Born not from flesh, crafted from scrap of metal and steel, no name given. Yet it holds its code like a name tag, wearing it like a dog collar. Travelling between worlds, learning, studying. Originally so tasteless, so bland, now takes from its research and becomes a copycat.
Born not from flesh, risen from tar and hatred, a name mixed from known words. Worshipped, praised, prayed to, until the worshippers perish, and worship no more. Forever lonely inbetween worlds, a social butterfly returning to its cocoon. A moth avoiding the light it loves.
One shall learn of loneliness, the other shall learn of tastelessness. Loneliness to peace, tastelessness to adaption.
The world was fire.
All I wanted to do was burn with it. After another day of screaming and fighting, I could only sit by my window and pray that absolution would come. That I would finally be released from this Hell. She came then, maybe a figment of my imagination or a ghost from the past. A version of me long gone, or perhaps I was a version that was born to devour her. Her face was hard, but her eyes were apologetic as she handed me her dandpattas. "It is time, chhota draigan." I closed my eyes then, steeling myself, and began to hum.
Oh, what to be born from chaos - what to be born from fire and blood.