Red eyes. In a world of darkness - in a world of pain, and despair, and nothing at all - the only colour is in his eyes. Red. Red like a fire engine, red like a postbox, red like a fountain of blood: spraying blood, pooling blood, dripping salty-sweet crimson tears. At first glance the eyes are solid and still; looking closer they appear shifting and translucent - a strange sort of tinted glass. It is only when one stares at them directly, searching for some small remnant of a human soul, that they realise his eyes are as cavernous and fathomless as the starless night sky he hides in.

He doesn't have to hide any longer.

The eyes blink, and then their owner smiles. The corners of his mouth pull upwards, till he bares his teeth in a twisted, contorted mockery of a grin: his smirk gives way to an empty kind of laughter that stretches on and on - never ending, without thought of stopping.

He likes laughing.

The hollow, mirthless sound reminds him that this is his world now. The universe plays the game by his rules henceforth. There's no one to stop him because there's no one else, full stop - no one with a free will, or the reckless, foolish guts to attempt to make a stand, anyway.

This is how he likes it.

Power.

It's addictive. He knows that already, when he's only just had his first, ambrosial bite. The word sounds pleasant, even when it's just in his head. It encompasses everything he wants - everything he's got - and merely the thought of it sends shivers down his spine in rippling, cascading surges. His laughter shuts off and he's forming the words with his lips and his teeth and his tongue, and now he says it, each of those five, glorious letters, spoken resolutely in his deep, resounding tones.

"Power."

He begins to spin - so fast he can feel the wind parting his spread fingers; so fast his body blurs, seems as sheer and light as breeze. Almost accidentally, his face tilts back so he's staring up up up at the black of the night - his red eyes shining in exhilarating exultation, his long hair whipping wildly about his head.

Giddily - almost drunkenly - he says the word again. "Power!" It tastes so good on his lips, so, so good. He wants power, and he knows he has power - unlimited, unimaginable power - yet he wants more, craves more, needs more. His arms fly upwards. He's saluting the heavens - the Heaven he hates, and which loathes him in return - as his feet stomp faster, his spins grow more flurried and off-balance. "Power!" His tongue licks his teeth, and he's savouring the word like it's something special, the most special thing he's ever known. This time he stops spinning, drops roughly to the grimy, rock ground beneath him. It sags slightly under his weight, cushioning his fall, his hands diving downwards till his fingertips kiss the dirt. Shifting, shaping, gouging.

Creating.

With power, he can create. In a world of darkness - a world of plight, and torment, and eternal emptiness - he can create... Something. Make the emptiness not so eternal. Use his newfound power to turn the laws of his universe against themselves, make the nothing a definite something. All by using his power. He likes power. Likes it a lot. If he could love, maybe he would love it - love the thrill and the wonder and the sheer miracle that he is in charge, completely and entirely in charge.

With his long and calloused fingers, he sculpts the muck into bodies. Not unlike a human figure, these have legs and arms and hands and fingers and eyes and ears and raggedly formed feet. What they don't have - the thing they're missing - is a soul. Bending forward, he breathes breath into their crudely shaped mouths, then stands to watch, towering above them like some sort of God, as their chests begin to rise and fall, up and down, one beat, two beats, again and again. There is a light in their eyes which is sparking - a flame blazing upwards that gives them sight and knowledge and a deeply strung, unwavering loyalty to he who created them and gave them life. Together they blink in unison, with soily, grey faces, before standing as a unit.

With his touch - by unleashing a power both lethal and glorious on his realm - he has created a new people. They are new to the world, look upon it with fresh, unused eyes, and they are dangerous, and they are magnificent, and these earthborn creatures can serve only him.

An army.

He waves his hands in a gesture of war: of vengeance and of vendetta. He is placing his mark on his pitch black world: Dissolving suddenly, the imposing darkness disappears, leaving a sky stained crimson in its wake the colour of fury. Power. Oh, yes. He turns once more, echoing his previous giddy whirling - only this time he doesn't fall to the floor and create. This time he vanishes, dispersing like the darkness did before him, leaving only his newly moulded army standing stranded under the red, red sky.

The only sound to be heard is the crackle of thunder, and the strained, echoing sound of an endless empty laughing.