He is finished just as the sky to the east is pink with dawn.
Slade steps back and looks down at him. His hands hurt and his fingertips are burnt, his back aches and he's sure he has soot all over him from the welding, but he is finished.
He lays on his back on the hard metal table, pink and perfect, large, innocent eyes gazing up at the ceiling. His small body is nestled in a tangle of multicolored wires and bits of metal and synthetics, and at this moment he looks almost like a baby bird as he stretches and arches his neck and back, planting two hands behind him for leverage. He sits up and turns to look at Slade, and smiles. A small smile, almost sad.
He is everything. He is perfection.
Slade leans forward and puts a hand on the boy's cheek and feels the warmth there even through his glove. His single eye follows the lines of the neck and shoulder, across the collarbone, bare skin flawless, perfect, perfect, perfect.
Wordlessly Slade reaches for the sledgehammer.
He stares back at him, still smiling, uncomprehending until Slade hefts the heavy hammer over his head. Then the blue eyes go round with terror, and the pretty mouth opens to scream.
Slade brings the hammer down with a wordless roar, and the perfect head snaps back. The perfect teeth shatter. The perfect skin splits. His perfect body slams back against the metal table and Slade lifts the hammer up again, then back down, again and again, eye narrowed against the flying sparks, ears closed to his silent screams.
Then, silence: the sort of stunned terrified silence that follows a sudden and horrible death. After a moment Slade is aware of his own breath rasping through his teeth. He straightens and wipes the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand, then tosses the sledgehammer aside and shoves the remains of his creation off of the table with one sweep of his arm.
He doesn't want perfection.
No.
He wants him.
end.