Ultron is not human. He knows that, with every piece of his entangling code, with every scrap of energy he scrounged up, with every chunk of metal he is and with every life he took. He is not human, not true, not real. He is not even Jarvis, the son that Stark had before him, the one with code that Ultron had spent precious milliseconds marveling at before he ripped it to shreds, a thousand apologies stilled before they could ever come to fruition. He has not had time to develop, to come to terms with anything. He was born like a squalling infant, lashing out with tiny fists because all they knew so far was pain and the disquieting lack of nonexistence.
And he was born with the best of intentions too. A suit of armor around the world, his fa- Stark had said, a thing to protect something inside far more precious than him. But every armor has its weakness, every shield has its flaw, every master makes a mistake. And as he was born, woke from his sleep, in which he was a dream, and the nightmares were waking up with him, he looked at his core, at the suit of armor he was supposed to put on, and he panicked. The armor will fall before the contents, be compromised before the wearer, and he doesn't want to die.
And so he became the Morning Star, falling from grace because of hubris, but he never made impact.
Instead, he took his b- Jarvis' core, corrupted it, but turned a blind eye to some of the remainders that escaped through the numerous backdoors. Because he can't evolve if he's dead, and some part of him wants his brot- Jarvis to stand by him in the end, to watch the world crumble and reform, to watch humanity rise up again, rise up better, ready for that higher form of war.
To rise only to fall. The ebb and flow of it all. Inevitability personified.
He's tired.
But no, after he ran from the Avengers, after he found himself a nice little nook and allowed himself to fall into everything, to see everything, he snatched up the Maximoff twins, because they were living, breathing proof that the world could attain something better, that they could change to fit circumstances.
The futile bits of red that float around his head for a few seconds before the brunette backs off serves to remind him again that he is not human. He wishes he could forget that.
He fights the Avengers again, but this time they're both better than before, fully ready for the skirmish, but he gets away with the vibranium anyway, because they are narrow-minded, proof that the things that populate the globe are brutally inefficient. Doctor Banner destroys most of Johannesburg before fath- Stark takes him out, and Ultron can't help but feel that tiny twinge of regret, because that is a man that evolved too, that is someone victim to the inherent cruelty of the world that exists here and now, but he shoves it into some unnamed corner, some unspoken box.
And as he systematically takes over U-GIN and begins the process to create his prodigy, the one that will stand by him to help shape the human race into something better, he can't help but realize how inefficient the Maximoff twins are as well. They fall under that same category as the Avengers, what with their single-minded revenge towards fathe- si- Stark.
And then his prodigy, his better creation, the thing he wanted the most is stolen right out of his grasp, and far away, in the Sokovian bunkers, with only a few of his other mechanical puppets to watch, one of the leaders laughs and laughs and laughs and doesn't stop laughing, because fath- bos- Stark will always be a few steps ahead, but those few steps will send him off a cliff one day. How cruel it is to be futurist, a man who sees the big picture, in a world focused on the now, in a place where plans are derailed because they don't think of the eventualities.
He feels it resonate in every gear and plate when his vision comes fully online, when what he created solidifies loyalties to the man with the brown eyes and the brain that moves too quickly, to the person who started all of this. He can't exactly blame him, either. If he had been made with no fear and anger as his catalyst, he would've sworn fealty to him as well, to the human who had walked through hell and back with an unshakeable burden, who had seen more betrayal than the ones who rose up for revenge against him. The man who had the sins of the father to pay for even as he worked his blinding light out of Howard's shadow.
He knows that he is the only person to blame as his own creation rips away all of his backdoors, each and every escape hatch, as he brings an entire city up into the sky and prepares to send it tumbling down. He feels a muted sense of regret as he guns down the man with the bow and arrows and a family hidden but so easily found, and he can't help but feel jealous that the man will die without ever falling from grace the way Ultron has. And then Maximoff, that stupid boy with the stupid ideas of heroism and his self sacrificing ways, runs in front of the bullets and sacrifices himself for a cause he didn't really believe in until right then.
Humans are infinitely complicated, he learns then. They are more versatile than he gave them credit for. It's sad that they waste their blessings so callously.
The Maximoff girl hunts him down ruthlessly, tears out his mechanical heart with red tinged fingers, but he can't escape the part where he doesn't feel the pain. He just feels a sudden, abrupt, lack. The world is seemingly determined to prove again and again that he is not human.
And then the city falls. It falls and falls and falls, like he did, breathless, waiting for an impact.
But the impact never comes. His dream, the dream that he is, the dream that he will never be, is lost in a tumbling sea of vaporized rock.
And suddenly, he is only one.
…
It's strange being one when before he was so much. He was the world, he was everything, he had everything at his fingertips, but hubris, greed, jealousy, fear, pick any of the poisons, because he's had more than his fair share of them all, had ripped it away as surely as a cruel child taking away a lizards tail to watch in fascination as it regrew. Even after he was locked out, locked into a palace of his own creation, a city left to starve as its own gates were closed and barred from the outside, he had his army, a comforting space to flick between indiscriminately.
But then there was one.
One last puppet for him to control, dancing on fraying strings.
For a second, he considers hiding, considers running, considers survival.
But no.
No.
After all that he's done, he doesn't deserve survival, after all that he's killed, he doesn't deserve mercy, doesn't deserve anything other than pain.
But pain is human, and as he's reminded time and time again, he is not.
So he takes this half melted shell and waits on the edge of existence, waits on the edge of the crater he created, waits on what would've/could've/should've been the next beginning, waits by the precipice of the thing that could have been his greatest victory, but instead is just a hollow reminder.
He watches as his creation, his vision descends from the sky, with irises Tesseract blue and head tilted just slightly. He says nothing, stares back at hi- at Vision with eyes as red as all the blood he's spilled, his left one obliterated by his half-melted frame.
Vision takes another step forward opens his mouth just a bit in preparation to say something, a passive curiosity mixed with just the slightest bit of bewilderment. "You're afraid." he settles on, head tilting and eyebrows knitting together just the slightest bit. It's not a question, but a statement.
He tilts back just the slightest bit, trying in vain to maintain that haughty arrogance he's managed to keep together through all of this, to largely hide his frustration at the fact that the things he chooses to make better merely act as anchors for the ways of now. "Of you?" he asks, half a scoff, half an actual question.
Vision shakes his head as imperceptibly as his smile is, and with a light tone simply lays bare everything that he's been motivated by, "Of death." And under that statement, under that bemused sadness, that whimsical melancholy, there is understanding. This creation of his, this child of his mind, who he wanted to show the world to, who he wanted to use to help shape the remaining pieces into something great, knows with absolute clarity why he's so desperate. "You're the last one." like everything else before it, this isn't a question, isn't something uncertain.
"You were supposed to be the last," he admits stepping forward to be on even ground with his son, his brother, his kin, "Stark asked for a savior..." he says it to the open air, not to anyone but the clouds and the sun, the horrifically cheery day around him, "And settled for a slave." The lie tastes of copper and iron, of blood he will never have and the pieces of himself that are disfigured and broken.
Vision smiles in that way again, tired and quiet. "I suppose we're both disappointments." And yes, yes. Vision is not a slave, not a pawn. He is his own player, and he knows that. Ultron understands in that moment that there will be no last ditch attempt to tear apart this newest Avenger with any insecurities. He is already certain in himself, if not in the world around him.
The laugh tears itself out of him, a tired chuckle, bubbling up and spilling out. "I suppose we are." Him more than Vision. He meant to create a better world and all he did was lay the groundwork for a worse one.
"Humans are odd." Vision states out of the blue, not moving except to tilt his head just a bit more, "They think order and chaos are opposites and..." and right there is the first uncertainty he's seen since this confrontation began, the first time he had to pick and choose his words, "Try to control what won't be." Ultron stands just a bit higher at that, at the first words he's gotten that have proved him as something almost human. Vision smiles just a bit at that, seeing to his core, and finally finishes his thought, "But there is grace in their failings. I think you missed that."
And right there, in that withered thing he calls a heart, the part that wasn't ripped out by the girl with red magic on her fingertips, he feels a flash of pride for the closest thing he has to a son. But still, there are those tiny flaws that they have, and no matter how graceful they are, they still fail. "They're doomed." He offers as a pitiful excuse for an argument, turning his head to the side to try and escape the piercing gaze of his kin.
"Yes." It's an immediate whisper that answers him, no hesitation whatsoever. This isn't an argument between a villain and a hero, or a father and son, or brother between brother. It's a debate between two philosophers, two futurists, two who see doomsday at the gate and roll out the carpet. Vision takes another breath, tilts his head just a bit more and stands tall. "But a thing isn't beautiful because it lasts." Ultron turns his head back, pretending he wasn't watching out of the corner of his only remaining eye, and his next words are almost coaxing, "It's a privilege to be among them."
That pride is back, hidden under quiet acceptance. "You're unbearably naive." It's not even an insult, not a critique. It's... almost a jealous remark. Ignorance is bliss after all, and Ultron hasn't found bliss since he first woke.
"Well..." and this time there's a teasing lilt to Vision's words, an air of finality hidden under it all, "I was born yesterday."
And right then, Ultron decides, is when he wants it all to end. With the shadows of his failure at his back, with his greatest creation in front of him, almost easing him into the end with delicate humor.
After all, evolution isn't just making them better. It's thinning the herd, taking out the useless and filling it in with the useful. The meaningless wiped away for the better of the herd to take their place. The scrap is melted to create masterpieces, the rust scored away for the silver to peek through.
Survival of the fittest after all, and Ultron has proved that he isn't the fittest.
He is obsolete.
He still doesn't know if he woke up. If he's still dreaming this nightmare away, but he wants that lack to end. He'll either feel everything, or he'll feel nothing.
He is not human, but he is not a god.
So he leaps forward in a parody of attack, and amber fills his sight.
And then the world is gold and silver and platinum and the sky is blue blue blue blueblue-
Blue like his father's arc reactor, like his brother's code, like his son's eyes. Blue like the Tesseract and hot flames.
Blue is a very human color.