User:Beastazoid/Fanon Con Creative Writing Competition

THE ULTIMATE EVIL: A Short Story by Beast
 Green. Green. GREEN.



 I’m so SICK of the color green.



 Even my own putrid skin is the color green.

I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve been in Hell. It’s been two halves of a full millenia. Half in that God-forsaken wasteland of a jungle, being eaten by predators over, and over, and OVER, until I finally evolved with the strength to protect myself from being eaten throat first, and half in HERE, this green Limbo of a world with pillars of the strange material reaching into this artificial sky.

The only solace I get; the only solace ANY of us trapped in his Hell get is when the Devil brings us out to fight. Only then do we see a new world, a view as refreshing to the eyes as one can be when you’ve been staring down the Pit and its eternal flame for as long as you can bare it. We’re weapons to him. Tools to get the job done when our weak, and long since forgotten forms can’t get his jobs done. He doesn’t even know of the suffering he’s caused; he doesn’t know what’s happened to us and what we’ve lost for him to gain a few advantages in his petty battles.

The blue, metallic one used to be smaller; used to be able to duplicate himself however many times he wanted. But every time one of those clones died...not knocked unconscious. His dupes could keep going from a knockout. But every time a clone DIED...every time he was eaten, smashed, torn apart, decapitated and swallowed, whatever the damage...it was like losing a limb. Each clone was the equivalent of an arm or a leg, severed from his body. Do you know what pushed him to evolve? It wasn’t to survive attacks from his predators or to live longer, in general. He wanted the pain to stop. But even he couldn’t have that. It still hurts him when he breaks one of those disks he throws around. Just a little less, now. But if you ask me, I’d rather lose just a finger than an arm.

The red moth thing has gone crazy. I caught him so many times just huddling in front of the fire the Pit spits out. But it’s the only thing he really knows if you think about it. His entire life before he was dropped here was in a desert, with nothing to see except three burning suns that never went down, the red sands of his world, and more giant moth beasts, bigger than him, and capable of taking over his mind, leaving him powerless to protest the gnawing of his flesh. That’s if the beasts caught him before he died of heatstroke. Not only was he a walking target, with the blue of his skin standing out against the red earth, the three suns that illuminated his world warmed it so constantly that he couldn’t cool himself down. And he would die. Again, and again, and again...until his world MADE him turn down the heat. He said he puffed out ice until his lungs burned, until the world froze over completely, and the three suns dimmed. Only then was he dumped here. With this newfound power also came completed shutdown of his nerves. He can’t feel anything now. No touch, no sensation...his body has gone cold. Maybe he sticks around the Pit to experience ANY feeling now. Even if it’s the feeling of his flesh searing to a crisp.

The fat one can curl into a ball to roll around and crush his enemies. But the spikes he wears on his back, and his tough hide were not easily gained. He tells me his world was darkened, and that his beady little eyes couldn’t make out anything in the inky blackness. But his other 4 senses worked just fine. His deaths were swift, but not any less excruciating. He never got to see what they looked like, but his predator was one that possessed some sort of skewer. Whether that be its mouth, hands, or horn he doesn’t know. But the only thing he does know about his predator is that it doesn’t eat its’ prey whole. The predator jabbed this skewer into the fat one in the guise of the darkness every single time, through the head, eyes, stomach, almost every part of his body, he says, and would drink him DRY. What made this his Hell, he explained, wasn’t his grisly deaths. It was the fact that each could not be anticipated in such a dark place. Each time the fat one smelled the stench of the beast creeping in, he would immediately surrender, and just stand. Sometimes the skewer would come immediately. Sometimes a few hours after that, sometimes a few minutes after. But one day he had enough, and became either so bold, or so insane, that he peeled his original yellow plating away from his skin and allowed it to scab over and over, layer after layer. His scars had eventually hardened into a thick grey coat that could actually hold its own against a skewer. But still, with every new life he lived, he would tear it off once again to grow it thicker and thicker, even sticking torn flesh back onto his head to create extra defense in the form of points. And his body conformed to the dramatic change he subjected himself to. Flexing muscles where the pain is most severe force the exposed flesh to poke the points on his body out, turning him into the ultimate defensive being, and equally earned him a spot amongst our ranks.

The plant tells me that he’s dying, every second of his existence, even within our green prison. A dry environment with no water or nutrients forced his body to start EATING itself. His many deaths were the result of his body having no more energy to give itself, and leaving him a husk that would die not too much long after. That is, until his body began to tap into his burning flame inside. The plant is also able to produce fire from his hands, and instead of using it to fight, or to just sear his husk of a body alive to end the pain and get onto his next life, his body began to eat at his fire and get its power from there, giving him a few years more to live. But soon, his flame just wasn’t enough anymore. So, to make more energy at the expense of his physique, his form is in a fixed state between life and death. With more of his energy going to his fire to feed his body, his flames turned blue and more sustaining; at the same time, his skin turned brittle and dead, falling off even when he walks, sometimes. His body had become almost like a star, eating away at himself. And if or when this body of his runs out of energy? Who knows what will happen.

The monkey scares me the most. But I also feel the most sympathy towards his situation. He wasn't scared like the rest of us. His survival instincts kicked in on Day 1, and never turned off. He moved, he fought, he DIED…..and he learned. Learned a new technique to avoid being killed. Made himself tools...and when the tools got too inconvenient for him, he made HIMSELF the tool. The monkey began to dig through and yank forward dormant bones near his ribs that had since been shrunken down from underuse out through his sides. And they only got longer and longer with each death of his. Survival is one thing, but instead of evolving from it like we did, the monkey DEVOLVED. He grew fatter and stronger with each kill, eating until he could burst. The arms coming out of his ribs began to grow and once they fully set in with skin and all, he set to work improving himself by getting rid of his extra arms over a few thousand more deaths and…even I don't want to get further into that. The point is, this Hell made the monkey go crazy, but he might be the smartest out of all of us if he began to fight for his future like that since the beginning.

And that leaves me, I suppose. Who knows if the others had parents that brought them in their worlds, because I never asked...but I did. My own mother ate me so many times before I gathered enough strength to attack her throat or eyes RIGHT when I was birthed. And then I ran away, to be attacked somewhere in the jungle, or in the desert, or the lake that wasn't too far from my home. Something always lurked where I wanted to go; I know it did. But that's where the food, water and shelter was. And if I wanted those things, I was gonna have to get my hands dirty. Literally. There came the time to improve my body as well. Joints in my fingers were broken. Built up my pain tolerance, but broke a lot of bones in the process. But I found out that a good enough squeeze would shoot the remaining fragments out in a spray. Adding rocks and flint and whatever I could find only made those fragments more solid, and to a further extent, flammable. I pushed myself to grow until my muscles tore, now able to reach even taller than before. And all along, I didn’t know my survival through countless lives and deaths was all so that the Devil could have some muscle.

He put us here in this prison. His face, his body, his voice, everything about him had been burned into our minds, and we would gladly give another arm or leg or eye if it meant the chance to meet him face to face, and have him see firsthand just what he did to every single one of us. He stole our innocence, our sanity, our identities, and our beings from us. The Devil must be stopped. He must be killed.

 Mark my words. We will kill the jailer, and purge the Ultimate Evil from our lives. He will hear us. But for now…

 We wait for our chance.