Humanity needs a hero…

The aging man's wrinkled hands worked with the surgical precision of a doctor, turning bolts and threading wires; his labor could afford no mistake.

More blood shall be shed if nothing is done…

The hours drummed on, days turned to nights, but the old man would not rest. His long beard was singed and drenched in sweat, but his eyelids never so much as fluttered. This labor, a labor of duty, had consumed him; every neuron in his brain was firing towards a single aim, and rest was not an option.

You, their Hero, shall absolve my sins…

His labor, this labor of love, could be nothing other than perfect. If it was flawed, he would use it against him. For Doctor Thomas Light, not only would humanity lose its Hero, its Savior, he would lose something far more. His hands clenched around the softly glowing core, his labor's heart; he had trusted him, gave him knowledge, resources, everything he would need to dominate the Earth. It was Dr. Light's fault that he, Dr. Albert Wily, was aiming to conquer the world. It was his own sin, but he would pass it on to the subject of his labor.

They shall know you as their Savior; I shall know you as my Son…

Doctor Light slid the core into the construct's depths, twisting it into place. Machines hummed to life, and he slid shut the opening. The flesh that covered the being, his labor, this mockery of human life, was already beginning to warm. His gaze rested upon the construct's face, the soft boyish skin, slim cheeks and rosy lips all a perfect image. The android, this perfect mockery, opened his eyes with a flutter, the cerulean orbs as deep and caring as oceans came to rest on Thomas' face. The small, soft hand came shakily up to rest upon the roboticist's cheek, and he spoke, his even, unbroken alto unchanged by the extensive transformation.
"Father, why are you crying?"
The aging man's eyes welled with tears that streamed silently down his face, tracing the android's hand on his cheek. He lifted his own hand to cup the android's, his voice threatening to break into a sob.
"Don't worry, Rock," he said to his son. "I just found something I thought I might have lost, that's all."
His son, this perfect, mechanical mockery of life, smiled a tender smile that seemed to melt away Light's fears and apprehensions. For a moment, there was a gently repose; a father's love had transcended the boundaries of nature, creating a young life. To Thomas Light, his children were the world to him, and now he would thrust his youngest son into a fray to save a world that would only see him as a tool.
The boy moved, and for a long while they embraced. It was not the bond of Master and Slave or Man and Machine, but the bond of Father and Son, a bond stronger than the steel that made up his son's small frame and more powerful than the core that made him move. For Doctor Light, his labor of love had produced not only a perfect mockery, not only a Hero, but something much more.
For Thomas Light, his labor had produced a son.