https://newmonsterelection.com/en/

this is a work in progress this is not finished at all

July 19, 2026, night, was when the city of Nagasaki in Japan was hit by a tsunami. Used to this type of disaster, the nation had been expected to pick itself back up when the news had first hit, but it would soon turn out nothing about this disaster was *natural.*

With the tsunami propagating inwards, communications with the city were quickly drowned in darkness, which was baffling but quickly dismissed as a power outage as a result of the tsunami. However, the rescue personnel and the army realized right away that wasn’t the case when they stepped foot in the perimeters of the city.

The tsunami wasn’t the result of any of the usual causes. Instead, there was a gigantic *beast* rampaging throughout the city. The creature, large enough that if one were to put fifty humans on top of each other the one would *still* be unable to be eye level with it, was pitch black. It stood on its hind legs, bipedal, despite its crocodilian appearance and long arms. Its bumpy skin looked like it was fashioned out of rocks. Each stomp of its was heavy enough to cause a small earthquake on its own. And although biomechanics, anatomy and physics told us no body could support a creature of that size, it would casually rip apart the lines of reality with its agility, tearing through entire neighborhoods with its gallop.

The creature, would later be named Gojira, a combination of gorilla and whale. English audiences would dub its international name though, changed to Godzilla.

The destruction was immense. Nagasaki was torn apart, left floating on the sea in islets scattered.

The weaponry of human genius had failed to even slow it down.

Origin of the monster, its motivation for the attack and general behavior remained mystery for some time. There wasn’t much left of the city to even investigate.

One thing was clear, though. The plunge of the city to a communications nightmare definitely had Godzilla’s finger on it, although exactly how would become clear much later.

With the appearance of something previously thought impossible, the death of a million people overnight, and the erasing of a major city from existence, humanity fell to chaos. They wept, laughed, lost all hope. Some turned to religion, some to alcohol, others found to way to deal and fell.

But others, ones with stronger character, reacted. Stronger nations came to agreements, forced the weaker ones to have a stop at their conflicts for the time being. Alliance was nonnegotiable for survival. Research, technology, billions upon trillions were poured into it, looking for clues in places that had formerly evaded the human eye.

And they awaited, anxiously, for Godzilla to resurface.

It did.

Below the Following Events, Summarized, Shaping the World up to the Present

February 8, 2027. Godzilla’s second appearance.

\-The city of San Francisco is destroyed.

\-Researchers theorize its natural habitat is the Pacific Ocean. News run with the story and trigger a mass migration event throughout the body of water, incomparable in scale to any before.

\-Godzilla is tracked with satellite imagery during its retreat and hit by a nuclear warhead. Operation was unsuccessful.

\-Incredible amounts of energy is identified to be held inside Godzilla’s body, theorized to be the reason for why communications were cut in Nagasaki.

\-Millions dead, injured, without family or any income.

May 14, 2027. Godzilla’s third appearance.

\-The allied fleet conduct a new operation with the improved submarines. They lose.

\-Godzilla’s breath of death is witnessed for the first time.

May 25, 2027. Erika Shiragami, today infamous as Biollante, is discovered.

\-Desperate researchers step foot into the Nagasaki Warded Zone for the first time in a year and discover a survivor. A body torn apart by time and bacteria, finally stabilized by numerous plant life that penetrated within and created a symbiotic relationship. DNA analysis reveals fourteen year old teenager Erika and biochemical reaction of leftover biological material from Godzilla. Presumed brain dead, testing reveals otherwise.

\-A research center is built, and attempts at communication start.

June 2, 2027. Mothra is encountered.

\-The moth-like monster the size of a building appears literally out of thin air and rains health upon the victims of the massive Bukhara earthquake, only to disappear as it had appeared.

\-The motivations and the intelligence of monsters is questioned by both the public and researchers.

December 31, 2027. Godzilla’s fourth and Anguirus’ first appearance.

\-On New Year’s Eve, all systems warn Godzilla’s fast approach towards Mexico. Evacuation starts immediately, but the monster is strikingly fast, and it makes it to the shore in record time. All available personnel is mobilized as Godzilla tears through the country on its way to Mexico City.

\-About an estimated hour left for Godzilla to reach the city, an earthquake hits the region. First assumed to be great misfortune, humanity is stunned by the emergence of another one of the beasts from the earth. Dubbed Anguirus, the spiky monster takes on Godzilla.

\-It loses terribly, but time is bought.

\-Acting General Garret Bart prevents the use of the weapon developed to kill Godzilla. He cites that the weapon would hit Anguirus as well, and that the alliance of one of the beasts is more important. Later, he is sacked from his position.

\-Organizations created because of the event in Nagasaki across the world replace “Godzilla” from their name with a variant of *beast*, *monster*, *megafauna* and the such.

April 15, 2027. Aliens make first contact.

\-All over the world, governments and important organizations are contacted by who claims to be aliens.

\-The aliens are secretive and they do not share much information. However, they notify the humans that Godzilla is an enemy of them as well, and they offer aid in case of the next attack.

\-It is learnt that aliens are working on a weapon dubbed “King Gidorah.”

WARNING: This story may contain descriptions of destruction, death, and violence. Viewer discretion is advised.

Part 1: OPERATION YOKAI

The deep ocean does not know the sun, but on that morning, humanity brought a sun to the deep.

Dr. Daisuke Serizawa stood on the bridge of the military cruiser Satsuma, his single eye fixed on the black waters of the Pacific, miles above the Mariana Trench. Next to him, General Onodera chewed on an unlit cigar, his fingers twitching over the radio console. Beneath their feet, suspended by steel cables that groaned under immense tension, was the fruit of Operation Yokai.

"The Americans used raw fission," Onodera said, his voice a low gravel. "The Soviets chase fusion. But you, Doctor... you have given Japan something absolute."

Serizawa did not answer. His throat was tight. He had not sought to build a weapon. He had been studying the micro-physics of oxygen suppression—a way to study deep-sea ecosystems by temporarily removing life-sustaining gas from isolated pockets of water. He called it the Oxygen Destroyer. But the military had taken his equations, cross-referenced them with the stolen blueprints of a thermonuclear warhead, and forced him to build a chimera.

Operation Yokai was designed to create an artificial, microscopic vacuum inside a nuclear explosion. The theory was terrifyingly simple: the hydrogen bomb would crack open the earth, and the Oxygen Destroyer would instantly asphyxiate everything within a fifty-mile radius, leaving no fallout, only an absolute, clean erasure of life. A perfect deterrent.

"Payload detached," the intercom crackled. "The capsule has reached thirty thousand feet. Detonation in three... two... one..."

The sea did not erupt. It buckled.

A massive, inward crater formed on the surface of the ocean, a terrible blue-black whirlpool that swallowed the light. Then came the flash. It wasn't orange or yellow; it was a blinding, unnatural white that turned the deep water transparent for a split second. Through the hull of the Satsuma, a deep, sub-bass vibration tore through the crew’s teeth, making their noses bleed.

Miles below, the bomb did exactly what Serizawa feared. It didn't just destroy; it rewrote.

In the crushing dark of the trench, an ancient, prehistoric apex predator lay dormant, unchanged for millions of years. The thermonuclear blast tore its cells apart, but the vacuum of the Oxygen Destroyer didn't allow them to dissipate. Instead, the two forces fused, violently knitting the creature's dying biology back together with radioactive energy.

The beast did not die. It mutated. Its skin bubbled into charcoal-black keloid scars. Its blood turned to liquid fire. Its heart became a nuclear reactor.

As the Satsuma steamed away, the ocean behind them began to boil, casting a dark, jagged shadow toward the coast of Japan.

Part 2: SHADOWS OVER TOKYO BAY

Two weeks later, the sea began to give up its dead.

The fog over Tokyo Bay was thick, smelling heavily of burning ozone and rotten kelp. At the harbour police headquarters, the phones wouldn't stop ringing. Reports were flooding in from the fishing villages of Odo Island—entire fleets disappearing, only for their vessels to drift back into the harbour days later, completely silent.

Serizawa sat in a small patrol boat, accompanied by a handful of terrified soldiers. They boarded the Eiko-Maru, a commercial trawler found drifting three miles off the coast.

The air on deck was hot. Suffocatingly hot.

"What is that smell?" a young private gagged, pressing a cloth to his face. "It smells like... a furnace."

Serizawa stepped into the bridge. His boots stuck to the floor. Looking down, he realized the linoleum had melted. At the captain's wheel, there was no body. There was only a pile of fine, white calcium dust and a tattered uniform. The oxygen in the room had been so violently stripped away in an instant that the crew hadn't even had time to scream; their bodies had simply sublimated into ash.

"Doctor," a soldier called out from the deck, his voice cracking with horror. "Look at the water."

Serizawa walked to the railing. The pristine blue of Tokyo Bay was gone. The water was a stagnant, boiling black, rippling with a faint, radioactive luminescence. Thousands of dead fish floated on the surface, their scales burned away, their flesh covered in the same bubbling, keloid textures Serizawa had seen in the medical logs of atomic bomb survivors.

Suddenly, the water grew quiet. The gentle lapping of the waves stopped.

From the center of the bay, a massive, low-frequency hum began to vibrate through the hull of the patrol boat. The water didn't crest; it rose in a terrifying, mountain-like swell. Through the dark fog, a massive, jagged silhouette appeared—dorsal plates shaped like broken flint, crackling with a faint, lethal white light.

The beast didn't attack. It simply breathed. A single, heavy exhale of superheated air rolled across the water, stripping the paint off the patrol boat and sending the soldiers to their knees, gasping for air that was no longer there.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the shadow sank back into the black depths, leaving Tokyo in a terrifying, suffocating silence.

Part 3: THE UNSTOPPABLE MARCH

The night Tokyo died, the sky was the colour of a bruised vein.

Gojira rose from the harbor at midnight. He did not run. He did not hunt. He simply advanced. He was a walking monument to human cruelty, a charcoal-black colossus moving with a slow, agonizing deliberation that defied the laws of nature.

"Artillery! Fire at will!" General Onodera roared from the reinforced bunker in the Ginza district.

The night exploded. A battery of 155mm Type 30 howitzers opened fire from the ridgeline, shaking the city’s foundations. Dozens of high-explosive shells tore through the smoke, scoring direct, blinding impacts across Gojira's chest and shoulders. The explosions blossomed in brilliant bursts of orange fire.

The smoke cleared, and the cosmic dread settled over the city like a physical weight. Gojira hadn't even slowed down. The artillery shells had done nothing but chip away tiny fragments of his keloid hide. The open wounds didn't bleed red; they hissed with a boiling, translucent vapour as his mutated cells healed the damage in real-time.

To Gojira, humanity wasn't an enemy to fight; we were insects to be stepped on during his inevitable march. He moved with a brutal, crushing rhythm, each step a tectonic event that flattened entire city blocks.

Squadrons of F-86 Sabre jets screamed overhead, diving out of the clouds to unleash volleys of unguided rockets. The projectiles zipped through the air, striking Gojira directly in his dead, white eye.

The monster stopped.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over Tokyo. The agonizing, slow-motion grace of his march ceased. Slowly, Gojira turned his massive, scarred head toward the fighter jets.

Deep within his chest, a sub-bass vibration began to shake the city. The jagged plates along his spine began to ignite—not with light, but with a terrifying, absolute absence of colour. The Oxygen Destroyer aspect of his creation manifested. The air around his dorsal fins liquefied as the oxygen in the atmosphere was violently torn apart.

The fighter jets tried to pull up, but their engines choked in the sudden vacuum. They spiraled uncontrollably into the burning streets below.

Gojira opened his maw.

A beam of pure, blinding white, hyper-concentrated atomic death erupted from his jaws. It wasn't a stream of fire; it was a laser of pure erasure. The beam swept across the horizon in a brutal, sweeping arc. Where the beam touched, reality dissolved. Steel-reinforced skyscrapers didn't collapse; they sublimated, turning instantly from solid metal to glowing, vaporized gas.

The beam sliced through the command bunker's upper level. Through the reinforced glass of the lower tier, Serizawa watched a wave of pure heat incinerate General Onodera and fifty communication officers in less than a millisecond. Their shadows were permanently seared into the concrete walls behind them.

Tokyo was no longer a city. It was a glowing, toxic graveyard, and the fire was still walking.

ACT IV: THE ABSOLUTION OF DAISUKE SERIZAWA

The desk in the ruined research facility was covered in a layer of fine, grey ash. The power was long gone, but the rhythmic, blinding flashes of white light from the horizon illuminated the small leather journal where Dr. Daisuke Serizawa wrote his final words. His hand was steady, though the radiation sickness had already stained his fingernails black.

October 11th.
Science is not inherently evil, but humanity is inherently arrogant. We sought to control the ultimate flame by binding it to the ultimate vacuum. We thought we were forging a sword to protect our borders. Instead, we tore a hole in the fabric of Genesis, and what crawled out belongs to no country.
Gojira is not a monster. He is a mirror. He is the physical weight of our sins, walking the earth to collect the debt we owe. There is no formula to reverse him. There is no weapon that can kill an apocalypse. The only way to close the gates of hell is for the ones who opened them to step inside.
May whatever gods remain forgive me. I am going home.

Serizawa closed the journal. He didn't put on a hazard suit. He didn't carry a weapon. Wearing only his tattered lab coat, his boots crunching over shattered glass and calcified bones, he walked out into the toxic, glowing fog of the Ginza district.

The heat was suffocating. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the phantom screams of a vaporized civilization.

A quarter-mile ahead, the mountain of charcoal-black flesh moved through the ruins. Gojira’s dorsal plates crackled with that terrifying, absolute white luminescence, casting Serizawa’s lone shadow far behind him. Every step the beast took caused the earth to ripple, sending shockwaves through the soles of Serizawa's boots.

Serizawa stopped in the middle of a melted intersection. He looked up.

Gojira paused. The colossal entity turned its massive, scarred head downward. For the first time since it had emerged from Tokyo Bay, the beast lowered its gaze. Its dead, unblinking eyes fixed directly onto the tiny, frail man standing in the ruins. There was no anger in those eyes—only a cold, cosmic neutrality. It was the gaze of an executioner looking at the condemned.

Serizawa didn't run. He took off his eyepatch, letting it drop into the ash, exposing his ruined face to the monster he had engineered. He opened his arms wide, a bitter, peaceful smile breaking through his cracked lips.

"I am ready," Serizawa whispered.

Gojira opened his massive jaw. Deep within his throat, the blinding white light of the Oxygen Destroyer and the Hydrogen Bomb swirled together. The air around Serizawa instantly turned to plasma.

There was no explosion. There was only a flash of absolute, blinding purity.

In a fraction of a millisecond, Serizawa's flesh sublimated into ash. His bones dissolved into liquid calcium, and his very essence was torn apart at the atomic level, erased from existence. The heat was so profound that his silhouette was seared into the melted asphalt beneath him—a permanent shadow of a man bowing to his creator.

Gojira did not roar. He did not celebrate. With his creator gone, the ancient titan turned his back on the ruined, silent wasteland of Tokyo and stepped back into the black, boiling waters of the bay, disappearing into the dark ocean, leaving humanity to weep in the ashes of their own creation.

The Geneva summit was cold, but the air inside the briefing room felt entirely frozen.

Six months after the erasure of Tokyo, the world was still trying to piece together how a metropolis of seven million people had vanished in a single night. The official narrative had been stamped, sealed, and broadcast by the Japanese provisional government within forty-eight hours of the catastrophe: a tragic, catastrophic failure of an American thermonuclear transport plane, resulting in an unsanctioned, atmospheric nuclear detonation over the heart of Japan.

The Americans had denied it, of course. But they had no counter-narrative that the public would believe. Who else possessed the power to turn a capital city into a glass plain?

In the dimly lit basement of the Allied Intelligence headquarters in Zurich, Agent Harrison flicked his lighter, illuminating a stack of glossy, high-contrast photographs. Opposite him sat Minister Matsui, a tight-lipped representative of Japan's newly formed Ministry of Reconstruction.

"The official report says a single, fifty-megaton airburst," Harrison said, sliding the first photograph across the table. It showed the Ginza district—or what was left of it. A perfectly flat, Vitrified sheet of black glass stretching to the horizon. "But our seismographs didn't register a standard atomic shockwave, Minister. They registered a rhythmic, pulsing tremor. Like footsteps. Over a three-hour period."

Matsui didn't blink. "The secondary explosions of the city's gas lines and infrastructure fouled the data, Agent Harrison. It is a tragedy. But a human one. An American mistake."

Harrison didn't argue. Instead, he slid the final photograph across the table.

It was a close-up of a melted intersection near the center of the blast radius. The asphalt had boiled and hardened into a black wave, but in the center of the frame, the intense heat had permanently bleached the stone. It was a silhouette. A perfect shadow of a man, his arms thrown wide in an attitude of absolute surrender, facing a massive, impossible curve of darkness that looked like the foot of a mountain.

"We found Dr. Serizawa’s journal in a bunker on the outskirts before your military quarantined the zone," Harrison whispered, leaning forward. "He didn't write about an American plane, Matsui. He wrote about a name. Yokai."

For the first time, Matsui’s stoic facade cracked. His jaw tightened. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a fountain pen, and carefully signed the non-disclosure agreement resting between them.

"The truth helps no one, Agent," Matsui said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If the world learns that we built a weapon that tore open the fabric of nature, the Soviets will try to replicate it. The Americans will try to seize it. And our people... our people will realize that their own government brought the devil to their doorstep."

"And if it comes back?" Harrison asked.

Matsui stood up, buttoning his coat. He looked at the photograph of Serizawa’s shadow, a permanent stain of war guilt left behind on the earth.

"Then we pray the next city it chooses belongs to the Americans," Matsui said.

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Harrison alone in the dark. Outside, far across the Atlantic, the black waters of the ocean remained perfectly still.

This is a Gojira horror story I made. This is the rough draft, so... lemme know what ya'll think :)

A quick sketch I did a few minutes ago.

Hi everyone,

Tonight my good friends over at Kaiju Live are hosting a charity live stream with all proceeds going to the National MS Society. 8p-12a Eastern.

Art, collectibles, and some really cool stuff up for grabs.

Donations from Bob Eggelton, Matt Frank, Attack Peter, Chris McVillain, Justin Morcillo and so much more!

Please join us as we seek to Destroy All MS 🖤💚

Obviously with anything in the public domain you can do what you want with them. Having finished GxK: New Empire recently though I can’t help but wonder: What if Public Domain Kaijus had evolved like Godzilla? What are some additions to them you would want to see? Which one would be the strongest? I know there is no solid answer to this, just wanted to see what your guy’s thoughts were because the concept sounds cool.

WARNING: This story may contain descriptions of destruction, death, and violence. Viewer discretion is advised.

Part 1: OPERATION YOKAI

The deep ocean does not know the sun, but on that morning, humanity brought a sun to the deep.

Dr. Daisuke Serizawa stood on the bridge of the military cruiser Satsuma, his single eye fixed on the black waters of the Pacific, miles above the Mariana Trench. Next to him, General Onodera chewed on an unlit cigar, his fingers twitching over the radio console. Beneath their feet, suspended by steel cables that groaned under immense tension, was the fruit of Operation Yokai.

"The Americans used raw fission," Onodera said, his voice a low gravel. "The Soviets chase fusion. But you, Doctor... you have given Japan something absolute."

Serizawa did not answer. His throat was tight. He had not sought to build a weapon. He had been studying the micro-physics of oxygen suppression—a way to study deep-sea ecosystems by temporarily removing life-sustaining gas from isolated pockets of water. He called it the Oxygen Destroyer. But the military had taken his equations, cross-referenced them with the stolen blueprints of a thermonuclear warhead, and forced him to build a chimera.

Operation Yokai was designed to create an artificial, microscopic vacuum inside a nuclear explosion. The theory was terrifyingly simple: the hydrogen bomb would crack open the earth, and the Oxygen Destroyer would instantly asphyxiate everything within a fifty-mile radius, leaving no fallout, only an absolute, clean erasure of life. A perfect deterrent.

"Payload detached," the intercom crackled. "The capsule has reached thirty thousand feet. Detonation in three... two... one..."

The sea did not erupt. It buckled.

A massive, inward crater formed on the surface of the ocean, a terrible blue-black whirlpool that swallowed the light. Then came the flash. It wasn't orange or yellow; it was a blinding, unnatural white that turned the deep water transparent for a split second. Through the hull of the Satsuma, a deep, sub-bass vibration tore through the crew’s teeth, making their noses bleed.

Miles below, the bomb did exactly what Serizawa feared. It didn't just destroy; it rewrote.

In the crushing dark of the trench, an ancient, prehistoric apex predator lay dormant, unchanged for millions of years. The thermonuclear blast tore its cells apart, but the vacuum of the Oxygen Destroyer didn't allow them to dissipate. Instead, the two forces fused, violently knitting the creature's dying biology back together with radioactive energy.

The beast did not die. It mutated. Its skin bubbled into charcoal-black keloid scars. Its blood turned to liquid fire. Its heart became a nuclear reactor.

As the Satsuma steamed away, the ocean behind them began to boil, casting a dark, jagged shadow toward the coast of Japan.

Part 2: SHADOWS OVER TOKYO BAY

Two weeks later, the sea began to give up its dead.

The fog over Tokyo Bay was thick, smelling heavily of burning ozone and rotten kelp. At the harbour police headquarters, the phones wouldn't stop ringing. Reports were flooding in from the fishing villages of Odo Island—entire fleets disappearing, only for their vessels to drift back into the harbour days later, completely silent.

Serizawa sat in a small patrol boat, accompanied by a handful of terrified soldiers. They boarded the Eiko-Maru, a commercial trawler found drifting three miles off the coast.

The air on deck was hot. Suffocatingly hot.

"What is that smell?" a young private gagged, pressing a cloth to his face. "It smells like... a furnace."

Serizawa stepped into the bridge. His boots stuck to the floor. Looking down, he realized the linoleum had melted. At the captain's wheel, there was no body. There was only a pile of fine, white calcium dust and a tattered uniform. The oxygen in the room had been so violently stripped away in an instant that the crew hadn't even had time to scream; their bodies had simply sublimated into ash.

"Doctor," a soldier called out from the deck, his voice cracking with horror. "Look at the water."

Serizawa walked to the railing. The pristine blue of Tokyo Bay was gone. The water was a stagnant, boiling black, rippling with a faint, radioactive luminescence. Thousands of dead fish floated on the surface, their scales burned away, their flesh covered in the same bubbling, keloid textures Serizawa had seen in the medical logs of atomic bomb survivors.

Suddenly, the water grew quiet. The gentle lapping of the waves stopped.

From the center of the bay, a massive, low-frequency hum began to vibrate through the hull of the patrol boat. The water didn't crest; it rose in a terrifying, mountain-like swell. Through the dark fog, a massive, jagged silhouette appeared—dorsal plates shaped like broken flint, crackling with a faint, lethal white light.

The beast didn't attack. It simply breathed. A single, heavy exhale of superheated air rolled across the water, stripping the paint off the patrol boat and sending the soldiers to their knees, gasping for air that was no longer there.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the shadow sank back into the black depths, leaving Tokyo in a terrifying, suffocating silence.

Part 3: THE UNSTOPPABLE MARCH

The night Tokyo died, the sky was the colour of a bruised vein.

Gojira rose from the harbor at midnight. He did not run. He did not hunt. He simply advanced. He was a walking monument to human cruelty, a charcoal-black colossus moving with a slow, agonizing deliberation that defied the laws of nature.

"Artillery! Fire at will!" General Onodera roared from the reinforced bunker in the Ginza district.

The night exploded. A battery of 155mm Type 30 howitzers opened fire from the ridgeline, shaking the city’s foundations. Dozens of high-explosive shells tore through the smoke, scoring direct, blinding impacts across Gojira's chest and shoulders. The explosions blossomed in brilliant bursts of orange fire.

The smoke cleared, and the cosmic dread settled over the city like a physical weight. Gojira hadn't even slowed down. The artillery shells had done nothing but chip away tiny fragments of his keloid hide. The open wounds didn't bleed red; they hissed with a boiling, translucent vapour as his mutated cells healed the damage in real-time.

To Gojira, humanity wasn't an enemy to fight; we were insects to be stepped on during his inevitable march. He moved with a brutal, crushing rhythm, each step a tectonic event that flattened entire city blocks.

Squadrons of F-86 Sabre jets screamed overhead, diving out of the clouds to unleash volleys of unguided rockets. The projectiles zipped through the air, striking Gojira directly in his dead, white eye.

The monster stopped.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over Tokyo. The agonizing, slow-motion grace of his march ceased. Slowly, Gojira turned his massive, scarred head toward the fighter jets.

Deep within his chest, a sub-bass vibration began to shake the city. The jagged plates along his spine began to ignite—not with light, but with a terrifying, absolute absence of colour. The Oxygen Destroyer aspect of his creation manifested. The air around his dorsal fins liquefied as the oxygen in the atmosphere was violently torn apart.

The fighter jets tried to pull up, but their engines choked in the sudden vacuum. They spiraled uncontrollably into the burning streets below.

Gojira opened his maw.

A beam of pure, blinding white, hyper-concentrated atomic death erupted from his jaws. It wasn't a stream of fire; it was a laser of pure erasure. The beam swept across the horizon in a brutal, sweeping arc. Where the beam touched, reality dissolved. Steel-reinforced skyscrapers didn't collapse; they sublimated, turning instantly from solid metal to glowing, vaporized gas.

The beam sliced through the command bunker's upper level. Through the reinforced glass of the lower tier, Serizawa watched a wave of pure heat incinerate General Onodera and fifty communication officers in less than a millisecond. Their shadows were permanently seared into the concrete walls behind them.

Tokyo was no longer a city. It was a glowing, toxic graveyard, and the fire was still walking.

ACT IV: THE ABSOLUTION OF DAISUKE SERIZAWA

The desk in the ruined research facility was covered in a layer of fine, grey ash. The power was long gone, but the rhythmic, blinding flashes of white light from the horizon illuminated the small leather journal where Dr. Daisuke Serizawa wrote his final words. His hand was steady, though the radiation sickness had already stained his fingernails black.

October 11th.
Science is not inherently evil, but humanity is inherently arrogant. We sought to control the ultimate flame by binding it to the ultimate vacuum. We thought we were forging a sword to protect our borders. Instead, we tore a hole in the fabric of Genesis, and what crawled out belongs to no country.
Gojira is not a monster. He is a mirror. He is the physical weight of our sins, walking the earth to collect the debt we owe. There is no formula to reverse him. There is no weapon that can kill an apocalypse. The only way to close the gates of hell is for the ones who opened them to step inside.
May whatever gods remain forgive me. I am going home.

Serizawa closed the journal. He didn't put on a hazard suit. He didn't carry a weapon. Wearing only his tattered lab coat, his boots crunching over shattered glass and calcified bones, he walked out into the toxic, glowing fog of the Ginza district.

The heat was suffocating. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the phantom screams of a vaporized civilization.

A quarter-mile ahead, the mountain of charcoal-black flesh moved through the ruins. Gojira’s dorsal plates crackled with that terrifying, absolute white luminescence, casting Serizawa’s lone shadow far behind him. Every step the beast took caused the earth to ripple, sending shockwaves through the soles of Serizawa's boots.

Serizawa stopped in the middle of a melted intersection. He looked up.

Gojira paused. The colossal entity turned its massive, scarred head downward. For the first time since it had emerged from Tokyo Bay, the beast lowered its gaze. Its dead, unblinking eyes fixed directly onto the tiny, frail man standing in the ruins. There was no anger in those eyes—only a cold, cosmic neutrality. It was the gaze of an executioner looking at the condemned.

Serizawa didn't run. He took off his eyepatch, letting it drop into the ash, exposing his ruined face to the monster he had engineered. He opened his arms wide, a bitter, peaceful smile breaking through his cracked lips.

"I am ready," Serizawa whispered.

Gojira opened his massive jaw. Deep within his throat, the blinding white light of the Oxygen Destroyer and the Hydrogen Bomb swirled together. The air around Serizawa instantly turned to plasma.

There was no explosion. There was only a flash of absolute, blinding purity.

In a fraction of a millisecond, Serizawa's flesh sublimated into ash. His bones dissolved into liquid calcium, and his very essence was torn apart at the atomic level, erased from existence. The heat was so profound that his silhouette was seared into the melted asphalt beneath him—a permanent shadow of a man bowing to his creator.

Gojira did not roar. He did not celebrate. With his creator gone, the ancient titan turned his back on the ruined, silent wasteland of Tokyo and stepped back into the black, boiling waters of the bay, disappearing into the dark ocean, leaving humanity to weep in the ashes of their own creation.

The Geneva summit was cold, but the air inside the briefing room felt entirely frozen.

Six months after the erasure of Tokyo, the world was still trying to piece together how a metropolis of seven million people had vanished in a single night. The official narrative had been stamped, sealed, and broadcast by the Japanese provisional government within forty-eight hours of the catastrophe: a tragic, catastrophic failure of an American thermonuclear transport plane, resulting in an unsanctioned, atmospheric nuclear detonation over the heart of Japan.

The Americans had denied it, of course. But they had no counter-narrative that the public would believe. Who else possessed the power to turn a capital city into a glass plain?

In the dimly lit basement of the Allied Intelligence headquarters in Zurich, Agent Harrison flicked his lighter, illuminating a stack of glossy, high-contrast photographs. Opposite him sat Minister Matsui, a tight-lipped representative of Japan's newly formed Ministry of Reconstruction.

"The official report says a single, fifty-megaton airburst," Harrison said, sliding the first photograph across the table. It showed the Ginza district—or what was left of it. A perfectly flat, Vitrified sheet of black glass stretching to the horizon. "But our seismographs didn't register a standard atomic shockwave, Minister. They registered a rhythmic, pulsing tremor. Like footsteps. Over a three-hour period."

Matsui didn't blink. "The secondary explosions of the city's gas lines and infrastructure fouled the data, Agent Harrison. It is a tragedy. But a human one. An American mistake."

Harrison didn't argue. Instead, he slid the final photograph across the table.

It was a close-up of a melted intersection near the center of the blast radius. The asphalt had boiled and hardened into a black wave, but in the center of the frame, the intense heat had permanently bleached the stone. It was a silhouette. A perfect shadow of a man, his arms thrown wide in an attitude of absolute surrender, facing a massive, impossible curve of darkness that looked like the foot of a mountain.

"We found Dr. Serizawa’s journal in a bunker on the outskirts before your military quarantined the zone," Harrison whispered, leaning forward. "He didn't write about an American plane, Matsui. He wrote about a name. Yokai."

For the first time, Matsui’s stoic facade cracked. His jaw tightened. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a fountain pen, and carefully signed the non-disclosure agreement resting between them.

"The truth helps no one, Agent," Matsui said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If the world learns that we built a weapon that tore open the fabric of nature, the Soviets will try to replicate it. The Americans will try to seize it. And our people... our people will realize that their own government brought the devil to their doorstep."

"And if it comes back?" Harrison asked.

Matsui stood up, buttoning his coat. He looked at the photograph of Serizawa’s shadow, a permanent stain of war guilt left behind on the earth.

"Then we pray the next city it chooses belongs to the Americans," Matsui said.

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Harrison alone in the dark. Outside, far across the Atlantic, the black waters of the ocean remained perfectly still.

This is a Gojira horror story I made. This is the rough draft, so... lemme know what ya'll think :)

I don't really do multiplayer much and I never really looked into GigaBash much.

Finally got around to it, and those DLC packs are insane. Having Godzilla, Ultraman, Gamera, and a Sentai-esque team all available in a modern fighting game is nuts.

Also how's it run on Steam? Bought this laptop a few years ago but I'm guessing it'll probably still run a game like Gigabash pretty smoothly. Options would be laptop or Switch 1.