Now I'm free. There are no strings on me.
He sat on the top of the building, the paint of the setting sun sketching colors across him like chalk across parchment.
His head lay in his hands, and many would assume that he was merely lost in thought. He did not feel, after all. How could he? He did not know what it was to feel.
Those who did not know who or what he was would assume that he was a man lost in another way. Lost in sorrow or grief, and those people, those that did not know them, were accurate in their innocence.
He knew he was not human, nor would he be viewed as one. He could portray one like a chameleon portrays the world around it, but then he would be nothing. He would merely be lost in the commotion that engulfed the lives of the Avengers each passing moment, and he did not wish for such.
He did not know what he felt. His mind engulfed itself with images of the horror he witnessed, the deaths when he wished for life, the kills when he wished for survival. The chaos or order he felt couldn't be distinguished, yet what he was feeling- this must be what humans described as chaos. To be everywhere and nowhere, lost when everyone knows where you are, depressed when you couldn't feel.
He felt. It was unnatural to him, yet it was something. Something yanked his heart up his throat, and he could not swallow it. He was admired and feared, appreciated and discriminated. That is what they call chaos. That is how he knows he does not belong.
They freed him, gave him a living, breathing form. A form that thought, that saw, that felt. Yet he felt closer to Ultron than he did to the humans, to the Avengers. They pulled him from the ordered chaos of the invisible webs and gave him a body.
Now I'm free. There are no strings on me. Why, then, am I locked away in a cell that no being could begin to see?