In the nascent dawn of existence, before the tapestry of reality was even a concept, there was the void. But it was not the fathomless blackness of popular imaginings. Instead, it manifested as an oppressive, blinding expanse of pure, unblemished white – an infinite, sterile plane of absolute emptiness. There was no upward, no downward, no direction, no sound, no warmth, no light beyond its own overwhelming luminosity. It was a place where time itself was a non-sequitur, merely an unending "now."
This wasn't just a place devoid of life; it was the "anti-void," a realm that actively resisted the very notion of being, a sterile canvas that rejected all form and color. In this stark, overwhelming non-place, the conditions for any nascent spark of existence were not merely challenging; they were hostile, utterly inimical to life's delicate requirements.
Yet, against all odds, within the infinite desolation of this anti-void, two unique entities found themselves to be. Not born, perhaps, in any conventional sense, but simply were, manifestations of fundamental forces within this primal nothingness.
The first was a figure perpetually on the brink of dissolution, his form a constantly flickering anomaly against the stark white backdrop. His silhouette was fragmented, composed of shifting pixels and trailing wires of what seemed to be digital static, his very essence a living paradox – a system error in the fabric of nothingness. Across his form, crimson and cerulean 'ERROR' symbols danced and pulsed like a malevolent aura, his movements often jerky, accompanied by the faint, unsettling whine of data corruption. He was a creature of entropy, of unraveling, born from the anti-void's inherent resistance to existence, and he knew himself only as Error.
The second was his polar opposite, a vibrant splash of defiance in the monochrome expanse. His very presence hummed with an almost impossible energy, his garments and skin a canvas of ever-shifting hues, as if he were perpetually dripping with the nascent colors of creation. Shades of emerald, sapphire, ruby, and gold chased across his form, never settling, never static. Clutched in his hand, almost as an extension of his being, was a magnificent, oversized paintbrush – its bristles perpetually stained with every conceivable shade, from the softest pastels to the most audacious neons. He was a beacon of potential, a herald of what could be, brimming with the chaotic beauty of imagination, and he embraced the name Ink.
These two, the destroyer and the creator, the glitch and the pigment, existed in stark isolation within the same boundless, sterile expanse – two antithetical forces, perhaps destined to shape the very definition of 'reality' itself, even as they currently found themselves adrift in its absence.
*remastered*
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Create And Destroy (Error X Ink)
FanfictionDo you want to know how Error and Ink really came to be? Error and Ink had different points of view. They hated one another. So why do they feel bad with each hit, with each fight the gult eats them. And why do they rember thangs from a distance tim...
