Chapter Text
Ariake Maritime Base, Tokyo
Narumi Gen kicks open the door, his coat fluttering, grinning like he just won the lottery but with blood still drying on his face.
"Oi! Guess who soloed a kaiju the size of a small prefecture while screaming cool one-liners the whole way down?!”
Hoshina was seated calmly at the table, quietly flipping through the newspaper. The headline reads: "Vice-Captain Hoshina Delivers Decisive Blow in Shinjuku Kaiju Incident.”
He sips his tea without looking up, a ghost smile on his lips. "Ah. You’re welcome.”
Narumi rips out the paper from the black hair man and shoves it in Hoshina’s face, reading out loud the lines.
"‘Hoshina’s elegance in battle... unmatched.’ Elegance?!“ Narumi looks horrified, as if a Kaiju had step on his 55-inch 4K TV and his PS5, which as might as well have been. “Bro, you were on evac duty! I was out there looking like a human missile!"
Hoshina turns a page in Narumi’s hand nonchalantly, sipping through his tea. "People love elegance. Also, you landed like a bag of bricks wrapped in profanity."
Narumi slouches on the table, mock-crying. "I tore through that thing's spinal column mid-air! I yelled, ‘Your chiropractor sends his regards!’ It was cinematic ! And what do I get?"
Hoshina reaches over and pats Narumi’s head like a dog. Narumi turns his head and perform a big bite just miliseconds before Hoshina’s hand retreated. "There, there. You’ll be a hero one day, I know it .”
Narumi, deadpan, hold up his phone to Narumi. "I posted my helmet-cam footage with epic music. All the comments are ‘Wow! Hoshina’s so humble for not stealing credit.’ I’M NOT EVEN IN FRAME."
Smirking, Hoshino got up from his seat and walked to the water station. Another tea sounds good, preferably Jasmine Tea if they have in stock.
"Should've brought a selfie drone.”
Narumi throws the newspaper onto the floor like a shuriken, screeching onto the whole room.
"Next time, I'm slapping a name tag on my punches! ‘Property of Gen Narumi, DO NOT CREDIT HOSHINA.’"
Narumi paced the command room like a prophet wronged by history, arms flailing, shirt half-unbuttoned, blood still crusting on his sleeve for dramatic effect. “I mean, honestly,” he began, voice already climbing into preacher-mode, “was I not magnificent out there?! I rained from the sky like judgment itself! I sliced that thing’s spinal column mid-air with such precision I deserve a medical license and a film deal!”
He spun toward Hoshina, who remained stood, entirely unbothered, stirring his newly brew tea like they hadn’t just saved Tokyo from a building-sized monstrosity.
“But do they care? Noooo,” Narumi groaned. “Who gets the credit? You! Mr. Clean Slice ! The elegant swordsman with his deadly calm! The article literally said ‘Hoshina glided through the battlefield like a blade through silk’ WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”
He threw up his hands and looked to the ceiling, as if the gods themselves were to blame.
“I want a statue. Full-sized. No. Twice my actual height. Abs sculpted by Michelangelo himself. And when people walk past, it should shout my name in surround sound! 'GEN NARUMI: SAVIOR OF SKY AND SOIL!'”
He clutched at an imaginary heart. “The least they could do is set up better cameras! High-res drones! Night vision! I bled for that footage, and all I got was a blurry silhouette and a grandma in the comments going, ‘Nice form, Hoshina-chan ❤️.’ I SWEAR-!”
At that precise moment, the door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall. Kikoru Shinomiya stood in the doorway, hair bright and wild as flame, her eyes sharp enough to file metal. If looks could kill, Narumi would've been a smear on the floor.
“Captain Narumi,” she said with all the warmth of a winter cliffside, “you had a high-level strategy meeting. Five minutes more. With the Joint Operations Council.”
Narumi blinked. “Ohhh. That meeting.”
Kikoru didn’t blink. “Yes. That meeting. The one where we were supposed to discuss coordinated global kaiju response strategies. Where your seat is empty.”
Narumi scratched the back of his neck, trying to look sheepish but somehow still managing to smirk. “Right, right. I got... uh. Distracted.”
“By what?” she snapped.
He gestured vaguely at the air. “Justice. Art. The betrayal of online discourse.”
Kikoru took one step forward. “I will staple you to that chair next time.”
“Promises, promises,” Narumi muttered under his breath. “Why did I replace Hasegawa with you in the first place.”
Hoshina, still seated, finally set down his tea and sighed. “Better go. She only threatens physical violence when she’s holding back the real rage.”
Kikoru’s eye twitched. “Move.”
Narumi saluted dramatically, grabbed his coat, and began striding toward the door like a man heading into battle.
“Fine, fine. Let’s go strategize or whatever. But if they ask where I was, tell them I was doing something epic. Something heroic. Something statue-worthy.”
As he passed Hoshina, he leaned in and whispered, “If I die in that meeting, make sure they sculpt my good side.”
Hoshina didn’t even look up. “You don’t have one.”
As Narumi made a grand show of exiting, Kikka remained by the door, one foot tapping, arms crossed like she could crush a full-grown kaiju with sheer impatience. She glanced back precisely, sharply toward Hoshina.
“You’re coming too Vice-Captain,” she said flatly.
Hoshina raised a brow without moving. “Pretty sure I’m not on the schedule.”
“You are now. The meeting’s for all Eastern Division Captains and Vice-Captains,” she replied, already turning to leave.
He tilted his head slightly. “Since when?”
Kikoru let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a curse. “Since the higher-ups realized we might have to coordinate with *other nations* for once. This is the pre-brief before the global summit.”
Hoshina didn’t ask more, he could tell from her tone she knew exactly as much as he did: not much. He reached for his teacup, took one last thoughtful sip, then set it down gently. “They always seem to need us most when the tea’s just right.” Sliding his katana into place, he followed her out without fanfare.
Before anyone could say anything, the comms panel on the wall beeped to life. A red light blinked once. Then again. Then it turned solid. A synthetic female voice came through the intercom: calm, clipped, and unmistakably urgent.
"Attention: Captain Narumi, Vice-Captain Hoshina, and Vice-Captain Shinomiya. You are requested to report to Central Briefing Room B7. Internal pre-summit briefing with command is scheduled to begin in ten minutes. Attendance is mandatory.”
The door hissed open with a pneumatic sigh far too dramatic for its own good. Inside, the briefing room was already packed—officers in uniform seated in crisp rows, heads turning in unison as the last trio arrived like delinquent students summoned to the principal’s office. Narumi was the first to stroll in, hands in his coat pockets, his gum cracking louder than the tension in the room. “Wow. Didn’t realize we were late to a funeral,” he muttered.
Hoshina followed with considerably less noise, though his steps were deliberate, calm, like someone used to walking into rooms full of judgmental faces. “They started early,” he said to no one in particular, scanning the faces. “Guess the clock here runs on ‘brass time.’”
Kikoru walked in last, straight-backed and silent. Unlike the two beside her, she at least had the decency to offer a curt nod to the General at the front. The General didn’t return the gesture.
“Nice of you three to join us,” someone at the far end said flatly, one of the logistics heads, voice dry as paper.
Narumi pulled out a chair with an exaggerated screech and flopped into it. Kikoru sat beside him without a word, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Hoshina took the seat on her other side, unbothered. Silence hung for a beat too long, then the General cleared his throat.
“Now that we’re all present, we’ll proceed. This briefing concerns the international summit scheduled for next week, where JAKDF will be expected to represent the Asia-Pacific front.”
Narumi leaned toward Hoshina and whispered, “Hope they let us bring weapons. I’m way better at talking with explosions.”
Kikoru didn’t turn, didn’t even blink. “They’ll let you bring a pen. Try not to stab anyone with it.”
Narumi looked disappointed. Hoshina smiled faintly and settled in. “This’ll be fun.”
A sharp flick of a light switch, followed by the crisp tap of a keyboard, drew their eyes to the screen as the projector whirred to life. The words “Global Kaiju Containment Summit (GKCS)” appeared, stark and imposing, against a darkened backdrop. The slide transitioned slowly, now displaying photographs of international personnel, several of whom Kikoru recognized with a slight narrowing of her gaze.
“The summit will convene representatives from every national Kaiju Defense Force,” the General began, his tone measured. “This year, China has accepted the mantle of host and scheduled for July. While final confirmations are pending, a few nations have already shortlisted top-tier operatives for delegation.”
Narumi tilted back in his chair with casual skepticism. “Isn’t that unusually early? The summit’s typically in October.”
The slide shifted again, this time to a sharply ascending graph painted in ominous reds and yellows.
“The change is driven by the data,” the General said grimly. “Kaiju activity is escalating at an unprecedented pace.”
He gestured at the screen.
“Currently, Minor Kaiju Alerts are being logged three to five times per week. Minor Kaiju Operations, once monthly, have now surged to two or three during particularly volatile periods. And we’re not even halfway through January, yet the JAKDF has already conducted four such operations. More concerning, however, is the statistical trajectory of Catastrophic or sentient-class Kaiju, previously limited to one or two incidents annually. Current models suggest their emergence may soon become routine.”
He paused before continuing.
“And these figures are not isolated to Japan. Kaiju manifestations are rising globally with notable spikes across the Americas, and mirrored patterns in several other regions.”
The general let the graph linger on screen for a moment longer before clicking to the next slide this one a world map, littered with red markers. Several clustered around Japan, but others pulsed over the Pacific, along the U.S. West Coast, inland China, Southeast Asia, Eastern Europe, and even the southern coast of Africa.
“This isn’t a localized crisis anymore,” he said, voice low. “It’s a planetary one.”
A soft murmur spread among the seated officers. The general continued.
“The United States has reported a 180% increase in Kaiju emergence compared to this quarter last year. Their East Coast, previously quiet, is now seeing mid-tier threats. Their Western seaboard remains under constant surveillance, and HAWKS has expanded recruitment for the first time in a decade.”
He tapped the remote, and the map zoomed into the Asian region.
“China, while hosting the summit, is dealing with its own inland incursions specifically near the mountainous western provinces. They’ve reactivated dormant military bases and deployed what they’re calling ‘reactive armor cities.’ Think of mobile urban fortresses.”
Another tap, and Europe lit up.
“The European Coalition has been slow to unify under a single directive, but France, Germany, and Poland have each mobilized Kaiju Tactical Units. However, their lack of centralized training makes containment volatile at best.”
Narumi leaned over to Kikoru and muttered, “Bet half of them still think Kaiju are an Asian problem.”
“South Korea and Indonesia,” the General pressed on, “have reported anomalies in deep sea seismic activity; not yet surface-level Kaiju, but precursors. Australia is also seeing burrowing-type Kaiju emerging near their mining belts.”
He clicked again. The GKCS emblem, two rings intersecting over a silhouette of Earth filled the screen.
“This is why the Global Kaiju Containment Summit exists. Not just for diplomacy but to synchronize intelligence, technology, tactics, and, where necessary, personnel. The age of each country handling its own Kaiju problem is over. This is now an international front.”
Silence fell for a moment, heavy as steel. Then the General’s voice cut clean through it.
“We’ll receive pre-summit directives and required contingents by the end of the month. Each division will be expected to nominate operatives for both strategic discussions and inter-force training exercises. You are to prepare your best.”
A hand went up. It was one of the quieter division leads, Captain Jura Igarashi, from the Second.
“And what exactly is Japan’s role in all of this? We’re hosting next year? Or just sending representatives?”
The General let out a dry exhale, then stepped forward, remote idle in his palm.
“Unofficially,” he began, “Japan may be walking into that summit as the benchmark.”
Narumi straightened in his seat. Hoshina, ever calm, gave a slight tilt of the head. Kikoru frowned before the general even continued.
“While China is hosting this year’s event, the Summit Head—Director Gao—made it clear, in private correspondence, that many participating nations see this as an opportunity. Not just for coordination. But for leverage.”
He clicked the remote once. The screen flashed with headlines and grainy footage: JAKDF soldiers taking down high-threat Kaiju. Gen Narumi vaulting through smoke with blades drawn. Hoshina mid-strike. Kafka, even, flickering in a still taken during a classified blackout incident.
“They’ve been watching our operations. Studying them. And they’re concerned with how far ahead we are. Concerned... or jealous.”
Kikoru’s hands slowly clenched into fists over her folded arms.
“You mean they’re going to ask us to train them,” she said.
“Worse,” the General said. “There are talks that Japan may be asked to hand over R&D data on Kaiju weaponization—possibly even prototypes. They’ll phrase it as ‘strategic sharing.’ But we all know it’s an arms race now. Everyone wants their own Division. Their own Numbers Weapons.”
Narumi scoffed.
“Well, they can’t have me. I’m not exactly export-grade.”
“Not helping,” Hoshina muttered.
The General continued, unbothered.
“Officially, we’re there to participate in the summit to exchange ideas and strategies. But behind those closed doors, there will be pressure. Diplomatic, financial, and political. The world sees us as a Kaiju powerhouse. They want our muscle. Or our tech. Or both.”
He turned from the screen, locking eyes with the room.
“So when we walk into that summit… we walk in not just as soldiers, but as a symbol of control in an increasingly chaotic world.”
Silence followed; heavy and tight. Then Narumi leaned back, arms behind his head. “If someone asks me to give away my blades, I’m biting their diplomat.”
Captain Mina raised her hand, a quiet motion that nonetheless anchored the room’s attention.
“If they’ve positioned Japan as the global benchmark,” she said, her voice steady, “what is America’s response?”
Japan bore the weight of 70% of global kaiju emergence. It wasn’t just a statistic, it was the reason every building in Tokyo had reinforced foundations. Why kids learned evacuation drills before multiplication tables. Why soldiers like her barely slept without one ear tuned to the emergency comms.
*And America…* Nineteen percent. Less than a third of Japan’s numbers, but still enough to rank them second in the world.
Their country was bigger, sprawling, with gaps wide enough for monsters to slip through unnoticed. Too much empty land and too many people too far apart. Kikoru didn’t envy the Americans. Keeping a force mobile and tight across that scale had to be hell. It was no wonder most of their deployments clustered around their cities.
*But power?*
That was where the difference lay. The U.S. had the infrastructure. The tech. The reach. If they ever truly leaned into kaiju warfare the way Japan had been forced to, the entire global balance would shift overnight. One pivot in their policy, one breakthrough in tech or hybrid strategy, and everything would change.
The general exhaled slowly. A new slide appeared on the projection:
Kaiju Containment Cooperation Treaty (KCCT).
“The director of HAWKS, the Hunter-Advanced Warfare Kaiju Suppression unit has contacted us directly,” he said. “They’re proposing a bilateral initiative: a limited-scope personnel exchange between their highest operatives and ours.”
He let that settle. “But this isn’t about joint drills or theoretical strategy. Their request is deliberate. Specific.”
The next slide flashed to life. A high-level profile, scarred with redacted lines, the header bearing a name that turned heads before the general could even say it.
“They’re sending Liya Kagurazaka.”
The room shifted. On the right side of the screen, a full-body tactical photo faded in. She stood straight-backed in HAWKS combat gear, the background blurred from a desert deployment zone scorched and cracked. Her baby blue hair fell in soft, loose waves to her shoulders—striking against the dull terrain. Her eyes, a dark cobalt, were unreadable, but sharp—like she was used to looking *through* monsters, not just at them.
Narumi straightened. “The Dakaiju?”
The general nodded. “America’s ace hunter. Their highest-performing operative in the field. Born of human genome, altered during an early-stage Kaiju breach. She survived a direct encounter at age seven. No kaiju particles detected, yet her biology enhanced. A living weapon. She doesn’t pilot a suit. She is the suit.”
Mina’s brows tightened faintly. “They’re sending her here?”
“They’re not sending her,” the general clarified. “They’ve asked that she be deployed here as part of a training initiative. She will operate in Tokyo under JAKDF joint command, temporarily assigned to our defense grid.”
“She’s coming to train us? We’re on babysitting duty now?” Narumi asked, brow raised.
“She’s coming to train with us,” the general corrected. “And we see it as a rare opportunity.”
“They’ve requested a half-year deployment to Tokyo under JAKDF authority,” the general replied.
“She’s powerful, yes. But she’s a solitary fighter. Every mission she’s completed, she’s done it alone. No squad support. No unit cohesion. No hand-in-hand battle coordination with humans. What she’s lacking is what we have.”
He gestured to the room.
“Our divisions, our team-based kaiju suppression tactics. She’s never operated within that framework. Embedding her here benefits both sides. For her, it’s learning interoperative command. For us-” he clicked again, showing a containment still of Kaiju No.9 mid-transformation, “it’s the chance to train against, and alongside, something capable of suppressing even this. And while Daikaiju is a global anomaly, Liya is their only proven countermeasure to creatures like them in America.”
Kikoru’s gaze flickered to the image. “Then having her with us…”
“…is an opportunity we cannot afford to decline,” the general finished. “Training with her could elevate our captains, our divisions, everyone.”
Then a voice cut in ; sharp and dissatisfied. Possibly one of the younger analysts.
“Then why send her here in the first place?” he asked, arms crossed. “If America already has sufficient protection from Liya alone. If she's that strong, if she’s already taking down high-level kaiju with minimal support, then what’s the point of forcing her into collaboration with our defense divisions? Why alter a tactic that works?”
It wasn’t just skepticism, it was a challenge.
Across the table, one of the Eastern Command tacticians adjusted his glasses, barely hiding his discomfort. Before he could speak, Vice-Captain Kikoru did.
“There are rumours within the military. Rumours that they’ve never been able to put a leash on her,” she said bluntly, her tone edged with the cold finality of a battlefield verdict. “She’s under HAWKS but she follows her own rhythm. Mission orders often arrive late to her, or are outright ignored. She moves alone, acts alone. A sharp weapon, yes, but also a blade they don’t fully hold.”
A quiet hum of unease rippled through the table.
“She serves, yes,” General Itami continued, “but patriotism? That’s another matter. She pledges allegiance to the war, not the flag. And for a force like that is a being capable of turning the tide of battle single-handedly but beyond national control, it’s a liability. A force that strong, untethered, becomes a threat.”
He turned to face Kikoru directly.
“America doesn’t like hazards it can’t contain. And the mere fact that she’s being sent to work with our divisions? That’s not a sign of trust. That’s a test. A recalibration. To see if she can function in a command structure. If she can take orders. If she can be watched.”
The room buzzed quietly, still reeling from the announcement. Liya Kagurazaka. The name was heavy with recognition, even among Japan's elite. Captain Hoshina turned toward Kikoru, one brow raised. “Didn’t you study at California Neutralization University? That’s her turf, right?”
Kikoru didn’t look up immediately. “Technically, yes. But she wasn’t one of us. She wasn’t a student , she taught there. On paper, at least.”
“You met her?”
“Once.” Kikoru crossed her arms. “She wasn’t around much. Always off on some kaiju operation halfway across the country.“
Mina raised a brow. “She trained students, then?”
“Not really,” Kikoru answered. “She didn’t spar with us really. She didn’t have to. She *talked*, mostly. Shared tactical analysis, broke down kaiju behavior in ways no one else could. But it took quite a while for the public to accept a Kaiju-borne in the ranks when she first rose.”
“So she’s brilliant *and* a walking warhead,” Narumi muttered. “That’s fine. I’m still gonna take her down when we spar.”
That got Kikoru’s full attention. “You think it’s going to be a spar?”
Narumi raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I stand a chance?”
Kikoru exhaled through her nose, somewhere between amusement and challenge. “She’s a national asset. The U.S. built entire containment doctrines around her existence. Our syllabus was based off her. You don’t invest that kind of weight in one person unless they consistently outperform armies.”
There was a short silence, until Narumi broke it with a grin. “Well sounds like they don’t now.”
“So,” Hoshina said, clearing his throat and leaning forward, “how exactly is this training with Liya Kagurazaka supposed to be conducted? Are we observing her methods, or actually working with her?”
The general tapped the remote, and a new slide replaced the last. It was a multi-phase operations chart: PHASE I -Tactical Familiarization, PHASE II - Integrated Simulation, PHASE III - Co-Deployment.
“It will be phased,” he explained. “First, theoretical and tactical briefings. Her techniques, protocols, her battlefield response rhythm. Second, live drills. And if all goes well, we send you out with her.”
“You mean *missions?*” Narumi arched an eyebrow.
“Yes,” the general nodded. “Kaiju engagements. She will serve as both operative and, functionally, a field instructor.”
A few officers exchanged glances.
“So we’re pairing a Kaiju-borne with a squad of temperamental humans and seeing who breaks first,” Hoshina quipped, stretching his arms overhead.
“You're not entirely wrong,” Mina murmured. “But if she’s fought Kaiju without ever coordinating with a unit, then we may be the ones doing the teaching too.”
“That’s the idea,” the general replied. “We believe both sides stand to gain. Our teams gain exposure to hybridized combat in real time. She gains experience syncing with human units and not flattening the battlefield alone.”
Kikoru leaned forward, skeptical. “And what’s the contingency if she doesn’t sync?”
The general's voice lowered just a notch. “Then we can assess whether a weapon that fights alone belongs in a world that can no longer afford isolation.”
Kafka glanced over at Kikoru. She met his eyes, then turned back to the screen.
“I still say she’s going to be too fast for you, Narumi,” Kikoru said, folding her arms.
Narumi grinned. “Yeah? I say I’ll be the first one she asks to learn from in the field.”
Hoshino smirked faintly. “Try not to die.”
The general clicked again. The final slide faded in: “Joint Initiative Alpha: Shadow-Drill Tokyo Sector” with dates and unit assignments pending confirmation.
“Further details with be briefed on Saturday. She arrives Monday,” he said. “Dismissed.”
As the officers filtered out, the air buzzed not with tension but with something colder, quieter.
Expectation.
Sentinel Hall, Washington D.C
The air in Sentinel Hall was colder than it needed to be. Sterile, crisp, and utterly silent, save for the faint echo of boots against polished obsidian marble. The hall stretched endlessly forward like a sanctified artery at the heart of America’s most fortified military institution, the HAWKS.
Vaulted ceilings arched high above, forming geometric ribs of white steel and dark glass, shaped like the inside of a cathedral but built for war, not worship. Between the beams, skylight panels filtered in harsh, wintry daylight. Even indoors, the light felt filtered by smoke and history.
Liya Kagurazaka walked alone beneath that ceiling.
On either side of her, lining the walls like a funeral procession, stood towering statues of kaiju hunters past carved in dark metal, faceless under helmets, weapons raised or buried in monstrous jaws. Between the statues hung massive oil paintings in thick, baroque frames. Some depicted entire cities burning under kaiju assault, others frozen moments of last stands, mass evacuations, or crimson oceans swallowing fleets.
The walls were pale stone flecked with black granite veins, but age and reverence gave them a bone-white chill. Brass plaques were embedded beneath every monument. Each bore only three lines: the soldier’s name, operation code, and outcome. Some read RETRIEVED. Others simply read MIA or BODY UNRECOVERED.
Liya’s pace was slow, but not solemn. She walked with her hands in the pockets of her tactical coat, chin slightly raised, the heels of her boots clicking without urgency. She glanced at the statues occasionally with the raised brow of someone privately critiquing them.
“These guys must’ve hated sitting still this long,” she muttered.
Ahead of her, the double doors to Sentinel Hall, titanium-reinforced, standing fifteen feet tall opened inward with a hiss of hydraulics and a whisper of old air. The interior glowed with cold blue light. She stepped through.
The Sentinel Chamber itself was round, towering, built like a command observatory and ceremonial court rolled into one. Glass walls arced overhead, revealing the sky beyond like a fractured dome. Below that, steel beams crisscrossed with strategic lighting that designed to frame, not soften. The floor was jet-black stone, broken only by the inlaid HAWKS emblem: a hawk’s talon clenched around a jagged kaiju tooth, encircled by thirteen stars. The light caught her boots as she walked over it. A large projection screen dominated the far wall. As she entered, it flickered to life with a data slide:
Liya Kagurazaka – Unit 0
Affiliation: HAWKS Hybrid Weapons Division
Current Rank: Tier-1 Tactical Agent
Origin: [Classified]
Field Status: Active - Global Deployment
A still image accompanied the profile; her face neutral, eyes sharp, baby blue hair falling just past her shoulders. She looked younger in the file. Less tired. Standing before the screen was General Halvorsen, flanked by two high-ranking officials and several aides from the Research and Oversight boards. The semicircle of power.
Halvorsen didn’t offer a chair. He rarely did.
“Agent Kagurazaka,” he began, voice even. “You’ve been selected as the U.S. representative in the Japan Hybrid Interoperability Initiative. Effective immediately.”
Liya tilted her head slightly. “Wasn’t aware we were calling it that. Sounds like a mouthful for ‘we’re loaning you out.’”
No one laughed. The room was not built for levity.
“The Japanese Anti-Kaiju Defense Force will be collaborating on this operation. Their current situation is evolving, and you’re the only operative qualified for what’s coming.”
She approached the projection slowly, scanning the data. Her lips twitched.
“I assume this means no time off.”
“You’ll be embedded with their frontline division,” Halvorsen said. “Live-in. Full operational clearance. Your presence is both strategic and symbolic.”
Her dark blue eyes narrowed slightly at that. “Symbolic of what, exactly?”
“That Kaiju-borne don’t have to be weapons alone. That power can cooperate. Integrate.”
Liya exhaled through her nose, amused. “You want me to play nice.”
“We want you to fight with them,” he corrected. “Not just near them. For years, you’ve worked alone. Now, we want you in a unit—learning their rhythm, while they learn yours. They stand to gain from training with someone like you. And frankly, so do you.”
She studied the screen again and then looked up.
“You really think they’ll take orders from a girl who can crack kaiju skulls with her hands?”
“We’re not asking you to give orders,” Halvorsen replied. “We’re asking you to earn their trust. And learn theirs in return.”
Liya let the words hang a moment before tilting her head.
“And what exactly does HAWKS get out of this?” she asked, her voice light but sharp. “Besides impressing Japan with our very best.”
Cain didn’t hesitate. “Cohesion. A future-proof fighting doctrine. In time, you’ll return and pass on what you’ve learned. We’re building the next generation of officers.”
She chuckled. “You want me to come back and teach our guys the way Japan fights?”
“We need global synchronization. You’ve worked solo for years, Liya. This is a shift, a necessary one.”
Her gaze narrowed just slightly, though the smile never left her lips.
“You’re not trying to replace me, are you, sir?” One of the aides coughed lightly. Cain didn’t.
“You’re irreplaceable,” he said flatly.
“Am I?” she asked. “Because this feels an awful lot like succession planning.”
She stepped forward once, eyes on the display that showed her stats, her legacy. America’s most elite hunter. The only Kaiju-borne to be recognized as both weapon and wielder. The emissary sent when cities fell.
“You don’t send your ace across the ocean unless you're prepping the bench.”
Cain met her gaze, unreadable. “You were never just our ace. You're what built the deck.”
“What are the projected consequences,” she said, “if I decline?”
The question should have been rhetorical. It wasn’t. Silence bled into the air. A bald man with distinct graying moustache that Liya recognize as one of the aides from the Research and Oversight boards, leaned forward.
“You’re not a freelance asset, Ms. Liya. You’re a commissioned operative under sovereign alliance, protected and weaponized under the authority of the American-Kaiju Accord. Your refusal constitutes dereliction under wartime protocol and forfeiture of combat clearance.”
“You were a threat once. We made you an asset. We stabilized your classification and granted you legal operational status. That wasn’t charity, it was containment through utility.”
“You’re telling me to be grateful?” she asked, voice soft and dangerous.
“No,” said Whitlock. “We’re telling you to remember that the only reason you are not in permanent containment is because you are useful to the state. Not irreplaceable. Not autonomous. Functional.”
Liya’s gaze chilled.
“You’ve used that word before. ‘Functional.’ Like I’m a circuit.”
“You are a weapon, Liya,” Inoue said coldly. “And weapons do not dictate their deployment.”
Her eyes narrowed, but the rest of her face remained composed—barely. The stillness in her shoulders was artificial. Her fists remained at her sides, clenched only in spirit.
Liya let that sit a moment before giving a half-laugh and backing off.
“Fine. I’ll go. I’ll play nice. I’ll even smile for the photos.”
The doors of the Sentinel Hall hissed closed behind her, locking in the echoes of decisions made behind polished tables. The corridor stretched long before her, vaulted ceilings arched high above, gilded with inlays of old combat sigils. The walls were lined with oil paintings: some faded, some new. Kaiju in contorted death throes, past heroes frozen mid-strike, battlefields preserved in brush and soot. Statues guarded every turn; old wardens of war, expressionless in blackened bronze. Liya walked beneath them without flinching, shoulders square, coat unbuttoned as usual. Her pace was relaxed, but her thoughts were not.
Teach them Japan’s way. Blend with the division. You’re too powerful to isolate. Too influential not to be monitored.
The words rattled in her skull like a silent tremor. Just before the hallway curved left toward the executive wing, a voice cut in:
“You survived.”
Liya looked up, already smirking. “Disappointed?”
Ransom walked toward her, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. Tall, quiet, always five steps behind until it mattered and the only one besides her who’d curse at paperwork with real conviction.
“Depends. Did they try to court-martial you or just politely reassign you?”
“They used the polite words but the knives were visible.”
They began walking side by side. Their boots tapped in tandem across the polished floor, down a side hall less trafficked. Framed portraits turned to wall plaques. The windows grew narrow, letting in slices of late afternoon light. When the last pair of passing officers disappeared and the hallway finally emptied, Ransom asked without looking at her:
“What aren’t you saying?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even going to warm me up with small talk?”
“I don’t do small talk when I know you’re not fine.”
Liya was quiet for a beat, then exhaled sharply. “You’re getting annoying with age.”
“And you’re dodging.”
She stopped in front of a display case embedded into the wall — inside, under flickering light, a scorched kaiju horn twisted like fossilized coral. Bits of old weaponry clung to its surface. Its plaque read: Cerathex-Class. Western Siege. 2002.
She stared at it for a long moment.
“Eastward,” she replied, tapping her temple. “I’m being exported.”
“To Japan?” Liya nodded.
“They want me to integrate. Blend into the division. Work with Japan's officers. Join missions. Fight shoulder-to-shoulder. Then bring it all back home and train the next generation.”
Ransom crossed his arms. “And if you don't?”
“They’ll know I’m too independent to fold back into the system.”
“You were never part of it to begin with.”
“I was, Ransom. Just not the one they built.”
He watched her sidelong. “You’re not worried.”
“I’m cautious. There’s a difference.” She met his gaze. “They’re testing me. Trying to see if I can still be used the way they want. If I’m moldable or if I’ve gone native.”
“You haven’t.”
She grinned faintly. “I’ve got friends and I crack jokes. I walk the hallways instead of flying over them. That’s already too human for some of them.”
He was quiet.
Liya turned from the display and kept walking. Her voice dropped.
“They want me to bring Japan’s combat discipline back to the Hawks. Train the next generation, the human way. Learn from the division so I can teach it here.”
“And you think they’re trying to replacing you.” Liya laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Of course they are. Maybe not directly, maybe not yet. But you don’t send your sharpest weapon overseas with rising numbers of Kaiju unless you’re forging a second one.”
Ransom studied her. “You’re not obsolete, Liya.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “But I am inconvenient.”
They walked a little more, the light colder now as it poured through the glass. He didn’t press.
“So. How does it feel—heading back to the homeland?”
She didn’t answer immediately. The word felt foreign.
“I don’t have a homeland.”
Ransom’s brow rose. “You don’t feel anything? Going to Japan, of all places? Where it all started, where they started calling them kaiju. Feels poetic.”
Liya’s gaze remained fixed ahead. Her voice was steady, clinical.
“They’re monsters. Not metaphors.”
“You’re still Japanese.”
“Only by blood. My passport says otherwise.”
“You don’t ever wonder, what it would’ve been like if you were raised there? If your life had gone differently? Maybe joining Japan’s Anti-Kaiju Defense Force?”
She exhaled through her nose, soft, sharp.
“I was raised in containment zones and flight decks. I’ve slept closer to bomb casings than cribs. What would wondering do for me now?”
They turned a corner. The blast doors to Departure Bay Bravo were already unlocked, interior lights pulsing faint red.
Ransom watched her closely. “You’re not even a little curious?”
“No,” she said simply. “Kaijus emerged from Japanese soil. I was brought under American airspace. One is biology. The other is allegiance.”
“Harsh.”
“Efficient.”
She stopped again. The corridor ahead turned sharply to the operations floor, but here for now it was just the two of them.
“You think they’re trying to sideline you?”
“I think,” Liya said after a pause, “they’re trying to make sure America can live without me.”
Ransom looked at her for a long beat, then smiled faintly. “You’d make a terrible politician, Liya.”
She shrugged. “I work for myself.”
She started walking again, slower now. “Pack light,” she muttered.
“Already did.”
The west corridor of Sentinel Hall was bathed in slanted evening light, honey-gold and soft against the high polished floors. The air carried the scent of fresh coffee and printer toner, and the low hum of chatter between officers bounced off vaulted ceilings trimmed with gilded molding. Marble statues lined the hallway, some human, some kaiju frozen mid-motion, locked forever in victories and near-deaths. Oil paintings flanked them, massive canvases of legendary battles that turned tides and swallowed cities.
Liya walked with one hand in her coat pocket, a half-eaten donut in the other. Someone had left the box unattended outside Strategy Room 6. Their mistake.
“Captain Liya,” called a lieutenant as she passed. “Didn’t expect to see you walking. Thought you floated.”
“Only when I’m being dramatic,” Liya shot back. “Today I’m humbling myself among mortals.”
The hallway chuckled. She winked at someone staring too long and took another bite.
Someone else whistled. “Hey, weren’t you in New York like, three hours ago?”
“I’m quantum,” she said, mouth full. “Terrifying and everywhere at once.”
That earned her a round of laughter. She waved her donut like a wand and carried on.
She was midway through delivering a snide remark about the anatomically improbable painting of a kaiju being drop-kicked, her tone dry, irreverent when her head inclined, ever so slightly, in a motion too instinctual to be deliberate. Her gait, previously casual, hesitated by a fraction. Just enough.
Something had shifted.
Not pain. Not even a twinge. It was subtler than that, a distortion in the atmosphere, as if the air around her had thinned in places and thickened in others. A quiet tension behind her ear, like the ghost of a sound. A cool shiver tracing her spine, not from fear, but recognition.
Kaiju. Tier 3. Aquatic. Florida. Two hours.
She didn’t need a scanner to tell her what she already knew. Her body half-calibrated to the same unnatural frequency was its own early warning system.
She blinked, swiped powdered sugar from her lip, and resumed her pace without missing a beat.
“Is it just me,” she muttered to a nearby analyst, “or does this statue look like it owes me five bucks?”
She breezed past before they could respond.
Outside the west arch, Ransom leaned against the stone column, flipping through his tablet. He didn’t look up and just said, “You felt it?”
Liya sighed. “Of course I did. What do you think this face is?”
He glanced over. “That’s your ‘I ate the last donut and I know it’ face.”
“Exactly,” she said, brushing her coat back into place. “Same amount of guilt. Same amount of inevitability.”
Ransom straightened up. “Where?”
“Miami. Lake. Two hours. Tier 3. Probably amphibious. Sharp-boned, territorial, nothing exotic.”
“You’re going alone?”
“Tell Command I left five minutes ago.”
He paused, then said quietly, “They might push back.”
She turned toward the horizon. “They always do. Doesn’t stop the kaiju. Doesn’t stop me.”
Ransom folded his arms. “I’ll log your movement. And, you’ve got sugar on your face.”
She wiped it with the back of her hand and grinned. “See? Not even monsters can sneak up on me.”
They stepped out of the command building into the open, where the world had begun its slow descent into a familiar, heavy quiet. The first thing Liya noticed wasn’t the darkness overhead, it was the stillness. Not silence, but *stillness*, the kind that stretched just before a storm, where the city seemed to brace its lungs and hold them.
Above, clouds gathered like clenched fists; low, bloated with thunder, their edges bruised violet and ash-gray. They rolled across the skyline with deliberate menace, eclipsing the sun and swallowing the last of its warmth. It wasn’t yet raining, but the air carried weight. The kind that pressed into your ribs. The kind you didn’t breathe so much as bear.
Wind slipped down the avenues in restless pulses, curling around buildings and snatching at loose leaves from the swaying trees lining the boulevard. Traffic slowed. Conversations hushed. Somewhere across the plaza, a siren began to wail, distant and constant like a wire pulled too tight. Pedestrians, instinctively reading the sky, broke into scattered urgency; umbrellas opening, collars raised, fingers tightening around briefcases and phone screens. But amid the ripple of movement, Liya remained still.
Some glanced at her as they passed; a woman in uniform, too young for her legend, too calm for the unease coiling in the sky. Their eyes didn’t linger long, most had learned not to.
The clouds broke for a moment, just enough to allow a shaft of silver light to streak through, illuminating a patch of lake in the distance. The water churned below it, subtle but sure. Like something breathing underneath. Her pulse didn’t quicken. Not outwardly. But something shifted beneath her ribs. A warning. A name half-formed.
She didn’t look at the man beside her when she spoke, voice low, as though the question didn’t belong to this world.
“Will he be there?”
The wind answered for now; cold, rising, promising the inevitable.
Training Hall 2, Ariake Maritime Base
The air was thick with tension, and the hum of the training room’s ventilation felt too loud.
Kafka moved first.
A jab. A second. Feint low, left shoulder rolling forward, baiting a reaction.
Toma Suda, a fellow First Division striker, didn’t take the bait. He shifted weight to his back foot, pivoted, and brought a knee up toward Kafka’s chest fast. Kafka caught it with his forearm, slid backward with the impact, then lunged in with a hook. Toma weaved under and snapped an elbow toward Kafka’s ribs. It connected. Kafka hissed.
“Sloppy.”
Toma’s voice was flat, but not unkind. “Don’t let your shoulders lead your feet.”
Kafka grinned, despite the sting. “I’m learning, sensei.”
They reset but that’s when Kafka felt it. A *tingle*, low and cold, climbing the base of his spine.
Not nerves. Not adrenaline. Something else.
It was faint like static whispering beneath his skin, tightening the muscles in his neck. The pressure in the air shifted. Imperceptible to anyone else, but to Kafka, it was familiar. Unmistakable.
A kaiju was about to rise.
He blinked. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. This happened sometimes; a minute or two before sensors caught the signature. It wasn’t enough to act on, but always enough to make his blood run faster.
No room for breaks. Around them, the rest of the First Division cycled through drills; loud slams of bodies against mats, the low thud of fists and feet, short commands from platoon leaders. This wasn’t friendly sparring, this was war prep. Kafka moved again, faster now. His half-kaiju strength gave him raw power, but he’d trained that brute force into rhythm. A sharp kick inside his right leg and Toma parried it with his shin and countered with a palm strike to Kafka’s collarbone. Kafka *twisted*, caught the arm mid-strike, and threw his weight sideways thus slamming Toma into the mat.
The impact echoed across the chamber.
Toma rolled with it. He came up with a spinning backfist, Kafka blocked, but the follow-up sweep caught his ankle, sent him crashing onto his back.
“Better.” Toma wiped sweat from his jaw. “But you still overcommit when you think you’re ahead.”
Kafka coughed. “Or maybe I just trust you’ll hit me if I mess up.”
Toma gave the faintest smile and they stood again. Circling. This time they clashed at full speed.
Kafka ducked under a kick, slammed his shoulder into Toma’s sternum, wrapped an arm around his torso and tried for a slam but Toma wriggled out, pivoted over Kafka’s back mid-air, and locked him in a hold. Kafka exhaled.
And then he dropped low, used his kaiju-strength legs to launch both of them off the ground and roll.
CRASH. The hold broke.
Kafka landed on top with his elbow driving down, held just an inch from Toma’s face before he froze. A beat of silence.
“Point Kafka,” Toma said, still breathing hard.
“You almost had me in that choke.” Kafka sat back, slick with sweat. “You’ve got better control than Vice-Captain Hoshina’s knives.”
Toma didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t let him hear that or else my head will be in his choke.”
All around them, the division kept moving ; sparring, switching partners, checking grips, rebalancing stances. A timer beeped. Kafka and Toma stood. A commanding voice echoed from the speaker:
“Alert. Unconfirmed Kaiju Signature Detected. Magnitude: 6.1. Location: Tokyo River District.
First Division, prep for deployment. Tactical readiness in fifteen minutes.”
No one flinched. Toma straightened and Kafka tightened his gloves. This was normal and expected. They trained like this because they had to. The drills ended. The real fight was beginning.
“You ready?” Kafka asked.
“You?” Toma replied.
Kafka cracked his neck, the familiar buzz of purpose already igniting in his chest.
“Always.”
The Intercom crackles and a second alarm blares, shorter but sharper.
“New alert. Bee Colony-Type Kaiju detected. Category 3. Magnitude: 6.9. Estimated arrival at Tokyo Arike Arena in 14 minutes. Prioritize civilian containment. Units are to establish forward blockades and delay kaiju advance until evacuation is complete. Engagement orders as follows: Platoon One will initiate containment from the south axis. Platoon Two, southeast quadrant. Platoon Three, southwest intercept. Maintain staggered envelopment.”
“Captain Narumi and Vice-Captain Shinomiya will coordinate overhead via VTOL, callsign Yasha-One. Aerial reconnaissance and strike authorization pending visual confirmation.”
“Repeat. Colony-Class threat inbound. Tactical readiness now.”
By the time Kafka Hibino and Toma Suda reached the Suit-Up Sector, the air was already thrumming with the low, reverberating tension of impending deployment, a tension not unlike the tremor that precedes an earthquake or the pressure drop before a supercell storm and as they passed through the corridor lined with reinforced tungsten bulkheads and hazard-sealed blast doors, everything in the base seemed to fall into the kind of synchronized, breathless order that only came when death loomed near.
The soldiers already present, half the First Division moved with the kind of sharp, disciplined grace that years of anti-kaiju warfare had carved into their bones, their limbs working with methodical precision as they locked armored plates into place, secured magnetic holsters, and performed final diagnostics on weapons engineered not for killing humans, but for bringing down monsters that defied physics and screamed like collapsing universes; and above them, screens flickered in dull reds and deep blues, each one projecting live feeds from orbital drones, damage estimations, seismic pulses, and movement readings from the Arike Arena, where the next battlefield was already taking shape under the weight of a newly announced arrival: a Category 3, colony-type kaiju, 6.9 magnitude, estimated impact in less than ten minutes.
Kafka said nothing as he moved to his locker, an unassuming panel marked 21B, brushed metal scuffed with use, but its contents unlike any other and when he opened it, the sight of his personal battlesuit greeted him like an old promise half-kept: dark as the trench of his mind, matte-black with subtle red veins of pulsing dataflow running across the armor’s back, and fitted with reinforced spinal actuators and kaiju-adapted stabilizers.
He reached for it slowly, as if touching it stirred something deeper than memory, and as his fingers brushed the inner lining which were cool, synthetic, alive with the breath of its internal systems. He felt it stir inside him, not fully, not violently, but in the way a tide begins to shift long before the moon commands it: that impossible pressure, like tectonics realigning under flesh, like a growl unsounded, a pulse that didn’t belong to any human rhythm.
He didn’t fight it.
He only closed his eyes, steadying himself as he stepped into the armor, allowing the plates to seal around him with soft hydraulic clicks, the suit adjusting its grip to his spine, chest, and limbs with the kind of precision that suggested not just technology but intimacy, and when the neural interface wrapped around the base of his skull, he didn’t flinch and he listened.
A low chime, then the system’s voice: mechanical, female, unbothered.
“Kafka Hibino. Unreleased Power: 3%. Daikaiju class host. Combat efficiency: suboptimal.”
Across the sector, Toma had already finished gearing up, and as Kafka fitted the last of his gauntlets and locked the respirator; he didn’t like to wear it until the very last moment. He watched as the others completed their preparations in near-silence, grabbing weapons with the quiet, almost sacred resolve of warriors whose lives had been molded by sirens, neutralization orders, and the thunder of creatures older than human understanding.
Kikoru Shinomiya stood at the end of the line, shoulder squared, face unreadable under her black-and-gold Number Four battlesuit, the massive axe slung across her back catching the ambient red light like a drawn line between elegance and brutality. She was silent, eyes narrowed, already mentally dissecting the mission map.
Then the sector door hissed open, and a single man entered, not with fanfare or footsteps designed to inspire, but with the casual, undeniable gravity of someone who belonged nowhere else but at the center of chaos.
Captain Gen Narumi entered like a man inconvenienced by apocalypse. His hair tousled in an unintentional way, the collar of his uniform slightly crooked, fingers absently scratching the back of his head with all the enthusiasm of someone roused from a gaming chair rather than the command seat of Japan’s most elite kaiju-response force. And yet every soldier in the hangar stood straighter the moment they saw him, not because they were ordered to, but because you *couldn’t not* when the weight of his presence settled like storm clouds before the lightning.
He gave them one slow glance, unimpressed, like a teacher finding his students barely passing a pop quiz, and the silence that followed stretched not from discomfort, but from anticipation. He rolled his neck, popped a joint, then sighed through his teeth, more annoyed than inspired.
Then, with the finality of a knife being drawn:
“First Division,” he said, his voice low and dry like smoke curling from a blade, “time to mobilize.”
No one replied. They didn’t need to.
Because outside the walls, the city was already beginning to scream.
The steel-clad personnel carrier roared through the side gate of Base 1 with its tires grinding gravel into dust, engine purring beneath the armored chassis like a predator held on a short leash. Kafka climbed into the rear hatch without ceremony, the back doors swinging shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss as he ducked low under the ceiling beams, the whole interior of the vehicle bathed in that faint, blue LED glow.
Inside, Platoon 3 sat in silence, shoulders squared, hands braced against their restraints as the vehicle sped through the half-evacuated southern edge of Tokyo. The city outside the narrow slits of reinforced glass was ghostlike. Buildings once humming with daily life now dark and shuttered, their neon signs flickering weakly like the afterimage of a dream already fading. Air-raid sirens called in the distance, shrill and irregular, echoing between high-rises that leaned like watchmen into a storm not yet visible.
The platoon leader, Arai Junpei, a man of thirty with streaks of grey at his temples and a voice that carried the weight of too many deployments, looked up from the map-holo mounted against the inner wall and gave Kafka a curt nod of acknowledgement.
We’ve got movement coming in from the Minato tunnels. Three Class 4 bee-types. Winged, armored, venom sacks confirmed. Colony scouts, headed straight for the arena. If they get past the containment line, civilian losses spike by 600%.” Arai said, his tone sharp, all function.
Kafka nodded once, his fingers tightening around the bar above his seat, the metal warm from the hum of the vehicle’s engine beneath. He could already feel it. Not just the vehicle’s motion, but something tugging deeper, a gnawing vibration in his chest that had nothing to do with physics. The kaiju were near, even if no sensor had confirmed it yet. He could sense them before the detectors did, before the patrols caught up. It was a curse, sometimes, knowing too early.
“Plan is to intercept,” Arai continued, activating the projection grid, casting red-glow lines across all their faces as the digital terrain lit up. “We hit them at Intersection 46-B, under the expressway loop. Close quarters, no air support. We eliminate, confirm burn, then redirect east by southeast toward the queen. She’s three clicks out from the arena perimeter, larger than predicted. Could be evolving.”
There was no fear in his voice, only precision, and Kafka respected that. Just then, a soft click in Kafka’s earpiece followed by the low hum of command-channel encryption kicking in. The static cleared. A voice, unmistakably dry and lazy, yet lined with steel beneath the surface, filtered through the comms like a wind pressing against the skin of the soul.
“Arai. Report.”
Captain Narumi Gen. Even across the audio line, he sounded like someone who wasn’t entirely convinced this operation was worth getting out of bed for but Kafka knew better. Narumi didn’t ask unless he was already ten moves ahead.
Arai tapped the side of his earpiece, voice steady. “En route with Platoon 3. Engaging three Class 4 bee-types at 46-B. Redirecting after confirmed kills to join approach vector toward the queen’s position, southeast perimeter.”
A pause. Then Narumi responded, this time with less drawl, more edge.
“Understood. Avoid prolonged engagement. Queen’s pheromonal field is expanding, an estimated control radius now over 400 meters. If you’re not out of that kill zone in five minutes post-contact, you won’t get out.”
He didn’t say *what* had happened to the last unit that got caught in a queen’s radius. He didn’t have to.
“And Kafka” Narumi added, almost as an afterthought, “ don’t let the Kaiju out just because you feel it twitch. Only in your half form”
Kafka didn’t respond right away. Outside, the city rushed past like a dying organism, the wind through the vents thick with the scent of ozone, fuel, and distant smoke. He could feel the thing inside him press a little harder against the walls of its cage, not fully awake, but stirring, like it knew its kind was near. He exhaled slow.
“Understood, Captain.”
The line cut. Arai glanced at him, unreadable. “You good?”
Kafka nodded. “I’m good. Let’s kill some bugs.”
The vehicle halted with a hard hiss of compressed air, brakes screeching against concrete as the underpass swallowed them whole, plunging the team into a claustrophobic hush broken only by the ticking of the engine and the slow, uncoiling tension of men preparing to kill or be killed. Kafka stepped out first, the urban light above fractured by the overpass supports.
The scent hit immediately.
Rotting sugar, like honey curdled under the sun, mixed with something sharper; ammonia, kerosene, and a tang of blood already gone brown. It was the mark of the bee-types, their pheromones leaking into the air like a net, sticky and cloying, too thick to breathe without remembering that this smell preceded death for most units.
Arai gave a hand signal. Platoon 3 fanned out in practiced silence, boots crunching over broken glass and discarded flyers flapping weakly in the wind. Kafka moved between them like a ghost, his Suit humming faintly as it adjusted to his breath, the system syncing, warmth coiling at his spine like a second skin preparing to flex.
“Targets inbound. Ten o'clock,” someone muttered over comms. “Visual confirmed. Three Class 4s. Winged, thick-chested, thorax bulging with venom carriers.”
Then they appeared, buzzing low through the smoke-filled underpass, wings dragging against metal supports, creating a shrill, nerve-scraping resonance. Their limbs clicked grotesquely, oversized mandibles twitching with anticipation, each movement spurred by hive-order, by a queen’s unseen command. The moment they spotted the platoon, the shriek began. Mechanical, insectile, enough to make the ear filters crackle.
Arai barked, “Engage!”
Gunfire erupted instantly, clean and surgical. Not the blind chaos of fear, but the controlled fury of soldiers who had rehearsed this dance a hundred times. Kafka moved through the volleys, his movements smoother than they had any right to be. He ducked under the first swipe, turned on his heel, and slammed his fist into the thorax of the leading bee. The suit amplified the blow, and with a wet, metallic crack, the kaiju's midsection folded inward like paper around a stone.
Its wings fluttered once, twice then fell still.
The second bee screeched and lunged, venom glands swelling grotesquely beneath its neck like pustules. One of the other officers, spun toward it, drew his rifle, and fired three rounds directly into its swollen sac. Each shot finding home, each explosion painting the underpass walls with acid bile that hissed against the concrete.
The third hesitated, then took to the air, wings blurring.
But Arai was already on it, vaulting off a crushed sedan, blade drawn, his suit’s boosters flaring for just a second as he propelled himself upward. The sword, a monomolecular vibra-blade etched with too many notches to count, sang once as it cleaved through the kaiju's neck, it’s antennae twitching even after the head hit the ground.
All three down in 1 and a half minute.
The underpass was quiet again, save for the dying twitch of legs and the slow hiss of evaporating venom. Kafka stood among them, bloodied but unscathed, the glow of his suit pulsing in time with his breathing. Beneath the armor, his skin tingled warm, almost burning with that telltale presence. The kaiju inside stirred again, uncoiling, as if it too had enjoyed the carnage, wanted more.
Arai checked the vitals. “All three confirmed. No spore residue. No regeneration. They're neutralized.”
Kafka’s earpiece crackled.
“Captain Narumi. Platoon 3: Sector clear. Three scouts neutralized. Minimal resistance. We’re moving southeast now.”
The sky was a restless sea of gray, clouds rippling like muscles under tension as the military chopper cut through the dusk. Its turbines roared against the wind, vibrating with the strain of speed and payload. Inside the bay, the sharp scent of gun oil, sweat, and ionized kaiju blood clung to the air. Blades clattered in sheaths, visors flickered with tactical maps, and comms buzzed with tight, clipped updates.
Narumi stood at the open edge of the chopper, one gloved hand braced against the door frame, the other resting on the hilt of his *Number Six* blade, its surface thrumming faintly, as if sensing the storm below. The weapon was built from the corpse of a velocity-class kaiju, and it retained a hunger for movement, a twitching impatience to strike.
Below, the Queen Bee Kaiju had anchored herself in the ruins of a collapsed expressway interchange. With wings spanning nearly twenty meters and a carapace mottled in volcanic black and amber, she pulsed with internal heat, her abdomen glowing faintly as she produced drones by the dozens. They burst from her lower thorax like steam, fanning into the city with a droning buzz that was less sound and more pressure, vibrating the bones of every soldier in the air.
Narumi’s earpiece crackled.
“Captain, this is Akamine of Platoon 2. We’ve cleared all Class 3 drones from the Kanda ward perimeter. Proceeding to reinforce southwest barricades.”
“Captain Narumi. Platoon 3: Minimal resistance. We’re moving southeast now.”
At Narumi’s side, Vice-Captain Kikoru Shinomiya leaned forward, scanning the tactical display hovering on her gauntlet screen. Her Number Four Axe rested across her back like an executioner’s promise. Her eyes, that sharp golden hue honed for precision, narrowed as she spotted an anomaly.
“Platoon 1 is facing heavier resistance,” she announced. “A dozen Class 4 bees are converging toward the main barricade. They're targeting their wings, smart. But it’s a swarm strategy now.”
She tapped her mic. “Platoon 1, isolate those wings. You clip one, it crashes. You clip both, it dies.”
Below, the Queen shrieked, an echoing, bone-splitting call and dozens more drones launched upward in response, spiraling toward the choppers.
“We’re going down,” Narumi said, flicking his mic open to the full command channel. “All platoons maintain perimeter. Shinomiya and I will drop directly onto the Queen.”
Kikoru cracked her neck. “Command, applying for permission to release the limiter control.”
Narumi stepped toward the door, wind whipping his coat like a flag of war. “Command, release the limiter control.”
Unleashed combat power, 94%.
Unleashed combat power, 98%.
He didn’t fall.
He *cut through the sky*, slicing downward in a steep dive, the long arc of his *Number Six* blade already humming with charged resonance. The weapon was built from the carapace of a kaiju whose speed defied radar, and it *remembered* velocity. Around him, the air warped, shrieking as if the wind itself feared being cleaved. His eyes were already locked onto his mark, an exposed groove between the base of the Queen’s upper wings, pulsing red with vascular energy.
“Kikoru, 0.3 seconds.” he said, his voice a calm thread in the chaos.
“Already there.” Her voice followed.
Kikoru dropped after him, spinning once midair before kicking downward, the dual edges of her Number Four Axe igniting into brilliant violet arcs. The moment her boots met the outer spine of the kaiju’s exoskeleton, the material groaned under her weight but held. She twisted her torso, slamming one blade into the stabilizing nerve cluster near the Queen’s shoulder joint. The impact exploded in a bloom of kaiju ichor. Narumi struck, his blade screaming as it pierced the armored crest of the Queen’s upper body. She shrieked in rage, her limbs spasming as her wings attempted to beat skyward but Kikoru was already in motion, launching off a protruding ridge and embedding her axe into the base joint of the left wing.
Kaiju blood sprayed.
“One wing down!”
The Queen reeled, a gout of acidic mist erupting from the wound. Kikoru ducked it effortlessly, rolling over the wing and re-anchoring with her axe sunk deep into the chitin. The drones, dozens of Class 3 bee-types rushed in with frenzied shrieks, responding to their queen’s distress call.
“Incoming at ten o’clock.” Narumi didn’t even look. He stepped sideways and swept his blade in a wide arc, cleavi
ng three drones out of the sky in a single fluid motion. His Number Six weapon vibrated as if in satisfaction, the kaiju-derived material singing in his grip.
The Queen twisted violently, swiping with serrated claws. Narumi dodged with inhuman speed, boosted by the exosuit’s fine-tuned acceleration module. He parried a claw, jumped, slashed down the thorax in one precise, devastating arc.
“Armor’s tougher than it looks,” he muttered. “Reacting fast too.”
“So do we.” Kikoru vaulted off her embedded axe, spinning midair to drive her second strike into the opposite wing. It buckled.
The Queen’s massive body flailed, wings shattered, core exposed.
Narumi’s HUD locked onto the center thoracic node. “Now.”
Kikoru kicked downward with thruster-enhanced momentum. Narumi followed.
Two war gods collided with the Queen’s core.
As the Queen screeched and staggered, Narumi lunged forward, boosting off one of her dorsal spines, his blade cocked back. He landed with devastating force, blade-first, into the queen’s core, driving the entire weight of his suit and the kinetic memory of a hundred kills into one precise point. The impact cracked the armor in a spiderweb fracture then exploded as the internal core detonated in a concussive blast of gore, fire, and psychic screech.
The Queen twitched once, then collapsed. Silence fell, heavy and sudden.
The drones in the sky faltered, then spiraled downward as they no longer guided by her will.
“Command, target is neutralized,” Kikoru reported, her breathing steady despite the carnage. She yanked her axe free and looked over her shoulder. Narumi stood amid the smoking remains, his suit splattered in violet and black ichor, blade resting on one shoulder.
He tilted his head toward her. “Told you I’d give you a clean shot. You’re welcome.”
She rolled her eyes. “You were too slow. I bought my own shot.”
A dull *thump-thump* above signaled the descending dropcraft—its rotors kicking up dust and flecks of kaiju ash. The ramp lowered before it touched ground. Medical personnel, engineers in reinforced suits, and a trio of drones deployed first, sweeping the area with thermal sensors and anti-toxin fog.
Kikoru activated his earpiece, a low triple-click syncing him to all platoon leaders.
“First Division, report.”
One by one, voices filtered in. Bruised, some breathless, but intact.
“Platoon 3: Minimal losses. Sector clear.”
“Platoon 2: Drones neutralized. One injured, non-critical.”
“Platoon 1...” The line buzzed a second longer before a reply came. “All accounted for. Target wings were clipped as instructed. One member caught some venom splash, but suit seals held.”
Narumi’s gaze swept across the city, its bones jutting from the smoke like memories. The Queen had gone down hard, but her spawn had spread far. Yet none had made it past the perimeter. They’d held the line. The kind of success that usually cost more than it gave.
His voice cut through again, quiet but firm.
“All platoons: Queen neutralized. Mission complete.” A glance at the writhing carcass.“
Lake Sylvia Anchorage, Miami
The coastal winds whispered across the open carcass of the sea-beast beneath her boots, a grotesque leviathan with gilled fins, webbed talons, and a body the length of a freighter, now splayed lifeless across the dock like something half-exhumed from the depths of myth. Its luminous blood seeped into the concrete in radiant streams of violet, hissing softly where it met salt and sunlight.
Liya stood atop the corpse, balanced with poise on the curve of its spine. Her dark battlesuit shimmered slightly under the overcast sky, the subtle ridges of hardened armor humming faintly with post-battle static. In one gloved hand, she held a tab and a video played on its screen.
“Ransom.” Her tone was soft, but threaded with command.
“Yes?” he responded, standing just a step behind her, one eye on the shifting tide of surveillance satellites overhead.
“The JAKDF,” she said. “I asked you last week for restricted logs. You have them now?”
There was a slight pause. Rome adjusted the translucent blue display embedded in his contact lens, flicking through encrypted files with a tiny twitch of his eye. “Retrieved and decrypted, yes. We had to bounce off three proxy servers through Indonesia to bypass Japan’s civilian firewall.”
“Start talking.”
He nodded. “The Japan Anti-Kaiju Defense Force is fractured into regional Divisions, but the First Division isunder Captain Narumi Gen handles the high-risk core territory and functions as the elite vanguard. They're the surgical scalpel to the others’ hammers. Division 1 alone gets 42% of Japan’s defense budget.”
Liya raised a brow. “More than air or sea?”
Ransom gave a short nod. “Yes. Because air and sea don't kill Kaiju. Division 1 does.”
She glanced back down at the screen.
The footage was raw, real-time broadcast from the drone cams dispatched during the JAKDF final battle against Kaiju No.9.
The screen showed a seething tide of Kaiju-class entities swarming the ward, many marked with numeric tags. Kaiju Nos. 11 through 15 led the charge like demonic generals. But then came the earthquake, the split in the sky, and the emergence of the Meireki Daikaiju, a lumbering god stitched from memory, vengeance, and No. 9’s stolen cores.
Ransom adjusted the holoprojection with a gloved hand. “The Meireki entity contained over 300 localized cores, each shielded behind sub-organic armor, connected to ancient residual soul frequencies. Possibly the only Daikaiju constructed using ancestral psychic bio-fields.”
“A monster built from a grudge.” Liya murmured.
“No. 9 fused with the spiritual resonance of the original Meireki fires. Somehow he weaponized Japan’s trauma,” Ransom confirmed.
“There,” Liya murmured, tapping the screen with her knuckle.
The projection shifted.
“That is Captain Gen Narumi. Japan’s strongest Anti-Kaiju defense officer.”
Division 1 moved in, a spear of professionals piercing through a nightmare. Captain Narumi led from the front, eyes glowing with unnatural clarity. His Number 1 suit surged with pale bio-electric light and flaring open in timed exhaust bursts, blades extended in both arms like wings of death. The RT-0001 Retina, embedded behind his own, saw several futures at once, a power that made reaction into preemption. He dashed through the frame, slicing clean through a core node on the beast’s shoulder before the kaiju had even turned its head.
The screen focused on Captain Gen Narumi. Still upright. Still breathing. His twin blades crackled with deactivated energy. The No. 1 suit, Kaiju No. 1’s retina, cortex fragments, and enhanced nerve-linked exosuit shifted silently over his body. Its pale white armor was veined with faint blue lines, like old marble laced with lightning.
“He used the full retinal interface,” Ransom noted. “The one preserved from Kaiju No. 1’s cranial vault. Gave him predictive vision, not just reflexes, but precognition. That’s how he dodged 9’s adaptive strikes.”
“Precognition?” Liya asked, tilting her head, arms folded. “So he sees before it happens?”
Ransom nodded. “Technically, yes. The retina from No. 1 gives him near-instantaneous combat precognition. It doesn’t show everything, but it maps out enemy intention milliseconds before the act. Enough time for someone like him to respond at inhuman speed.”
Behind him, Kikoru Shinomiya with her Number 4 axe-augmented armor unmistakable descended in a controlled fall, spiraling into the fray like a storm condensed into muscle and steel. The kaiju didn’t even have time to scream before she cleaved through three in one arc.
”That is Vice-Captain Kikoru Shinomiya, daughter of the late Director-General. Her armor roared like an engine every time she moved. That was Numbered Weapon No. 4 designed not for speed, but for raw physical amplification. The axe she wielded had once been the jawbone of a Kaiju that Kaiju’s nerve fibers now synced directly into her spinal column, enabling her to exert crushing force far exceeding her own body weight.” Ransom explained.
The girl was a cannon: graceful, calculated, and utterly merciless.
Liya tilted her head slightly, lips curving not in admiration, but in amusement. “They’re wearing ghosts,” she said.
The video panned again.
Kafka Hibino appeared in frame, mid-transformation. His eyes glowing with cyan light, tendrils of transformation spiraling outward from his shoulders. Unlike the others, there was no exosuit. Kafka was the weapon. Liya narrowed her eyes.
“Number 8,” Liya said softly.
Ransom nodded. “Unregistered Numbered Weapon, as you know. Not a suit. A living Kaiju, semi-sentient, humanoid host. Officially sanctioned by JAKDF through a special permit. His body reacts like a Kaiju, but with human cognition. He’s their wild card.”
“They wear the dead,” Liya murmured. “Bones of Kaiju re-stitched into armor. Wings stolen from previous terrors, repurposed for heroes.”
“You disapprove?” Ransom asked carefully.
“No,” she said, glancing down at the lifeless beast beneath her. “I find it... beautiful. Poetic. Horrifyingly human. To take what almost ended you and turn it into a weapon for the next round. Not out of revenge. But out of survival. Out of irony.”
Ransom asked carefully, “Should we update HAWKS Command with your tactical assessment?”
Liya waved a hand lazily. “Let them keep watching their satellites. I’ll send my thoughts when I’m ready.”
She pressed play again, watching as Narumi carved through the Queen’s armored thorax with one strike, the camera lens cracking from the tremor. A soft laugh escaped her, sharp and low, almost fond. The wind stirred her hair as she stared down at the screen.
"Japan raises some elegant monsters," she muttered, eyes flicking from kaiju to captain. “Alive and dead.”