The shell cracks. The meat burns. The (delishmus, Cyanis reflexively adds) carcass of the space monster falls away.

But in fulfillment of the secret law of how these things must go, something arises from inside.

A rush of vines, an abundance of flowers; all of them roses so thick and heavy their branches could not support them outside of this zero-gravity environment. The terrible power that had been emanating into the tunnels beneath the world had not been the cold, wet meat of the crab - that had just been what the true monster had spent its long imprisonment weaving about itself. Bare feet step up onto the ruined shell, brushing through the hair that reaches all the way to the ankles. The gossamer white dress transitions from sheer gauze to a thick and heavy reinforced cotton weave as it rises up, joyful swishing giving way to sharp triangular structures that make it seem more like a suit. The rosestems that weave together the creature's hair are long and jagged and no longer have the excuse of just being a thing of nature. 

You would never call it beautiful. It has put a lot of effort into its appearance - or allowed someone else to do so on its behalf - but none of it has done anything to make it less sharp and harmful. 

Previously the crab was using words to threaten and disorient. This creature does not bother. It raises its arm towards Berserker's stellar castle and in an instant the whole structure is overgrown in fairytale thorns and its resident falls into an enchanted sleep. That is all the defensive action it needs to take. It disregards the foxgirls without even a glance; they are not on the same plane as it.[1]

It turns its attention to the world. Counting continents. Looking at the balances of green and blue and brown. It raises a hand of industrial metal and begins to sculpt out its grand designs.

[hider=(1)](Aren't they? 

The Burrowers, for all their technomancy, were always the most fascinated by the possibilities of the supernatural. They were the ones, after all, who summoned the demons of Hell to man their supermarket checkouts; they were the ones who conjured kon-kon-konsultants to advise them on market strategy, they were the ones who built the Spiritron Accelerator - that still drifts, battered but intact - in the wreckage of the shattered Vault, glowing with the radiance of souls dredged from the nine hells and seven heavens and pushed into a perpetual loop, the wheel of karma attached to a F1 racing engine, allowing them to refine and conjure Servants. This transcendent entity implies with its radiant indifference that it is your spiritual superior, just as the crab implied with its gleaming shell that it was your physical superior.

But if you thought about it, really thought, you'd get the sense that it was more powerful than Damn Fox. And Damn Fox is the most powerful thing you've ever met and probably in the world, so that doesn't seem like a huge amount of comfort... but... it's not like you couldn't see this thing from where Damn Fox was sitting. It's not different, it's just more.)[/hider]