Changes 3.B
The monster was born Thanksgiving Day, 1992, at the wish of a man with no equal. It had gestated, a weapon without form, for much longer than that; but its birth was on a Thursday, its creator and shaper a mortal man.
It was formed on his base desires, shaped by his darkest fears, built to be a weapon so archetypal and recognizable that none need be convinced it was anything but a target to be fought. It was granted intelligence, but little will, and no true desire for anything, save to adhere to the rules laid down for it.
Attack important targets, according to a schedule.
Give those who would fight a chance to defend.
Respond to any threats with escalation of conflict.
Retreat after a certain number of escalations of conflict, or when the target is destroyed.
Never kill the master.
He (the monster had no need for gender, but took some pleasure in archetypal things; among these was the concept of masculinity) was born in the heart of the earth, to a cacophony of sensations. There were great, slow currents of mantle, flowing like liquid even as it remained hard and unyielding. Massive crystals of various minerals, larger than a hundred of himself, though not nearly so dense. A rotating core of iron and other metals, radiation pouring out from the immense natural dynamo.
He could feel the entire planet through its vibrations, know its people through their electromagnetic communications. He would learn about them. He would find a target, and make his appearance, just as commanded.
He gathered information, tunneling through the depths of the planet, through garbled snippets of radio waves that he gathered and translated, through vibrations that originated from the surface, and from the faint link to the creator. Finally, he chose a target. A large mass of hydrocarbons was being mined by the surface-dwellers, and destruction of the location would cause ripples throughout their society.
He began to approach the surface.
-Shangri-La-
He stood among a field of broken bodies, a hellscape of death and despair. He had followed his instructions, without question, and now briefly gazed upon the result.
A female surface-dweller slammed into him, and he automatically responded with a gout of fire. This one could not be burned, nor shocked. She came for another pass. He caught her fist on his right arm, redirecting the force into a tremor in the earth, causing other surface-dwellers to stumble.
He took advantage of the moment, driving forward, implacable, and incinerating two more, then flinging lightning at a third and fourth. The unburnable one let out a vocalization, driving toward him again, and he let her hit him, then beat her out of the sky.
A beam of white-gold light stuck him, and it burrowed deep, the strongest blow yet. He turned his head to face the diminutive figure; again, not a necessary action, but it made him seem more like them, inspired fear through their perception of body language. The attacker was a male, clad in shining golden metal, maneuvering through the air using waves of pressure emanating from his back.
This would require a response.
He widened his mouth, and caused the air to vibrate with kinetic force. A roar. It tore through the air, making closer surface-dwellers clap their hands to their ears, then collapse as their organs began to rupture. The golden figure backed off, unable to counter the attack. His parting shot swung wide.
He strode on, unstoppable, letting the roar cease, and batting aside those who dared defy him on his way to his goal. He had little time; another escalation, and he would have to retreat, 'beaten'.
He created another bolt of energy, and advanced.
-Shangri-La-
The beast slept in a room of glittering crystal, lit by the glow of mantle from the hole he had made burrowing in.
It had been three years since his birth, and the cycle continued. His last cycle had been rather plain; the humans had been able to fulfill his quota of escalations fairly quickly, and the target had been left undamaged. He had retreated as ordered, ready to collect more data and find a new target for the next cycle.
As he burrowed, he had sensed himself tunneling near one of the many pockets of gas and liquid that filled the mantle, and by whim, had decided to detour inside. A tweak to the stream of a convection current, which would form it into a more turbulent flow, causing earthquakes, and he detoured.
The pocket was what could be called, by humans, a geode, if said geode was the size of a Great Lake. His tunneling inside had doomed the structure, a fact of which he now regretted somewhat.
He did not see, not in a traditional sense, but he was aware of the electromagnetic spectrum, and the range of spectra between x-ray and microwave radiation was rather exceptional in its use of revealing that which his seismic senses could not; color and reflectiveness, clarity and iridescence.
These crystals were beautiful.
The crystals varied in geometric pattern, with pyramids, cuboids, hexagonal pillars, and more. The violent azures and reds reminded him of his fires, the glow of the infrared reinforcing the impression; the greens and yellows and whites reminded him of his targets. The spires and pillars radiated and fanned out in fractal patterns, some thicker than he, others thin and spindly, barely thicker than the finger of a human, but long and sharp.
He stayed dormant for a time, allowing the geode to collapse around him over the course of a week or two. It would pass from his memory in time, but not soon.
He continued onward to the core, once more collecting information.
-Shangri-La-
He was awoken from his data collection by a feeling from the creator. It was a change.
A new schedule. A new weapon.
He wasn't sufficient. The master had left all other directives intact, but now there was another.
He began to gather information again, now searching for the new arrival, that which he now shared the cycle. None were found; was there some mistake?
He waited till the next cycle, searching for the seismic tremors that his attacks generated.
He felt seismic activity, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't like him.
The seafloor shook with its arrival, as he understood.
Archetypal.
As one took the hells, another would rule the oceans.
After its cycle, he tried to communicate with it. A tremor in the seafloor below it; a burst of radiation; no response. They could not communicate, or the new arrival had no interest in doing so.
He went back to the core, not understanding, but unquestioning. It had a target to determine.
-Shangri-La-
It was time.
He cracked with lightning, releasing a massive bolt as thick as himself at the base of the volcano. It fried any matter it touched in the intervening mile, reducing entire buildings to slagged skeletons, and instantly killing a dozen fighters.
This was for show, of course; he was merely adding energy in this way to inspire fear.
The volcano rumbled, its well of magma now superheated and ready to burst. With a gigantic cracking sound, the entire side of the volcano exploded, and a massive flood of millions of tons of rock and fire blew into the air and the ocean.
The incredible mass of debris caused a huge wave to form, and the clouds of sulfurous gas and burning pumice began to dim the skies. The wave would devastate coastal communities throughout the Pacific, and the island would soon be buried under hot ash.
He burrowed as the humans fled. His target had been achieved.
-Shangri-La-
Another one of his kind, another change in the cycle. This one was easy to find.
If one ruled the hells, and another the waters, then the 'heavenly figure' described by the human's communications was surely the new one.
He studied the images they broadcasted, as he had for the one they called Leviathan. A figure, almost human, surrounded and shrouded by wings, floating over a city.
A tremor, out of place, very close to him. A shiver, a few sudden shifts, another tremor.
A greeting. Unlike Leviathan, this one could communicate.
He responded, a counter-greeting, a question of purpose.
It responded with a strange shake which he took as… humor. Purpose was obvious.
The cycle of destruction must continue.
He watched the communications as the new one attacked, and saw the aftermath. The fear it inspired with its tactics, how well its new methods could enhance the adherence to their directives. How human emotion and mental fragility could be used to further the impact of the cycle, a tool even more potent than simple devastation.
And he learned.
-Shangri-La-
He speared a human on the jagged spikes of his claw, blood sizzling against his burning outer layers. A bolt of lightning took the human's teammate as they ran, and they collapsed, smoking and dead.
The unbreakable one slammed into him, and he allowed himself to be knocked off his center of balance, stumbling back from the blow. The body upon his claw slid off, now lifeless, and fell twenty feet to the ground below.
He turned, following the tiny figure as she flew, ignoring the blasts of a weak beam attack from a fair distance away. Behind him, he sensed the one crafted of unbendable energy, and deliberately failed to dodge the beams as they struck his back. He roared in a semblance of pain, clawing at the giant ice crystals that had formed at the impact site.
Suddenly, without warning, he was pulled downward by a great force. All attempts to redirect it failed, and it severely hampered his ability to move.
The effect let up, and he broke his stance, charging forward. Lightning charged forth from his claws, taking two more victims. The effect slammed down on him yet again.
He turned to face the source. The one in the green-light garment.
He couldn't kill that one, but needed to respond to the threat.
He caused his skin to emit a glow, and simultaneously began to emit gamma radiation. It would sunder the area, make it uninhabitable, but those that lived might still receive treatment, the green one among them.
He strode onward as they fought, unaware of their quiet doom.
-Shangri-La-
Years had passed. Cycles had gone on, long and short, successful and unsuccessful. The time had come for yet another attack, another day of death and despair.
He burrowed towards the surface, his actions beforehand now rote. Alter a flow here, build pressure there, cool an area, and he had a series of earthquakes forming. They would obfuscate his target, spread defenders thin; that advantage might lead to greater chances of achieving his targets.
He reached the crust, and the tremors followed close behind. He slowed to a much more sedate pace, allowing a new ripple of minor earthquakes to go unnoticed within the cluster of major ones. Homes would be shattered, villages collapsed, but it would not be very deadly; he was not trying to cause mass devastation, after all, just focused devastation.
He saw the snippets of radio waves, understood them to be rallying cries. He maintained his sedate pace, slowly approaching the surface, giving them time to gather, but no time to plan.
Soon, he reached the surface, climbing out of the tunnel and collapsing it behind him. He stood up, towering, and breathed flame into the humid morning air, releasing a roar which echoed for miles around.
Johannesburg lay before him. He strode forward, and began to glow.
A/N: Alternate title: Enter the Demon
You would not believe how hard it was to make this chapter. Only part that flowed freely was the geode bit.
Also, this is the first interlude I've ever written where the goal is for you feel absolutely no sympathy afterward.