Create And Destroy (Error X Ink)

Error

Error's mismatched, glitching eyes swept across the vast, oppressive emptiness of the Anti-Void. It was a realm of infinite, blinding white – a canvas not yet painted, a space utterly devoid of life, sound, or even a tangible horizon. He had awakened here, not with a jolt, but with a slow, disorienting crawl into consciousness, finding himself adrift in a sea of nothing.

A chilling uncertainty clung to him, a heavier shroud than the oppressive silence. He had no memory of how he had arrived, no whisper of a past, just this stark, present reality. And the profound, crushing weight of his utter isolation. Why was he so... alone? The word echoed in the deafening quiet, a silent scream within his nascent mind.

He lowered his gaze to his hands, bony and skeletal, yet shimmering with an ethereal quality. As if to mock his burgeoning sense of self, his left hand flickered violently, its digital code momentarily dissolving into a chaotic scramble of symbols before snapping back into its original, skeletal form. A jolt, a phantom pain, ran through him – not an injury, but a system malfunction.

He shook his head, a gesture born of instinct rather than conscious thought, and then, inexplicably, his attention turned inward. He could perceive his own code, a lattice of data that formed his very being, shimmering just beyond his physical sight. He didn't understand how he knew about this internal structure, only that an undeniable truth resided within him: there was a fundamental fault in his code. A jagged tear, perhaps, or a missing piece, a corrupted line that resonated with the gnawing emptiness in his soul.

Bright scarlet "Error" symbols, like digital wounds, pulsed and floated around his form, some seared onto his bony structure, others glitching in and out of existence just inches from his skin. They were a constant, visible manifestation of his brokenness. He shook his head again, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He strained to identify the flaw, to pinpoint the source of this internal discord, yet it remained elusive, a ghost in the machine. He knew it was there, an invisible parasite, but he couldn't grasp it.

His dark, mismatched eyes, one a burning crimson, the other a deep, unsettling blue, narrowed into a glare. A nascent resentment simmered within him, directed at the void, at his own existence, at the incomprehensible situation he found himself in. He didn't just feel alone; he was alone, an undeniable, objective truth. The stark white Anti-Void stretched infinitely around him, without another living soul to utter a word to, a vast, desolate landscape utterly devoid of color, texture, or warmth.

A restless energy began to stir within Error. He understood, without truly knowing why, that prolonged inactivity would lead to a deeper, more debilitating ennui. He had, he vaguely felt, been "sleeping" for far too long, dormant for an eternity. So, he began to wander, his footsteps silent against the nonexistent ground, his figure a stark silhouette against the featureless expanse. It was a futile search, perhaps, but the alternative was unbearable.

Deep within his non-existent chest, a profound ache resided. It wasn't a physical pain, but a hollow, existential pang – as if a vital component of his very essence had been ripped away. Something was missing inside him, a void that resonated with the physical emptiness of his surroundings, and it hurt. He didn't fight the feeling; instead, he nursed it, cradling the agony like a strange, painful companion. It was, at least, something to feel.

It was then, as he drifted aimlessly, that his gaze caught something in the inconceivable distance. A subtle distortion in the pure white, a shimmering anomaly. As he drew closer, propelled by a fragile thread of curiosity, the anomaly resolved into an impossible spectacle. It was not white; it was an explosion of vibrant, living color. He paused, his skeletal form rigid, his mind struggling to process this alien sight. It was blindingly bright, a symphony of hues woven together, arcing across the void like a celestial scar – a magnificent, impossible, rainbow.

Hesitantly, Error extended a bony finger. It trembled slightly as he reached out, the stark contrast of his pale digit against the radiant spectrum almost painful. He brushed the tip of his digit across the shimmering bands of light. A sudden, overwhelming sensation flooded him – a rush of warmth, of energy, of undeniable life. He felt the essence of its creation: brightness woven with meticulous care, imbued with unrestrained joy.

His teeth clenched, a low, guttural snarl echoing in the internal silence of his being. A scorching wave of pure, unadulterated hatred surged through him, an almost physical jolt. The very existence of this vibrant art, so full of care and joy, screamed a brutal truth: there was something out there. Something he was not a part of, something he was cut off from.

The colors, paradoxically, intensified his loneliness, piercing his soul with renewed agony. How could something so beautiful inflict such profound pain? It was a cruel reminder of his own desolate existence, a mocking beacon of everything he lacked.

He wanted it gone. The thought solidified into an immediate, visceral command.

And as if conjured by his desperate will, glowing blue strings erupted from his fingertips, ethereal yet tangible. They shot forth, wrapping around the shimmering arc of the rainbow like predatory tendrils. He watched, fascinated and horrified, as his fingers, now bound in these glowing threads, slowly began to close. With each deliberate contraction of his hand, the strings tightened, biting into the vibrant light, squeezing and tugging at its very fabric.

Then, with a sudden, violent spasm, he clenched his hand into a tight, destructive fist. There was no sound, only the instantaneous, shattering collapse of the rainbow. It broke apart, a silent explosion of fragmented light and color. Error's vision was momentarily overwhelmed as the raw, uncompiled code of the artifice flashed, chaotic and broken, across his inner sight.

Without a moment's hesitation, he willed it gone. The fragmented code disintegrated, vanishing from existence. A strange, fleeting sense of relief washed over him, a temporary calm in the storm of his fragmented mind. The searing pain in his soul lessened, a dull ache replacing the sharp agony. But the profound, crushing loneliness that defined his existence remained, an unchanging, unyielding foundation of his being. The void, once again, was pure, silent white.

*remastered*