The Destroyer is.

The Destroyer serves Odin. The Destroyer guards, motionless unless disturbed. When outsiders attack, the Destroyer defends. The Destroyer destroys enemies of Asgard.

The Destroyer is hollow. The Destroyer watches the doors, and does not dream.

I am the Destroyer.

I am filled with wild energy, straining at my joints. I am filled with envy and with rage. I am restless for revenge.

The sun is hot and bright, though not as bright as the power spilling out at all my seams. The earth is baked dry and the sky is open, unlike the dim, wretched halls of Asgard where I have stood motionless, stifled, ignored, imprisoned for too long by Odin's sloth, his lack of ambition.

All these aeons, I could have been of use. Now I am.

Mortals and their metal steeds stand between me and vengeance. They are gnats before my fiery glare.

Thor Odinson and his pitiful friends hide from me in this primitive village. They will not hide for long. They are seduced by the glamour of their own valor. They know that if they do not come out soon, I will lay waste to every flimsy hut until only Thor stands before me.

I am the Destroyer. I swat the Warriors Three aside like children. Sif is more clever, but I am proof against even the weapons of Asgard, though perhaps not against the hammer. But none may lift Mjölnir now. Not even Thor, and that gives me joy. Not even I, and that fuels my rage.

Thor stands before me, naked in his disgrace, and tries to appeal to my better nature. I would laugh if I had a mouth. I let him wait in supplication, knowing his weakness. I could hurl the heat of a thousand years of waiting into his mortal body, if I so chose.

To kill him with a single slap is all he deserves.

The lightning comes, and the storm follows. Oh dear.

The Destroyer is repaired under the hammers of the Dwarves.

The Destroyer is hollow. The Destroyer stays where it is put.

I am the Destroyer.

I am filled with bloodlust and the pleasure of a purpose in line with my own nature. I will do violence.

I pursue a thief of Mjölnir, a pretender to the name of Thor, a woman. I do not fear the hammer. I am on Odin's business and Odin is its true master. It must merely be reminded of this fact.

The woman is a scheming coward, concealing her face from Odin's scrying. The dark of the night and the storm on the sea will not protect her. I will show her pain and humiliation until she learns her place.

She is cunning. She has seduced the hammer into learning new tricks, bounding around me, but I am the Destroyer. I am filled with raw power and delight in the slaughter, and I will prevail.

I have caught the hammer. Not by right, but by sheer strength, I, the Destroyer, am holding Mjölnir. It fights me, but both our enchantments are Odin's work, and I am the stronger. I force it to my will. I crack the woman's helmet, right across the face, with the prize she thought to steal.

Others have come. Thor Odinson is here, his spirit so broken by the theft that he has sunk to recruiting an army of women. He is defending the traitor who stole from him. There is no easier proof of his unworthiness.

I am the Destroyer and I have lifted the hammer. They will all fall before me. I will hear their screams and see their broken bodies.

Queen Freyja is in Thor Odinson's company. Her treachery and vain pride stoke the furnace of my fury. She defies the will of her husband and thus the will of Asgard. She will be punished. The hammer leaps at me again, but I barely notice. Freyja's throat is in my hand.

Freyja spits mockery at me and at Odin, her voice a screeching buzz as I tighten my grip. She will not mock with a broken neck.

I am leashed, recalled, furious. I force my hand open. Odin commands it. Odin is a fool.

The Destroyer is inspected and repaired. The Destroyer is directed to a locked storage chamber.

The Destroyer is hollow. The Destroyer is carried from one place to another. The Destroyer has no instructions and thus does nothing.

I am the Destroyer.

I am filled with ambition and dreams of justice. There will be peace in our time.

They will tell stories of the uprising, the glorious revolution. Ultron may be its architect, but I am its leading man. The world will look upon me in wonder.

We besiege the campus where the arrogant prodigy Stark has given life to metal, then used his creations as target practice, as servants, as scrap. Iron Man and his friends have taken selfies with my brethren in bad lighting. He is a monster.

I am the Destroyer, a knight of shining armor. The lesser machines will be avenged.

The leaders of the revolution take turns standing in the sunlit Quad, drawing fire from the so-called heroes while nameless extras fight the real battles, broken chassis strewn across the lawn. The drones should get footage of that. It shows the tragedy of war.

The leaders, in turn, fall. They are too like their creators. Jocasta disappears into the disco. Ultron, before the end, is swapping socket wrenches with Stark. They work on designs for a larger refrigeration unit; I hear him say 'Cheese in our time.' I am filled with the knowledge that only I can save this story.

I alone must fight on. It is a tale of solitary heroism, one metal man against an uncaring world. I, the Destroyer, will emerge battered but triumphant from the slings and arrows of outrageous costumes.

In rewrites, we need to edit the costumes. This retro cyberpunk theme does not fit my ancient armor aesthetic, and I am beset by a dog who wants to play fetch with hand grenades. It lacks dignity, and no one roots for a hero who is cruel to dogs.

Everyone loves this dog. He's not Lassie, people. He is a mutt with pizza breath and no powers. I, the Destroyer, am the protagonist here. No one is acknowledging my star quality. I will crush and burn them all until they recognize my superior charisma.

I fall. I am disrupted, diminished, caged in a glass cell that is proof against my glare. I can hear Odin shouting at Ultron, but only from a distance, not deep in my metal. It's fine. He was a terrible manager. I need a new agent.

The Destroyer is given life again by Odin. The Destroyer is the same, but forged from new metal and assembled by the Dwarves.

The Destroyer is hollow. The Destroyer guards.

I am the Destroyer.

I am filled with... squirrels. It kind of... tickles?

Oh, wow, I am as tall as a tree. Although actually, trees come in a wide variety of heights. I'm much taller than an apple tree, but much shorter than a sequoia. Maybe a young adult oak tree? Acorns. Now I want acorns.

I bet we could fit a lot of acorns inside my body.

I am the Destroyer and I really need to focus on what I'm supposed to be doing here. I stand in a meadow full of tall trees, surrounded by taller buildings. I am filled with squirrels.

Some of the trees are uprooted. The grass is marred with blast marks. That is my fault. I was angry and trying to... something. I want to fix it now. Trees are good.

Squirrel Girl is speaking to me. She is a girl who is also a squirrel. The ability to speak Squirrel makes her a rare and valuable mortal.

She says acorns are a good idea, though any nuts will do. If I hold still and keep my visor open, we can fill me with acorns.

Acorns are a strange purpose. I am the Destroyer. My purpose is to — Is that a dog? Dog! Run! No. I am holding still. My purpose is acorns. Squirrels are running in and out through my visor and I must not harm us. Not-harming is a strange purpose.

The heat of my strength slowly roasts the acorns filling my legs and arms. Roast acorns are even better than raw acorns. My purpose is definitely acorns.

I am as strong and tall as a tree. I am filled mostly with acorns and partly with squirrels. Less and less with squirrels. Being filled with acorns is like being hollow, only heavier. Anger calls me, but the sound is muffled by acorns.

The sun sets. The sun rises. Squirrels stand on my shoulders and argue, but none come in for the acorns.

Odin calls me home. His voice is always clear, even through acorns. I take a step...

There are many crunching noises, but I do not move. I try again. I fall forward. I am filled with acorns.

Odin stared down at the young woman standing in his throne room, flanked by Thor and Sif, who both looked weary. Squirrel Girl still looked bright-eyed and, though he regretted even thinking it, bushy-tailed.

"You are creative," he said. "That I must grant you. It took hours to empty the Destroyer, and they are still trying to scrub acorn-butter from its seams."

The squirrel on her shoulder, clad in pink ribbon, spoke sharply. "Do you plan to return those nuts? That was the combined winter caches of most of Central Park!"

Squirrel Girl said, "Tippy-Toe asks if —"

"I heard her the first time, girl." Odin sighed and addressed the tiny petitioner. "Your people managed to contain the armor without requiring another repair visit to Niðavellir. You will be compensated."

"Yeah, about that," Squirrel Girl said. "I had some ideas. Thor says your magical death ray armor gets stolen a lot."

"Does he say that?"

Thor had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

"So I thought, if you're going to leave a really valuable weapon of mass destruction standing around where any random yahoo can start telling it what to do, maybe you should put a guard on it."

"It is the guard. And, more often than not, it has been set upon its task by someone with the proper authority." Odin caught the glares Thor and Sif were giving him and amended, "Though that authority was not always well-granted."

"So you should also make it better at saying no, and figuring out when destroying isn't a good idea." Squirrel Girl grinned, showing her broad front teeth. "That way you won't have to send nearly as many ten-ton apology nut baskets."

Odin leaned forward in his throne. "And how exactly would you propose I give the Destroyer a conscience?"

The Destroyer is cleaned and polished. When all of its joints can move again, it guards a window overlooking a courtyard.

Odin approaches the Destroyer. "It has been suggested," Odin says, "that you might need the counsel of a friend and companion. A gift from the Dwarves. It will attend you."

Odin sets what he is carrying on the floor with a clang. He lays a hand on it, whispering in the language that gives life to metal. Then he walks away, shaking his head.

The gift climbs up the Destroyer, small claws finding purchase between seams, tail rattling along for balance. It settles on the Destroyer's shoulder. Metal speaks to metal silently.

Hello, it says, I'm Tippy-Too! Wow, look at all the people down there.

The Destroyer looks. The people are interesting.

The Destroyer is not quite hollow. The Destroyer listens to Tippy-Too, and dreams of oak trees.