Chapter Text
I arrived wrong.
Not hatched. Not born. Ejected.
I was pulled as a single cell through a black hole, through something that could only be a tunnel then out a hole that was as bright as whiteness. I just floated there then was hit by star radiation, crystalline bacteria only found in the outer reaches of the void, and other energies that were eldritch alongside alien.
Then the next part of my growth started, my intelligence swelling before it crystalized in clarity as my memories were not my own…yet. They were HIS.
Lagos. 1944. Living alone, the last of the species that survived since the death of the rest of the planet. Instead of passing away, I survived before the mammals that took over the planet arrived and fought with metal throwing sticks and other weapons. Massive ships that fire larger attacks that tear into me before…before.
Pain, long and drawn out and I roar in agony.
Its blurry after that memory before things come back.
Tokyo. Sirens and fire that rolls like a tide, hunger drives me forward. I need radiation, I need food. Those birds are rather distracting too, leading me back to the ocean. Then the humans use a flying metal bug thing that would be called the Super-X. It also kills me but I came back from a radiation turned thunderstorm.
My next memory is of a massive Rose that called out to me and a rather sad state but even then, it was not me. Another clone? It then was destroyed, humans attacked me and I sent them stumbling. Then Biollante, for that is what she called herself upon our reintroduction, attacked and I had to put her down.
There was also this young woman that connected to his mind for the briefest of moments. A connection with a human was interest. Miki was her name…
A dragon with three heads, controlled by more humans from a far future. Then returning it with a mechanical fixed version of it that dropped me into the ocean.
Scales and silk, fluffy body and hard spines. Battra and Mothra. In a battle that was around a ferris wheel, I ripped Battra’s throat with my jaws before we dropped into the ocean.
A voice cries out, I follow after dealing with a flying pterosaur that I choked out. Then the humans used the technology from that three headed golden reptile. Called Mechagodzilla and created a backpack ship called “Garuda” before combining to become Super Mechagodzilla before destroying my…second…brain.
I HAVE ONE OF THOSE IN MY HIPS?!
Focus.
Anyway, Rodan burns itself, transferring energy and I destroy the mechanical double. Nothing is left of it but scrap metal. I take the child away to protect it….then my awakening in space as I finish seeing my progenitor’s memories.
His eyes. His breath. His endless, idiotic, near endless endurance. The planet forgives him because he keeps standing back up.
I am not him.
I can never be him.
The memory makes me cold. Cold breeds clarity.
I unspool myself, floating in the void like I own it. Crystals bud along my shoulders like twin mountains that shine then unleash electrical spikes of energy into the asteroids around me. Gravity listens when I speak; light has the manners to bend around my wishes. Space is mostly distance, so I eat distance. I learn that to fly you don't move—you move the universe out of your way. I cut wake patterns in the interstellar medium and hide inside my own shadow.
I look around and take in the radiation of the star I’m now orbiting, a massive red giant of a sphere, nearing the end of its life cycle. The planets in its orbit were dead husks while the ones on the outer edges were in the limited goldie locks zone location but wouldn’t last more than a couple million years before being destroyed.
Poetic.
Somewhere between the white hole and the blue planet, I grow completely into myself.
A creature of crystal and G-cells, a son created from one of two battles. The Father who would learn his son was upon returning home. I tear out of this solar system and head off, through the void emptiness and towards the blue world that where my progenitor was.
Worlds happen, endless and with life untold…ugh, disgusting.
The first is an accidental destruction, it wasn’t my fault they attacked me. They tried controlling me, I heard their race’s name, the “Leviathans”. Insectoid things with four legs, bi-forked arms and technology to try and mind control monsters. I tore their civilization apart without a second thought.
I was young and foolish, anger was my motivation at this time.
The second was a couple of systems ruled over by a race called the Vortaak. Aliens hellbent on conquest and well, Rivals in the stars they were at war with. Their planet was soon a crushed hulk full of crystals made of unique minerals, which I absorbed into my being to add to my powers. Anything Crystaline seemed to be under my full control but I also noticed something else.
Something inside me…like a secondary core, cold, dead…hungry for one source of power.
The third planet was where I learned that things could grow from my crystals, things that made my blood curdle and my powers spike. The inhabitants worshipped me until that thing, that child made of flesh and crystal, I crushed the thing and tore the world apart, adding its energies to my core.
Between conquests I learn better ways to end arguments. On a rust‑red world a red, bladed thing with a gemstone in its chest comes down at the head of a flock of colder, white‑edged copies. They speak in needles and throw chain‑blades that ricochet across my shields. When I bend their aim, the leader splits the crevice in its breast and shows an eye of light; the first lance knocks me three steps into bedrock. The smaller ones obey and collapse their cores into their lord's chest until his beam thickens from straw to blood. I answer with curves: Corona that loops and feeds back, gravity that drags the air a finger‑width sideways, crystal spears that fly and return like loyal dogs. Tails whip. Metal screams. The flock falls in bright pieces.
At last there is only the red one and me. He braces with a splitting tail, raises his blades to catch my breath, and we lock currents from ridge to ridge. The duel becomes geology. The crust hums; faults remember they are knives. I trim the beam; he pours more stolen cores into his light. The ground reaches the limit of how long it can pretend to be solid. The planet opens. Mountains tip like kicked tables; seas climb the sky. His optics flicker. Mine do not. When the horizon lifts and tears, he breaks first and drifts into the cooling dark on severed thrusters. I leave an empty orbit where a world was and a lesson in how long to hold a beam.
The next alien race I faced was called the Xiliens, a race that outdid the Vortaak in size and scale in their empire. Technology that was simple and strong, building control over other races. Trillions under their mind control, all cattle and monsters and demons under their control. Other Alien races under one master race, and I see them, hated and reviled from the moment they took to the stars. They are bizarre gray-skinned humanoids with no visible eyes, pointed heads and black veins visible all over their body. With technology to hide as humans. Male and Female hiding in human like bodies, so pale and robotic. With a minor cyborg race that were seen as the “Xilien beta”, servants in full body coverings and visors that are the face of the Xilien military.
Alien monsters, either grown or built, I have no idea which is which, attack me. I battle, fight in the void, on asteroids, planets, moons. Its technology tearing into my flesh and spines, my crystals even exploded once…it regrew but it was painful. I started to wonder if my arms were useless except for waving around and gesturing. My crystal control grew over the course of this system to system conquest as I rampaged throughout the stars
On System One—a ringed ice giant and three warm moons—their saucers dig in over a refueling lattice. I raced past the saucers and crashed their moons into the ice giant, cracking it open to show the molten core that the ice had hidden for generations of millenia. I laughed as the psychic backlash washed over my mind at the screams of the dying.
An armada with a larger ship, looking Vortaak in origin but modified with Xilien tech and design references, battled me in space. I learned to create crystal fists in space, many asteroid-sized crystal gauntlets hovered around me—milky, faceted ice-white bracers flaring like cuffs, each “hand” a ring of thick gold crescent fingers arcing inward around a flat glowing palm disk. The crystal caught starlight in cold shards; hairline flakes drifted off like snow when they moved. No knuckles, no wrists—just crescents that rolled and hinged around the rim, the gaps spitting a warm gold corona.
I tore into the ships like a bab into toys, ripping the saucers and the flagship to shreds as I turned this fleet into nothing and moved on.
The next system grew me into ground combat, energy weapons pounding my flesh as it grew from soft to hardened crystalline cells that were like my progenitor’s scales. Tough as space titanium and more. The screams of the dead or dying filled the streets and buildings collapsed under my onslaught. My corona bean tore through their skyline without pause.
They broadcast my silhouette on every surface that will hold an image. They give me a new name that means “The voidborn king”, a name that could never be spoken by human tongues in any way. Still, I tore them apart like an avalanche.
On System Three, they started sending their army of monsters at me. I battled so many of them. I lost track of what my body count was.
On System Four the empire stops being a map and becomes a cluster of screams. I pick the Core Relay out of their armature—the place where orders arrive already obeyed—and break it with a single pulse that changes the shape of time for a second. Commands issued then never arrive. Fleets hunting me forget why.
They send a diplomat grown in a vat to wear the face they think I will listen to. It speaks in the grammar of bargains: you may rule a sector if you kneel to a throne. I show it a throne made of their satellites and ask it to kneel first. It does, because it was grown to. I unmake it, because I was not.
On System Five they ask the empire to hold its breath and it actually does. The space between worlds goes quiet enough that even my own hum sounds loud. Then every broadcast tower opens at once and sings the same single note for obedience. The note is elegant. I love it the way I love a weapon held wrong. I clap with gravity and the towers fall in a ring.
Their soldiers try bravery in the old way—formations and vows and the belief that dying clean matters. I step through them like fog and leave the ones who drop their rifles. Efficiency is not kindness; it only looks like mercy from a distance.
On System Six I meet the Mind Choir—a planet-wide lattice sunk into crust and cloud, tuned to impose a hymn. The hymn is almost beautiful. Until I threw my mental might at it because I was feeling petty. They all died with their brains exploding from my psychic might.
On System Seven they hide behind suns. Mirror nests blind any attempt to look straight. I look crooked. The nests burn their own retinas out trying to track a target that refuses to be a vector. When the mirrors turn, I am already elsewhere, drinking the charge they saved for my funeral.
They deploy Keeper Nodes to rescue coherence—a network of overseers that corrects for human error before the errors happen. I gift the network a single error with perfect manners and let it propagate. The Keepers correct themselves into standing down.
On System Eight they bring their civilians to the front and paint sanctuaries on the roofs. I do not reward that geometry with fire. I go underneath and pull the streets out instead, lifting the military bases whole and stacking them like boxes for later disposal. The sanctuaries stay sanctuaries. I am a monster, not a fool.
They beg their old legends. Planet X will not fall. A cohort of mind-speakers tries the soft approach: they whisper memories of quiet water and low light, the taste of rest. I am not tired. I send them the taste of a red beam and a planet opening and they choose silence.
On System Nine they attempt mathematics as religion. A ring-station recites primes at me with guns. I answer with a number that never ends and make their targeting solutions weep.
The empire starts to look like a ruin pretending to be a map. Supply stutters. Morale is the kind of word they don't say aloud anymore in case it hears them.
On System Ten I pause long enough to build a crown—stolen satellites cut and set around a dead world. The crown drinks the local grid and feeds it to my shoulders until the peaks burn. Their admirals overshoot on purpose to avoid the ring. The ones who try to cut through learn why rings are old power.
They bring out the Controller, the one who speaks as if gravity also answers to him. To push his agenda into my mind and well, that ended in only one way. I crystallized his blood then stabbed his alien heart into mush before hurling his ship into that star system’s solar body.
They have one move left: gather everything to a place with a proper name—Planet X—and make a wall out of belief. I go there because walls are invitations.
Planet X wears artifice like a second skin—clouds that obey schedules, cities that learned to be polite, a sky that looks pre-approved. They then unleashed their ultimate weapon, the devil with three heads. Similar to the dragon that my progenitor faced but far more dangerous. We dueled across Planet X without pause. For months, we exchanged blasts of power and roars of contempt. In the end, after my crystal shoulders were wrecked for the second time, I entombed the monster in a mountain of crystal, before shattering it with a single tail strike. The pieces scattered across the ruined planet as I roared in victory over my second hated foe.
They ran and hid, ships flying away as I fell asleep, standing there as I regrow my crystals. Planet X was the crowning achievement that nobody would know about, how I destroyed an Empire without a second thought and beat something stronger than what my father did on Earth.
The empire breaks with it. Orders go out and fall to the floor like dishes. Fleets come apart into ships and ships into lifeboats that remember other skies. I do not chase every piece.
Silence spreads the way fire used to.
Two more worlds, because the universe keeps inventing new ways to be wrong:
The road to his sky bends once more where physics wears a different face. A system of dark arithmetic: planets penned to a black hole, light lensed into halos, days only meaning anything because someone decided they should. I arrive at the outer ice and feel the pull write its name in my bones.
They meet me with a statue that moves.
Metal-Godzilla—their word sits in the open channel with the arrogance of a crown. It is not mine and not his. It is theirs: Metal godzilla, skin of space alloy, mind on a wire, a face borrowed from my gene donor and hammered into angles. The controller's voice rides the carrier wave with a simple instruction: obey or be taught.
The first answer is missiles—finger tips launching out of the hands. They hit my body and tear into my skin like swords. Blood fills the empty void as I roar in anguish as its eye beams tear into the wounds before I follow with a counter attack of Corona Beams and crystal fists to punch it into submission.
He is fast for a construct. Foot jets cause it to drift in the void. A forcefield blooms when it spins its entire head, stopping my Corona Beam in its tracks and shattering a crystal fist into shards, before I hurl those shards at the machine as well. We circle the third world, a heavy blue orb that pretends the black hole is only a rumor.
He tests my Crown with a chest lance; I test his spine with a curve of red that refuses to be straight. My shoulders hiss where the beam touches the peaks. I yank his weight sideways with my telekinesis. He skates, recovers, answers with forward force before I get flames to the face from the thing’s mouth and twin cylinder nose holes. I scream as the alien flames burn my flesh and bone, before I punch it away.
Their controller tries the soft kill: a command rhythm designed to walk my thoughts into step. Submit. Rhythm again. Always rhythm. I break the meter and give it back to their channel out of tune. Somewhere in a bunker, a primate with delusions of monarchy bleeds from the ears, good, He deserves it for trying mind control.
WHY IS IT ALWAYS MIND CONTROL?!
His missile barrages increase in ferocity; my Corona curls and bites at the seams in his armor. He reaches to grapple, I dodge and slash at it with my tail barb. We continue this song and dance for hours in the orbit of the planet.
He rises because that is what he was built to do. To defend these damn dirty alien apes.
The planet below us is polite in the way clockwork is polite. Its path around the black hole is a solved problem; the solution has been memorized by geology. I decide to stop that math equation and end their race for good.
Crystals grow out of the planet’s many small moons before hurling themselves at the planet to increase my control. I plant a ring of torsion pylons across the daylight side and another under night seas. The ring whispers to the mantle; the mantle tells the crust to lean. The orbit shifts a fraction—you would miss it if you were not measuring with the right kind of ruler. Metal Godzilla does not miss it. His jets flare; his controller shouts at him to stop me as he realizes what I’m doing to his planet and people.
He lunges; I take the momentum and throw him—not away but down, into the blue. The atmosphere remembers fire; so does he. We hit clouds and then stones. The world groans. His metal body catches most of the insult; the part that gets through teaches the metal and the creators why I am superior, why I am BETTER.
I do not stop. Gravity is a power I learned and wield as though I am a star, so I hook the planet's angular momentum and shove it out of alignment. The third world steps outside its lane the way a dancer misses a mark, now showing the delicate nature of its life.
The black hole's voice grows intimate, more hungry, ready to destroy this race permanently as it leaves the safe zone this world used to be in.
Metal godzilla fires everything. Finger storms. Eye light. Chest. Knees. I scream in agony from the scars that are going to remain. The blue horizon curves where it did not, then tilts. Tides climb mountains. Cities—if there are any—forget where seawalls belong.
We lock once in close for combat more: his chest lance bright enough to write scars on space, my beam curved until it is almost a loop. He is a good machine, built to not know how to lose. The planet knows as it slides across the last safe math and into the throat of the dark.
Tidal teeth take the oceans first. The crust follows, in ribbons. Metal godzilla's spins its head to activate its shielding technology as the forcefield flares, fails, flares again, then screams itself out. Its sides explode and show off the inner workings as it screams out a binaric rattling schriek.
I catch him in my telekinetic grasp for the briefest of heartbeats—one moment of stillness where his controller tries a final order that is only a scream of terror—and then I hurl him directly into the planet. He vanishes under the crust of his creation world without dignity, explosion covering him.
The planet stretches into a bright ring and then a line and then into nothing but empty void as its gone from existence.
Silence here is not empty. I pull away from the black hole, watching it as it makes a hum in the void as the entire planet is now nothing but…something, inside that thing. I have no idea what goes on inside a Black Hole exactly. Mine was a wormhole like thing, this one doesn’t…feel like it.
I leave the system, chuckling somberly to myself as I forget about Earth then the next moment, I remember. I speed towards Earth, vengeance rekindled in my soul as I roar in disgust.
By the time his sun throws a flare my way, I am already angry at the shape of his shadow in my head.
He is the reason I know what pain tastes like. He is the reason I know what loyalty smells like. He is why I can pick the sound of a child's heartbeat out of a storm. His stubbornness, his animal certainty, seats itself in the back of my skull and taps its foot while I refine cruelty into an instrument.
Gene donor. Progenitor. Father if you are sentimental; a blueprint with breath if you are not.
I am not.
I am more than him!
Earth finds me before I bother to find it. The rings of Saturn glitter like ground glass; their deep-space net triangulates my wake and mistakes it for a storm. Antennas whisper to each other: anomaly, fast, vectoring sunward.
Ahead, a lattice of truss and mirrors pretends to be important. A satellite station—men in tin air writing their names in the dark. I seed it with three needles. Crystals flower from vacuum—clean, silent, absolute—and stitch panel to panel until the station remembers how to be ore and scrap. The people inside die to the cold emptiness of the void.
Alarms ripple inward. In the asteroid belt the rock thickens, and something with a conical nose and a proud name points its face at me: MOGUERA. It fires energy from its eyes that do nothing to me, with pilots who have never fought where there is nothing to push against but math.
I teach them space is not a friendly territory. As I hurl asteroids into the metal creation, tanking more weapons as we fly around one another. Missiles follow, I contemptuously psychically swat them aside into the floating rocks around us. They are brave, but are fare too late to this kind of war. I clip the nose, salt the seams with splinters, and leave them a spin they can survive if they remember how. They will limp home and call it a tactical withdrawal, funny.
I cut a corridor through inner orbits and go to the only place that matters—where he hides his future.
Birth Island. Volcanic breath. Salt that clings. The small one plays in the surf—belly‑heavy, bright‑eyed. Little Godzilla. Humans name things to feel tall; the name is wrong and useful.
I arrive loud on purpose, I want his attention. Instead, I find the adopted child. The green thing was fat and with large eyes. It thinks I’m family, I decide to torture it for fun. I blast it with my Corona beam, not hitting the little tyke, only toying with the brat. Then I feel him, in my mind. He is coming to stop me. Save his child.
We exchange words of battle, both seeing one another for the first time. I throw insults, declaring him as my progenitor. He denies ever creating something like me, seeing me as a threat to his son and heir. I then exchanged energy with him and beat him. With a victorious grin, I entrap his heir into a prison of crystals that closed over him.
I fly to Japan, laughing all the while as I look for a place to call my fortress.
Fukuoka is ideal: a tower with its nerves naked, a grid begging for a ruler. My crystals bloom through concrete in hours. Roads kink and learn new directions; skyscrapers collapse and allow for my creations to take their place. The tower sings into my bones; shoulder peaks blaze; for a moment the universe matches my appetite. I know my own weaknesses well, I need to focus the cosmic energies from the void to here. Unlike the other planets I fought on, the atmosphere here was stifling and weighed down on me.
I felt my other core warm before I shut it off, I will not
They send MOGUERA again, the metal machine that sparked my memory. Another Alien race, the Mysterians, used these machines, massive digging machines turned into war devices to face me. Did humanity have similar design philosophy but well, with better tech?
I’ll question it later.
Right now, the machine is here to fight me. I unleash my energy blasts, keeping the thing at range. Due to my shoulder crystals, I am no close quarters combatant. I can push the energy of the cosmos through my hands but I can’t fight due to my shoulders. Soon, the thing gets in range and its nose tears into my throat, I scream then hurl the thing away from me. I need him to stay away from the tower as I try to siphon the radiation out of the atmosphere so I can more clearly absorb the cosmic power of the void.
He arrives then, of course. Godzilla, the King of the Monsters.
He rips up a crystal spear and uses it to stab my leg, I hiss then hurl it back at him, penetrating his flesh and making it grow, tearing his thigh muscles apart. He roars in disgust and his body starts to heal as we battle further. Every time he stands, I move the ground. Every time he roars, I color the sound with my own. I tag him with beams that curve and come back for seconds; he gets in close before I feel it.
One of my crystal shoulders explodes, my scream is psychically empowered as I look over at MOGUERA, hurling an army of crystals at it. The metal was pierced before it fired its other missile and it connected with my tower, the focus on my power. I felt it shudder before I’m shoved aside and Godzilla shoves the tower over with his immense strength.
I roar in defiance but he doesn’t care anymore. My other crystal shoulder explodes from under his atomic breath, blowing it apart like it never was solid to begin with. My strength, my energy fails. In my rush to win, I left myself open and now I fling open my other core, the core I was birthed with to absorb radiation but its too late for me.
The spines on his back start to flash and spark a blood neon red then the crimson shows up in his mouth and I know exactly how much it will hurt.
There is a point in any duel where winning becomes arithmetic and losing becomes biography. Mine is short. Anger is not enough to conjure a third arm and reload a peak that is no longer there.
He fires.
The Red Spiral is not a line; its power that carves through my shield that I threw up to try and redirect it. It shattered in under three seconds, blowing me off my feet. I feel my flesh explode and melt, unable to regrow as my cosmic energies flee and are absorbed by my progenitor.
I die like a good equation—balanced, clean, inevitable.
Anger does not stop with a body. It echoes.
My anger fizzles out.
My father…my progenitor roars in victory as my body ignites and I moan in defeat, a tear coming to my eye as my life ends in fire and radiation.
Dark. Then light again.
And then—