior of all beings.
With wide bright eyes, his son looked back at him in apprehension and something that he couldn't quite grasp on the young child's face.
"From now on, there will be no darkness to fear from," he promised.
On that endless night of a broken old world, a red sun finally rose to the sky, ready to shine onto a new world.