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 B
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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herself.
We wait. We have waited long, it is true, but we would not exist if we had not waited so long. So, again, we pause. We draw breath. We poise on the edge and anticipate.
Maker:
The scissors are so cold, so perfectly cold, in her hands. Julian smiles, tries not to laugh as she covers them up with a piece of burlap to dampen the light. They are so beautiful. So ornate. So delicate. It reminds her of the kit her mother had, back when she lived Above. The scrollwork looks almost Eastern, and she runs her fingers along the side and smiles. She loves the cold. It’s a welcome cold. A bright cold. The cold of stars in the firmament.
We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.
She has heard the voices before, and she is not afraid of them. In a way, she is relieved. That the whispers have intensified means she’s less mad. It means that something—this pair of scissors—has been waiting for her all these years. It means her work has not been in vain. It means the years of ridicule and scorn…
But no one has ever understood Julian, not even Brother Barrier. No one except her companions, all awaiting her in her nook. And that is where she goes, her breath caught in her throat as she makes her way without hesitation, the scissors pressing against her breast as she navigates the sewer to the place of her own.
There are half a dozen locks on the door of her space, and she quickly goes about releasing them, though she fails twice on the third lock. When she finally makes it inside, she is breathing so heavily her spectacles start fogging up. Julian won’t let go of the scissors, even though they bite into her hands with their unearthly cold. Her whole arm is numb now, up to the elbow, and she takes a quick stock of the room.
The specimens line the room from floor to ceiling, in jars and boxes and cans, depending on the individual situation. Arms, legs, fingers and toes are the uppermost tier, while the most easy accessible drawers and shelves are lined with the more delicate matter: eyes, tongues, and silvery webs of nerves and veins. Most are preserved, thanks to Brother Barrier’s help attaining ingredients and fluids from Above.
He has always been oddly fascinated with her work, even though it has nothing to do with the steam pumps. The day he stumbled upon her, she was terrified he would judge her, make her stop. He wore the robes of a priest, after all. But instead of fear, he was full of awe. Awe and support.
What specimens aren’t preserved wait in the experimental section, one level below. As Julian takes the burlap off the scissors, something miraculous happens.
The light from the scissors brightens the room, bouncing off red, wet brick, and trembling through the formaldehyde, ethanol, and methanol solutions. Brilliant blue flashes across the surface, like an electric charge, and every eye turns, every finger points, every submerged ear and floating brain matter turns to focus upon her.
We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.
Creature:
To be awoken is an experience akin to no others. To see, however dimly, after thousands of years blind and hungry. To hear. To sense. To know. We tremble and cry out, lips making no noises, choking and drowning and screaming at once. At first, we are jubilant, in spite of the pain—or perhaps because of it, for pain means life. But we realize, quickly, that in this moment of pain and awakening is confusion. Broken. Not as promised.
We are further shattered. We are fragmented. Some of us see—some of us hear—but none of us can do both. When once we suffered and dwindled as one, now we each remember and splinter. Our names come back to mind, our knowledge, but not complete. Uriel. Azazel. Samyaza. Baraquel. Kokabiel. More.
And my name. My name . I want to speak it. But all I am is an eye. The eye of a goat. The light from the metal of that ancient sword—no longer a sword, and much diminished—makes my
We wait. We have waited long, it is true, but we would not exist if we had not waited so long. So, again, we pause. We draw breath. We poise on the edge and anticipate.
Maker:
The scissors are so cold, so perfectly cold, in her hands. Julian smiles, tries not to laugh as she covers them up with a piece of burlap to dampen the light. They are so beautiful. So ornate. So delicate. It reminds her of the kit her mother had, back when she lived Above. The scrollwork looks almost Eastern, and she runs her fingers along the side and smiles. She loves the cold. It’s a welcome cold. A bright cold. The cold of stars in the firmament.
We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.
She has heard the voices before, and she is not afraid of them. In a way, she is relieved. That the whispers have intensified means she’s less mad. It means that something—this pair of scissors—has been waiting for her all these years. It means her work has not been in vain. It means the years of ridicule and scorn…
But no one has ever understood Julian, not even Brother Barrier. No one except her companions, all awaiting her in her nook. And that is where she goes, her breath caught in her throat as she makes her way without hesitation, the scissors pressing against her breast as she navigates the sewer to the place of her own.
There are half a dozen locks on the door of her space, and she quickly goes about releasing them, though she fails twice on the third lock. When she finally makes it inside, she is breathing so heavily her spectacles start fogging up. Julian won’t let go of the scissors, even though they bite into her hands with their unearthly cold. Her whole arm is numb now, up to the elbow, and she takes a quick stock of the room.
The specimens line the room from floor to ceiling, in jars and boxes and cans, depending on the individual situation. Arms, legs, fingers and toes are the uppermost tier, while the most easy accessible drawers and shelves are lined with the more delicate matter: eyes, tongues, and silvery webs of nerves and veins. Most are preserved, thanks to Brother Barrier’s help attaining ingredients and fluids from Above.
He has always been oddly fascinated with her work, even though it has nothing to do with the steam pumps. The day he stumbled upon her, she was terrified he would judge her, make her stop. He wore the robes of a priest, after all. But instead of fear, he was full of awe. Awe and support.
What specimens aren’t preserved wait in the experimental section, one level below. As Julian takes the burlap off the scissors, something miraculous happens.
The light from the scissors brightens the room, bouncing off red, wet brick, and trembling through the formaldehyde, ethanol, and methanol solutions. Brilliant blue flashes across the surface, like an electric charge, and every eye turns, every finger points, every submerged ear and floating brain matter turns to focus upon her.
We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.
Creature:
To be awoken is an experience akin to no others. To see, however dimly, after thousands of years blind and hungry. To hear. To sense. To know. We tremble and cry out, lips making no noises, choking and drowning and screaming at once. At first, we are jubilant, in spite of the pain—or perhaps because of it, for pain means life. But we realize, quickly, that in this moment of pain and awakening is confusion. Broken. Not as promised.
We are further shattered. We are fragmented. Some of us see—some of us hear—but none of us can do both. When once we suffered and dwindled as one, now we each remember and splinter. Our names come back to mind, our knowledge, but not complete. Uriel. Azazel. Samyaza. Baraquel. Kokabiel. More.
And my name. My name . I want to speak it. But all I am is an eye. The eye of a goat. The light from the metal of that ancient sword—no longer a sword, and much diminished—makes my
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