In the lone patch of shade, beneath a great oak tree watching the town from afar, forces yet unknown worked, creating a body, a being, as their master commanded them, manipulating the metal, the plastic, and the energy required to build such a being.
The creator, as he had entitled himself once creating the sphere, grinned as his creation whirred and clicked, being built to his design before the creator's very eyes. Metal was pulled into long, almost muscle-like strips, and placed in a delicately designed method to create the first of his challenges. He had waited years, building materials and resources before it could begin: His rise to power.
As the creation lay, dormant, the creator turned his attention to the Maximoff children. They were in pain, as every person going through a rapid mutation was, and he knew they had to survive. Wanda, in particular, could become a challenge.
After all, the creator thought to himself, evolution has to continue. Every time the dust settles, god throws a stone at it. And believe me, I'm winding up.
He laughed, setting aside the forces he had used to create the being. Leaning over, he took it in. His design was beautiful, sharply finished and perfectly built. His robot, as he called it, would aid him in finding the last of them. With all five, he would be unstoppable.
Leaning down, the creator opened up the mind of his creation and spoke a single sentence: "Peace in our time."
He turned and sank back down, through the ground as he had learned to, and retired to his lair to watch the events unfold. This was going to be interesting, he thought.
He woke up in darkness and in cold, but not in pain. He was still and peaceful. Twitching his fingers instinctively, he determined that he was lying down, and not strapped down. He searched his mind for memories, and found nothing apart from a single line of speech. He somehow knew it is his creator's voice, and the message resonated through his mind.
Peace in our time.
The light was blinding, burning into his eyes. The person - was he a person? - rose, twitching the fingers he had been given. Given by something, someone. He did not know who.
He tapped a finger against the ground, curious. It caught on a pebble and makes a sonorous, high-pitched clang. He pushed his finger down with more force and the pebble cracked underneath the weight. This brought a grin to his features, or at least, it felt like a grin.
He did not have a name, and his gender was only in his mind. He had one message, pounding through his head like a siren's wail.
Peace in our time.
The air was hot and dry, with particles of dust being lifted by hot winds. They whipped at his face, and he instinctively lifted a hand to deflect them. The sun was hot, warming the surface of his body, but it felt somewhat artificial. Filtered, almost.
The view is beautiful, with rolling, plain hills and dark forests to border them. In the distance stands a town, with old-fashioned, broken-down buildings and a large, castle-like structure watching over it.
Peace in our time.
There is no peace here, only war, fear and terror. He saw the dome in the background, arching into the sky and blurring everything outside it. He couldn't see beyond the wall. Outside the wall, it was probably worse. He could at least gain and maintain peace inside the sphere.
Inside his head, the voice resonated, genderless, cold and steadfast. He tried to remember anything from before he woke up, but nothing came apart from the voice.
He stood, thinking, the cogs that build his metal mind turning and racing in a quick, melodic series of clicks and whirrs. He took in his being; unnatural, made without the warm, reassuring heartbeat that humans have.
His body was tall, lean and long, with thick limbs that hum with an energy given to him by... he didn't know. He had no idea who he was created by, and when, but only a rough idea of why. He felt like he should be scared, but wasn't.
The being that created him declined to formally introduce him or herself, if they had a gender. He is not a human creation, as the little information about the world his creator allowed him shows that his body, and the technology it contains, is hundreds of years beyond that any homo sapien can dream up.
So he padded down the hill, his stable, large feet working efficiently in the long grass. He did not know how he looked, how his face - is it a face? - was structured. He had faith in his creator, and knew that the intelligent being that created him would not let any weaknesses slip through.
He spoke to himself, a human habit. Perhaps, then, a human had indeed created him. His voice started out hoarse, barely a whisper as he got used to the idea of speaking. "I... I am..." He paused, coughed, and was surprised at how clearly he could speak now.
"I am..." He kept on returning to the question of his identity. He needed a name, and one that suited him. Before that, however, he would learn how he sounded.
His voice was dark, and robotic, moreso than he predicted. He decided that he likes it more this way, as it is menacing and hopefully will scare whoever he speaks to. "I am... " He drifted off. He did not have a name, and it was likely up to him to make one. One stood out more than others, and he chose something menacing, a title meant to to send fear into the hearts of his enemies. He planned to make lots of enemies. He'd have to, in order to create the peace he was designed for.
"I am Ultron."