The room was grey.
This fact was made more apparent by the lack of any true colour, grey walls outlined grey computers and a grey boy in a thick grey sweater.
But that stuff didn't really matter.
He never thought colour to be important.
A slightly more apparent detail was that in the vacuum of space, the room was cold.
This fact was made apparent by one thick sleeve, now pulled up. It revealed lines of red. Barely. Mostly lighter grey, raised skin, the lightest grey of the room.
The lines were new, causing the boy to grimace slightly, sharp teeth revealed to the world in a glimmer of white, lightest in the room.
They only were created the night before, a haze now. He tended to block out some of these memories.
It was depressing to think about... All of this.
But he still remembered.
But not that night, that was spent alone, no friends, definitely nothing that could be called a 'family'. Such a word is used loosely of course. No, it was weeks ago.
He used to have a friend, a good friend. A tall murderer who honked like a clown and acted like one to boot. Yea, that guy.
He only watched on as the group fell apart.
As the boy clad in grey fell apart.
But that isn't important.
A sickle is brought forth from an estranged storage device. It shines with colours of pink yellow and white. Striped in that order. Curving harshly together. He used to be proud to wield it, fighting enemies together with a team of delinquents.
Most of them are dead now.
It was his fault.
He still is a bad leader.
But it's in the past, so it didn't really matter.
What did seem to matter was that now he had the end of the sickle on his grey skin, creating light lines. For now.
A few lines later a pace was established, a rhythm. Method to the madness. Malice took a hold of him, strike, strike, strike like a match.
Red. Red like a fire.
White met air again with a growl and a clatter the offending item hit the grey floor. Sliding away. Only grey.
Grey and red.
Outside shades protected sight but not sound. They couldn't hide his concern, such a noise was rarely heard in times of supposed peace. So the red knight made his way over.
The grey door opened to a grey room, the grey boy sitting holding grey skin.
In a flight of panic he removed the hand and all that could be seen was red.
Red room. That is all that mattered.
"I'm weak. I know." The grey boy tried to confirm, to the confusion of the other.
"I can't even create a cut just these wimpy fucking scratches... Weak." He almost spoke to himself. The blonde looking on without a word.
Such a word plagued his mind. Repeating over and over, weak, weak, weak.
"But it doesn't matter." He paused. "We're all going to die anyway. Why not get it over with?"
He choked on those words, ending his monologue by looking up to the emotionless figure, shadowed without a smile or frown.
He didn't know what to think.
Anger started to boil, the grey world he lived in was the same as always. No saviour. No knight in shining armour.
"Well?" He spoke again.
"Either say something OR GET THE FUCK OUT." Pitiful. His voice was pitiful as pitiful tears filled his pitiful eyes.
Yet he was lifted.
Only slightly as he was hugged tightly.
Grey was enveloped by a red cape, red blood somehow still staining on similar backing.
"Don't you dare call yourself that."