Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters by James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron Page A
Authors: James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
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plotted. Planned. Planted seeds, however far-flung, of the hope of rebirth.
A sword. Forged from the heart of a star. Melted down and changing hands, century after century, passing borders and oceans. Coveted, cursed, stolen. Our last hope.
Maker:
Julian curses. She cannot help herself. The sudden disruption causes her to stumble, losing her footing, twisting her ankle. It cracks under her weight, sending bright sparks of pain up the side of her leg and she gasps in spite of herself, wishing she had opted for another route. The last thing she wants is discord. Her routine is all she has—it’s what keeps her from losing time and whatever else precious she has left to her.
Part of her is sensible and says that she ought to keep moving, albeit slowly, back to her enclave. It is the safest option, and safety is one of Julian’s most intense concerns. She knows how difficult it is to languish in pain and suffering after safety has been ignored. With a gloved hand she reaches up and touches the stump of her ear, feeling the ragged bumps and twisted skin, hearing the strange scratching noise such a motion produces.
But the light. That blue. As she braces herself against the wall and finds her way toward breathing more regularly, she notices that it flickers and dissipates with a certain rhythm. Not quite a pulse, but it is regular. And there’s a smell, too. She feels as if she can remember the scent, but not entirely; it’s a distant memory. A part of her brain fires, but she can’t attach any strings to the thought. It just floats a moment, and then is gone, no connection made. But the memory is not a warning. What’s left in Julian’s mind is something burning and bright, something strong and dangerous.
Julian slides across the grimy bricks and twists her head to get a better look. Her glasses are dirty enough as it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Her eyes are still dazzled by what she sees. The luminescence emanates from a small object, half buried in the mud and mold at the base of one of the drains. The color is cold, she thinks, even though she hasn’t touched it yet. As if it were ice. Which is strange, she realizes, because she is very hot and very sticky. The room is not cold. The color is cold.
Why would it be here, she wonders? Perhaps there was a deluge above and it got knocked clean. Perhaps someone threw it down here to hide it. Or to get rid of it. Such a beautiful thing should not be let go of, Julian thinks.
Either way, Julian doesn’t think much as she lunges forward to grab it. Every muscle in her crooked body twists as she moves—faster than she has moved in a decade—and as she tumbles forward into the muck, she wonders for a moment if it is pulling her. If the cold and light is reaching toward her, desiring her touch as much as she desires its.
She gasps, seized with a strange concern that someone else will take the object, and in a moment, she holds it in her hands, blinking down through grimy lenses, dazzled.
Scissors. A pair of scissors. When she touches them, whispers rise around her like steam.
Creature:
We all shout out as one. That touch! The touch of a human, but not entirely human. We feel her body, know her immediately as a descendent of ours. One of our children, a thousand generations removed from the perfect babes we birthed upon the earth. She is a broken, weak thing, and has no idea what she has in her hands. No concept that we, the Watchers, are rising up from the depths in ecstasy—have waited nigh a million years for this moment.
It is pain and anguish and love and grief we all feel in that moment. Through that cursed, magic metal, that single touch is as powerful as the breath of life we were once given. How small it has become. How simple. What was once a flaming sword, wielded by the greatest among us, has now become a tiny thing.
The touch is enough to wake us, to rouse us, but she must do more. She must remember what she is. She must awaken,
A sword. Forged from the heart of a star. Melted down and changing hands, century after century, passing borders and oceans. Coveted, cursed, stolen. Our last hope.
Maker:
Julian curses. She cannot help herself. The sudden disruption causes her to stumble, losing her footing, twisting her ankle. It cracks under her weight, sending bright sparks of pain up the side of her leg and she gasps in spite of herself, wishing she had opted for another route. The last thing she wants is discord. Her routine is all she has—it’s what keeps her from losing time and whatever else precious she has left to her.
Part of her is sensible and says that she ought to keep moving, albeit slowly, back to her enclave. It is the safest option, and safety is one of Julian’s most intense concerns. She knows how difficult it is to languish in pain and suffering after safety has been ignored. With a gloved hand she reaches up and touches the stump of her ear, feeling the ragged bumps and twisted skin, hearing the strange scratching noise such a motion produces.
But the light. That blue. As she braces herself against the wall and finds her way toward breathing more regularly, she notices that it flickers and dissipates with a certain rhythm. Not quite a pulse, but it is regular. And there’s a smell, too. She feels as if she can remember the scent, but not entirely; it’s a distant memory. A part of her brain fires, but she can’t attach any strings to the thought. It just floats a moment, and then is gone, no connection made. But the memory is not a warning. What’s left in Julian’s mind is something burning and bright, something strong and dangerous.
Julian slides across the grimy bricks and twists her head to get a better look. Her glasses are dirty enough as it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Her eyes are still dazzled by what she sees. The luminescence emanates from a small object, half buried in the mud and mold at the base of one of the drains. The color is cold, she thinks, even though she hasn’t touched it yet. As if it were ice. Which is strange, she realizes, because she is very hot and very sticky. The room is not cold. The color is cold.
Why would it be here, she wonders? Perhaps there was a deluge above and it got knocked clean. Perhaps someone threw it down here to hide it. Or to get rid of it. Such a beautiful thing should not be let go of, Julian thinks.
Either way, Julian doesn’t think much as she lunges forward to grab it. Every muscle in her crooked body twists as she moves—faster than she has moved in a decade—and as she tumbles forward into the muck, she wonders for a moment if it is pulling her. If the cold and light is reaching toward her, desiring her touch as much as she desires its.
She gasps, seized with a strange concern that someone else will take the object, and in a moment, she holds it in her hands, blinking down through grimy lenses, dazzled.
Scissors. A pair of scissors. When she touches them, whispers rise around her like steam.
Creature:
We all shout out as one. That touch! The touch of a human, but not entirely human. We feel her body, know her immediately as a descendent of ours. One of our children, a thousand generations removed from the perfect babes we birthed upon the earth. She is a broken, weak thing, and has no idea what she has in her hands. No concept that we, the Watchers, are rising up from the depths in ecstasy—have waited nigh a million years for this moment.
It is pain and anguish and love and grief we all feel in that moment. Through that cursed, magic metal, that single touch is as powerful as the breath of life we were once given. How small it has become. How simple. What was once a flaming sword, wielded by the greatest among us, has now become a tiny thing.
The touch is enough to wake us, to rouse us, but she must do more. She must remember what she is. She must awaken,
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