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Godzilla was tired.
No, he was exhausted. Sick and tired of terrorizing Japan after feeling lethargic the whole day, and still being expected to put on a show. All he wanted to do now was slink back to his hollow littoral cave, and gorge himself on some gargantuan sized dumplings.
He'd really let himself go after the divorce.
It wasn't his fault that after murdering innocents and razing infrastructure to the ground that he'd find a restaurant full of the most delectable gyozas known to man—and kaiju. It also wasn't Godzilla's fault that there was a grandpa inside who'd been in the dumpling business for decades, who was so invested, he didn't so much as flinch when Godzilla tore the roof off the factory. He just kept pinching and steaming. The other family members ran in fear, crawling over each other to escape. Yet the grandpa remained still.
Godzilla had thought about eating him. But, then he tried one of the dumplings, and, oh, it was so small pinched between his thick, scaly claws. Fragile, supple, and moist. Rich scents of pork and shiitake mushrooms danced in his nostrils—olfactory sense triple the sensitivity of a regular human's—and made them flare. There was gnawing hunger in his cavernous pit of an excuse for a stomach, too alluring to ignore. 1
After that first bite, his fate was sealed.
Godzilla stepped over the debris, carefully avoiding the dumpling-making paraphernalia and apparatus. Bending down to the grandpa close as he could to imitate eye-level, the mildest chuff of steam blew out his nostrils. Regardless of his attempt at mindfulness, the force ruffled the grandpa's hair and nearly dropped the uncooked gyoza from his hands. Thankfully, the grandpa was dedicated to his craft, and held on with an ironclad grip.
Though, this did seem to draw the grandpa's attention. The older man stood and turned in Godzilla's direction. With withered, shaky hands, he lifted the lid from the bamboo steamer, plucked a fresh gyoza, and wordlessly handed it to Godzilla. Well, he tried at least; his hand hovered in the general vicinity of Godzilla's scabrous chest. Godzilla cautiously accepted the morsel.
The very next second he felt a minuscule touch moving in circular motions across his armoured kneecap. Logically, he knew it could've only been the grandpa; nobody else was around. Logic didn't stop a reflexive shiver stomp and glide its way through his spine, the movement urging soft tremors to stir the earth's crust.
"Why do you shudder so, kaiju?" the grandpa asked.
The gyoza became wormy on his tongue. Microscopic pieces of vegetable and animal flesh lodged itself between Godzilla's jagged maws, like stalactites. He huffed (gentler this time), a final gust of hot steam, warming the wrappers. He rose to full height and removed himself from the restaurant, stepping over the machinery as carefully as he did when he arrived. Nothing was to be out of place if he desired to return.
The next day after a fitful night's slumber, Godzilla awoke early. Salty ocean water sluiced down his scales. Unsure of what to do with himself until it became the witching hour when he was bound to strings and inevitably forced into becoming humanity's marionette.
Repetition. There was nowhere to go and no one to be. He'd lost the only constant in his life. Life responded as usual: with cruel neutrality. Perhaps, life had a lesser opinion of him than none at all.
So cold it was without the encasement of a loving cocoon, fit just for two. How silent it was without the strong beat of her wings that'd drive him mad before he lost what he didn't realize he had. Tasteless everything had become when she flew, the sweet chitters of her determined soul never to bless his auditory perception again.
Oftentimes, ghosts of her feather-light caresses barely grazed his hide and disappeared like it had never happened. He saw her sometimes in the reflection of the oceans ripples. If he closed his eyes for long enough, he could envision her antennae twitching and roaming his being. On especially grim days, they'd confirm they were soulmates. A superficial human excuse for recklessly falling in love and whatnot, but he could not deny the simmering comfort underneath that term brought bubbled to the surface.
Mope all day. Sit still until the numbness in his limbs became searing enough that he no longer felt it. Pass the hours swimming among the descendants of armoured fish that once swam alongside him.
Instead, he found himself kneeling.
The grandpa was in the same position as yesterday. No one else was around, apparently the family did not care so to return and verify if their own blood and flesh survived. Godzilla supposed he could not blame them; he should've eaten the old man, expecting nothing less of his conditioned self.
There was one difference today though. A humongous table, by human standards, was covered in steamed gyozas. They were bigger than yesterdays, bigger than any human required for adequate sustenance. A piece of paper flimsily taped clung to the table's edge. Obviously, they were offerings for him.
Contrary to popular belief, Godzilla was not a complete swine; he mostly just didn't care for pleasantries. However, he continuously found himself making exceptions in the grandpa's presence. In what'd become a courteous act, Godzilla allowed the grandpa to pat his knee, before moving to the table.
Inspecting the note seemed like the polite thing to do. It fell away easily with the tip of his smallest claw. It read as follows:
The terror of Japan
Demolisher of hope and man
A kaiju born of spite
Poisonous radiant purple spikes
Soulless black orbs that sense its next victim
Teeth that chomp and tear limb from limb
Bleeding and dismembered, you will catch your final glimpse
See the King of kings
GODZILLA
Made in Vietnam 2
Was this written by a child? Godzilla fumed. How stereotypical. Not to mention his origin was factually incorrect. A careless mistake that could've been easily rectified by stepping into one's local library and cracking open a small human book. They sure seemed to enjoy documenting "exotic" anomalies such as himself. The least they could do after the poking and prodding was be accurate.
The slightest hint of pressure on the poor imitation of a poem, and it crumpled. He let it fall to the floor, satisfied he'd never have to read its ugly calligraphic text again.
"My granddaughter wrote that. She wishes to visit me, but her parents forbade it." The grandpa spoke.
So a child had written it, as he predicted. He faced the dumplings, scooping a large claw full into his palm then into his jaws.
Irrational fears were assuaged by the burst of flavour and seasonings. For only in the privacy of his cavern did he allow himself to fret over the taste of the gyoza. What if it had been a one off? An illusion conjured in utter desperation for anything but ash by his tormented mind.
Folly thinking.
"She will be over the moon to know you read it." The grandpa said with frail joy. "And she will know this time you did not shudder so."
The dumplings didn't turn to ash and charcoal like expected.
"Why?"
Godzilla looked at the old man. Indignation and anger at his persistence Godzilla should've felt. Perhaps, should've eaten him and crushed the restaurant. More than curiosity laced the ask, and Godzilla felt himself inclined to indulge.
Who had bothered in the last few centuries to ask him anything at all? That is, of the even fewer who'd assumed he could talk.
Godzilla smelt this man teetered on the cusp of death, a hairsbreadth away. Humanity, their lives so fickle and yet they waste it on meaningless endeavors like war and torture, but this was how they would all end up. He knew not this grandpa's story, nor did he care, and likely he previously served in war. Be that as it may, the old man found purpose in his craft. In his family, the same kin who fled and abandoned him. Where the hesitance lied in revealing the truth was poignantly absent. No her, no purpose, and, very soon, no grandfather to blow steam at.
Godzilla polished off an unguis stained with soy sauce. He rumbled from low within his stomach, satiated and satisfied for the first time in a long time. It was difficult to open his jaws without intending to release a deafening roar that'd instantaneously rupture the grandpa's eardrums. Gravelly, like a drawbridge that hadn't been operated in years suddenly being lifted, he spoke.
"I had a companion once. Large. Elegant. Graceful." He paused. "Powerful. I had believed we would be together in such companionship for eons to come. This notion crumbled, as did our relations. I made the error of a mortal: sorely underestimating my trusted one's abilities. The Mothra she was, she stood not for it, and left at a wing's beat."
He waited for the grandpa's interjection, unsure if he'd been heard. When none came, the catharsis rushed in.
"Since her departure, everything that touches my tongue shrivels to cinders. This… food is the only one I can still taste. My buds can decipher the flavour in each bite, and it reminds me of her. Every bite tastes of her."
Godzilla was met with a warm smile. Even in the wrinkles and frowns of the grandpa's skin, to the crow's feet crinkling the edges of his eyes, it was radiant. Though no human could hope to replicate her beauty, it was reminiscent of Mothra's luminescence. It was a nice sight to see before the grandpa's death.
Godzilla knelt and savoured the weak outstretched hands that rubbed deep, soothing circles into his scales for the final time.