Chichi-jima, December 14th, 1957
The night air was hot and still as Captain Douglas Gordon stepped out of the small bunker that'd been his home for the past three years, and onto the small balcony. Despite having stripped down to his pants once he got off duty, he still felt as though someone had stuck him in the oven for a few hours, basting him in his own sweat like a Christmas turkey.
God, he loved the Pacific.
Below him, he saw nothing but thick jungle, stretching out to the sandy beach by the water's edge. The Moon was visible over the horizon, a fat crescent whose silvery light seemed to dance across the waves. It didn't take too much effort to imagine that he was back in Guadalcanal, keeping an eye out for the familiar mushroom-shape of Japanese helmets.
Of course, the only Jap on the island was Yamane, and there was no worry of getting bayoneted in his sleep by the good doctor. He'd actually taken a liking to the old man; he was a good conversationalist, and more than a little insightful about things.
The sounds of cracking trees reached his ears, accompanied by booming footsteps, and Gordon frowned.
There may have been no enemy soldiers on the island, but that didn't mean there was nothing to keep an eye out for.
A massive figure lumbered into view, towering over the treetops, shaking the ground with each ponderous footfall. Even from nearly half a kilometer away, it was still the biggest thing in Gordon's field of view. He watched the titanic figure come to a stop, then straightened when it turned to look his way. Fiery orange eyes seemed to almost stare into his, regarding him the same way a man regarded an ant.
Godzilla, King of the Monsters, let out a low rumble.
"Good evening to you, too," Gordon said, and casually gave the kaiju the middle finger. "Enjoying the weather?"
Godzilla simply snorted. Over the years, it'd become a bit of a ritual between the two of them. Every night, they'd return to the same spot, and have what the others on the base had called "the weirdest stand off in history". Yamane had dismissed the thing, simply claiming that Godzilla was merely curious in the presence of the bunker, and re-staking his claim on the territory. Humans, he said, were beneath his notice.
And yet, Gordon couldn't help but feel that the big lizard remembered him.
"A little anniversary's coming up, you know," Gordon said, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. He cut the tip off, then pulled out a match. "It's been almost two years since you got my ass demoted and stuck on this island with you."
Godzilla said nothing, as always. Gordon lit the cigar, then took a long puff.
"Yamane thinks you don't know it was me, but I think you do. You wouldn't come here to glare at me if you didn't."
He took another puff, then carefully blew out a smoke ring. It managed to travel a good ten feet before dissipating, and he grinned at his good work. He closed his eyes for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the jungle.
Then he heard a low rumble, and opened his eyes to see Godzilla breathing in. The kaiju puffed up his chest, then opened his jaws. Before Gordon could try and guess what was going on, Godzilla made a strange coughing sound. A wispy smoke ring shot out of his throat, glowing a bright blue, then dissipated over the treetops, setting some of them alight.
For a few moments, Gordon simply stared at the burning palm leaves. Then, slowly, he looked back to Godzilla, eyes wide.
"Son of a bitch," he murmured, then let out a chuckle. "Looks like you win that one."
Godzilla simply closed his eyes, leaning back on his tail. Gordon watched the kaiju for a few more minutes, occasionally taking a puff of his cigar. Once again, silence reigned across the island.
He was about halfway through his cigar when he saw the first shooting star. It arced across the sky, burning brightly, then disappeared. A few moments later, another shooting star shone over the Pacific, and another. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a shooting star, but this felt different; they felt brighter than usual, and too long-lasting.
Belatedly, Gordon realized Godzilla was also watching the shooting stars, eyes pointed skyward. Unlike the other times it'd happened, however, the kaiju did not have a passive look on his face, or even something Gordon liked to pretend was wonderment.
This time, the King of the Monsters curled back his lips, and snarled.
At once, Godzilla turned away from the bunker, and began to stomp further inland, where the other kaiju normally spent the night. Gordon watched for a few moments, then put out his cigar and hurried back inside.
It was probably nothing. Perhaps the unusual brightness triggered a natural response, like Yamane would say. From personal experience, he knew it didn't take much to piss the big lizard off.
And yet, he couldn't help but feel that there was more to those shooting stars than he knew. If it was enough to make Godzilla worked up, then perhaps it was something he should be very worried about.
==/*\==
Tokyo
"Hey, Ken."
Kenichi looked up from his paperwork to see Hideji leaning against the wall, work jacket slung over his shoulder. The older man had a slight smile on his face, something that made Kenichi feel more than a little uneasy.
"Hello."
"The shift just closed up," Hideji said. "Me and some of the others were planning on heading to the local izakaya, if you wanna come."
Kenichi closed his ledger, and carefully put it away before standing up. He straightened his tie, trying to look less uncomfortable than he actually was feeling.
"The offer is... tempting, but I have some personal matters I need to attend to."
"You sure you can't put them off? I heard they're doing another Sputnik party on the roof, to try and see if we can find it with the telescope."
The mention of the satellite's name sent a twinge down Kenichi's spine, and he straightened.
"Unfortunately, I cannot."
Hideji sighed. "Sure, I guess. See ya tomorrow, Ken."
The older man walked out, and Kenichi let out a low sigh, letting his shoulders slump. The gravity was still punishing, even after all these months. Sometimes, he woke in the middle of the night to find he couldn't breathe, before he took a puff of his inhaler. Those moments were infrequent, but they lingered in his mind, like a knife held to his throat.
Grabbing his jacket, he began to make his way to the elevator. Many of the others took the stairs, since they were only a floor above the ground, but he tried to avoid the extra effort when he could.
The elevator doors opened, and he realized Yuki was already inside. The young woman smiled at him, and he felt his breath catch. He quickly averted his eyes, and stepped inside, trying to ignore his rising heart rate.
"You coming to the izakaya with us?" Yuki asked, a hopeful look on her face.
"Uh... no, sorry," he replied, trying to ignore her frown. "I, uh, I have some things I need to do at home."
Yuki frowned, and Kenichi felt a pang of guilt. By the stars, she was beautiful, and he'd never met someone so kind before. He didn't like putting her off, not when all it took was a small gesture to make him feel like the luckiest person alive.
Thankfully, the elevator ride was a short one, and he practically bolted out the door. The cold air was refreshing, comforting; he didn't bother to put on his jacket as he began to walk to his apartment. A few people passed him by on the way, and he tried to steer clear of them, eyes on the ground. The apartment wasn't far, thankfully.
The climb up the stairs to his room was almost enough to make him throw up. He paused for a few moments outside his door, panting, then slipped inside, locking it behind him.
Practically dragging his feet, he made his way over to the water bed he'd put in the room, and laid down. The undulations didn't help with his nausea, but at least he didn't feel like his bones were trying to fall out of his body.
The peace didn't last long before his communicator buzzed. Reaching over with a limp hand, he grabbed the small box on his nightstand and flipped it open.
"This is Kōbò," he groaned, slipping back into the familiar tones of his mother language.
"This is Command," came the gruff reply on the other end. "What is your weekly report?"
"Nothing suspicious has passed through the news station," he replied. "It doesn't seem that the civilian populace is aware, at least. No conspiracy theories floating about; simply more Sputnik news."
"Good." There was a pause, too long to be explained by light-speed lag. "The operation is being accelerated. We have already begun landings in the region they call Hokkaido"
Kenichi practically bolted upright, then immediately regretted it. He blinked a few times, trying not to faint from the sudden rush of blood.
"Operations weren't supposed to begin for another year," he said.
"Sputnik has caused a change. The primitives are developing more quickly than we thought; we must establish supremacy before they prove capable of hitting us in orbit."
"But I have been unable to verify the reports about the strange beasts they keep speaking of," he said. "If what they say is true..."
"Most likely exaggerations brought about by their own primitive superstitions, or metaphor for something else." The voice became harsher. "You are not being... insubordinate, are you?"
Kenichi took a deep breath as he repeated the old adage. "I am what I am made to be."
"Good. We will need you continue the reports for the time being. Remember your treatments, if you haven't taken them already. You need to be in proper shape for what is coming next."
The comms shut down, and Kenichi slammed the communicator back on the nightstand. Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a small silver box, and carefully opened it, revealing various pill bottles and other containers. He took the pills first, swallowing them dry. Melatonin for adjusting to Earth's circadian rhythm, as well as iron and calcium supplements. His bones had to be continually strengthened, lest they suddenly break.
Now came the more advanced treatments. He took a puff of his inhaler, to counteract the thick and moist atmosphere of this bizarre planet. It made his chest burn for a few moments, and he shuddered. Once it faded, he then grabbed a needle from the box and filled it with a cocktail of various serums. Some of the drugs helped strengthen his skeletal muscles, while others repaired some of the damage done to his heart by the punishing gravity. There was also an immune system boost, to help fight off infection.
He began to rapidly breathe in and out, readying himself, then jabbed the needle into his gut. Pain lanced up his back, then he carefully pulled the needle out and discarded it.
He was done. Grabbing the bottles and inhaler, he put them back in the box, making sure they were in their proper places. Briefly, his eyes fell on the cyanide capsule they'd also placed inside, as a worst-case scenario.
Then he slowly shut the box, and placed it back under his bed.
Groaning, he plopped back down on, bobbing gently. He pulled the covers over himself, and tried to get some sleep. He had work in the morning, in both senses of the word.
He was unsurprised that he didn't get a wink that night.
==/*\==
A few kilometers from Takinoue, Hokkaido
The snow crunched beneath Katsuo's feet as he slowly crept through the forest, clutching his rifle tightly. Occasionally, he would pause for a few moments and listen to the wind, waiting. When he found he could hear nothing, whether it be a bear or fellow hunter, he would continue on. The cold air bit at his face and his hands, but he did not heed the pain; he was used to the chill.
The ground almost seemed to quiver beneath his feet, and he tightened the grip on his rifle. He was getting close to where he saw the strange lights, before they disappeared. He wondered if they were actually another one of the Sputniks he had heard about in the news; perhaps the Soviets had sent one to spy on the island, or to lay in wait for some sinister plan.
As he got closer, he realized that there was light shining through the trees; too harsh to be the Moon, and there were no settlements that way. Swallowing dryly, he crouched down, then began to crawl forward. After a moment's thought, he put some snow in his mouth, so his breath wouldn't be visible.
Slowly, he began to make his way to the light, and eventually saw a clearing in the trees. It seemed to be the source of the unnatural light, and so he made his way over, using the snow-covered underbrush as cover. Eventually, he managed to reach the edge of the clearing, and peered within.
A chill ran down his spine as he did, but it was not from the cold.
Some massive thing stood in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by floodlights on all sides. It had an odd shape to it, with its cylindrical supports and blocky midsection. As he looked more closely, Katsuo realized it was made from some kind of shingled metal, albeit one that had no luster to it.
A few figures were milling about its base, dressed in bright colors; a few seemed to be doing construction work on the strange structure, using oddly-shaped tools. Reaching for his binoculars, he peered over at the strange folk, and saw that they seemed to be wearing something that almost looked like diving suits, leaving no part of their skin exposed. He couldn't see their faces past the black visors, but he didn't need to.
These weren't Soviets.
There seemed to be some sort of silent commotion amongst the strangely-garbed men; they made a few gestures to one another, one of them holding up a small device. Suddenly, a few began to look his way, and his breath caught when he realized that they had somehow spotted him.
It was then that he heard a low groaning sound, almost like metal grinding on metal. Something moved in his peripheral vision, and he looked up to see that the structure was turning its top part. Then, as its yellow eyes focused on him, he numbly realized that it was not a structure at all.
It was a machine.
He gave up all pretense of stealth, and bolted to his feet. He turned around and began to run, hoping that he could make it back to town before the strange men got to him.
He didn't make six paces before there was a flash of light behind him, followed, ever so briefly, by an incredible heat.
==/*\==
Chicago, the day after
As soon as he saw the man walk into the office, George knew that Steve Martin was on another 'special case'. There was a certain glint in the reporter's eyes, an eagerness that had never failed to bring success. He'd seen it back on the eve of the coup in Iran, and more than a few times involving a certain giant monster.
And, considering the fat stack of papers under his arm, the trend didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.
"Whadya got for me this time, Steve?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and stamping out a cigarette. "Something involving that damn island again?"
"No, not this time," Steve replied, shaking his head slightly. He slapped the stack of papers down, and pointed at some article. "Something strange is going on in Hokkaido."
George glanced down at the top paper. "Meteor shower? Interesting, but I don't see why it has you all riled up, Steve."
"That's because there's more to it," Steve replied. "An observatory in Java said that the meteors were of a fairly large size to leave a trail like that, but there were no recorded impacts anywhere. Seismographs didn't pick anything up."
"Alright, now that's a little more interesting, but I still don't see why you are so keen on this."
"Because there's even more to this. In Hokkaido, some of the locals reported seeing strange lights over the forests, near the mountains in the heart of the island. A small bridge collapsed the same night, seemingly of its own accord, and a hunter in the area has been reported missing by his family."
George narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at, Steve? I never thought you'd be the kind of man to go chasing after UFOs like those kooks down in Roswell."
"I remember you saying something similar about how there was no big story behind the missing boats near Odo Island. Then something came from beneath the sea, and the world hasn't been the same since. Even after at, you still had the gall to say that the strange nuclear tests in the Pacific were only tests, and that there was nothing odd going on in the Bonin archipelago."
Steven jabbed a finger at the papers on the desk. "Maybe you're right, George. Maybe the hunter just got killed by a bear, and the lights everyone saw were just some low-flying planes. But I have a gut feeling that there's more to this story, and it's the same feeling I had about Gojira and Godzilla. And I wouldn't be surprised if the military is thinking the same thing, too."
George grabbed for another cigarette. "Last I recall, McCarthy's still trying to get you blacklisted over what happened. Think you can make it to Hokkaido before the army clamps down on any... uh, suspicious happenings?"
"There's a flight to Tokyo at noon," Steve replied.
George allowed himself a grin. "Now that's the kind of initiative I like to see. You're clear to go, Steve. Be sure to bring back a juicy story again, will ya?"
"Can do, George." Steve gave a small nod, then hurried out the door, taking the papers with him.
George lit his cigarette, then leaned forward in his chair. He took a single puff, then cleared his throat.
"Miss Brown?"
His secretary peeked around the corner. "Yes, Mr. Lawrence?"
"Dig out the condolence letter we have for Steve's family, will ya?"
"I always have it on the ready, Mr. Lawrence."
"Smart girl," George said, and took another puff of his cigarette. "I swear, his luck's gonna run out, one of these days."
"Hopefully it won't be for a while, Mr. Lawrence."
"I hope so, too. If he manages to bring back a story about aliens, we're getting a Pulitzer for sure."
==/*\==
Hokkaido
So this is Dáchè, Ground-Commander Tīshò thought to himself, as he stepped out off the shuttle's ramp.
The landscape was, for lack of a better word, alien. The horizon seemed too far away, too flat; he felt as though he was standing on some great flat plane instead of a world. Through the trenches dug into the snow by feet or moving equipment, he saw dark brown soil and thick vegetation, thicker and richer than anything back home. Even the things that were familiar still managed to feel different; the trees were much squatter than he was used to, and the sky was the wrong shade of blue.
He grunted as he began to trudge through the snow, towards the prefab they had set up while the dome was still under construction. The planet's gravity was harsher than he'd anticipated; everything felt as though it was made of lead, from his limbs to his eyelids. The hazmat suit he had on didn't help, either, even though it'd been made from the lightest possible materials.
Still, it could have been worse. The visor seemed to be doing its job of protecting his eyes from the much brighter Sun, and the temperature was comfortable. He remembered reading the reports from the scouts they'd sent more than a local year ago, and how much they'd suffered in the initial adjustment phase.
And yet, this is our best option, he thought ruefully.
Ground-Commander Xōyō greeted him at the prefab's entrance. "Welcome, Tīshò."
"I am welcomed. What is our progress so far?"
"We have secured a three kilometer perimeter around the landing site. As suspected, there was no local habitation in the area."
"Any signs of resistance?"
"No, but a local managed to see us. The Mōgèrá made quick work of it, as well as two others on some primitive bridge."
"Good work. Make sure a single primitive doesn't get past our defense perimeter, but try not to attract the attention of the local governments. We need to be ready before we can try to make an impression on these primitives."
"Naturally. We've already begun setting up the automated masers. It'll be three local days before the dome is fully operational."
"No matter. Once it's done, no power on this backwards planet can challenge us." Tisho paused for a few moments, looking back at the landscape. "It feels good to be on solid ground again."
"Yes," Xōyō said, a wistful tone to her voice. "Yes, it does."
There was a few moments of silence. Then, Tīshò made his way inside, stepping into the decontamination chamber.
If I want to stay on solid ground, there is still much more to be done, he thought to himself as the disinfectant gas wafted over his suit. And so little time to do it in.
==/*\==
Tokyo
Kenichi looked down at the newspaper headline, and swallowed slowly.
STRANGE SIGHTINGS IN HOKKAIDO - POSSIBLE LINK TO ACCIDENTS ON ISLAND
It seemed that the ground crew was already attracting attention, then. Wetting his lips, he glanced up at Hideji, studying the older man's unhappy expression.
"This is what we're, er, publishing today?" he slowly asked, carefully debating each word.
"I can see you're not happy with it, either," Hideji said, gruffly. He slapped a hand down on the paper, sending a jolt down Kenichi's spine. "Rubbish, I tell you. Absolute rubbish. Ever since Gojira came out of the bay a few years back, it seems journalistic integrity went out the window. Reports of tiny women and giant butterflies and sunken cities..."
"But weren't at least some of those true?" Kenichi asked, discreetly reaching for a pen and notepad. "I'm sure you'd say the same thing about giant pterodactyls before Rodan appeared."
"A few right claims out of thousands of crackpot theories," Hideji said, dismissively. "And at least there was a lotta proof for the things that actually happened. I can't believe our paper's implying that little green men made a bridge collapse."
Kenichi forced himself to chuckle. "Yes, I cannot believe it, either."
Hideji let out a long sigh. "Apparently, we're not the only ones pushing this crap. That big-name reporter from America, Martin Steve or whatever, is coming to Tokyo today, and the higher-ups want me to send someone to meet him at the airport."
"Oh," Kenichi said. "Who is going?"
"Well... you. You probably have the best English on this floor, and I felt it'd be good for you to go on the field for once."
A few moments passed in silence as Kenichi processed the information. Then, he slowly folded his hands over his lap.
"Ah," he simply said.
"It shouldn't be too difficult," Hideji added. "You just need to act as a guide for him, and it'll probably only be for two days at most."
Kenichi mulled it over for a few moments, quietly. It was important that he keep command updated, but the idea of just letting a reporter waltz in on the operation was not one he wanted to consider.
"There's no issue," he finally said.
"His plane's due to arrive in two hours. He shouldn't be too hard to make out. Big guy, even for an American; he's got a bit of a thug face going on."
"Alright," Kenichi said, even though he had no idea what a thug's face looked like. "I'll get going."
"So early?"
"I need to up my daily prescriptions from home first."
"Prescriptions?" Hideji asked, frowning. "You aren't sick, are you?"
"Oh, no, it is just for my... asthma." Kenichi's hands twitched as he waited for the reply.
"I guess you can head out early, then."
"Thank you," Kenichi said, giving a small bow as he stood up.
"Be safe," Hideji replied.
Kenichi simply nodded again, and hurried for the elevator. Once inside, he slumped against the wall, clutching at his chest. He almost considered just making a run for the ground crew, but he knew that dereliction of duty could be punishable by execution at this stage.
What have I gotten myself into?
==/*\==
Tyuratam, Kazakh SSR
"Comrade Chief Designer sir?"
Sergei paused his report, and looked up to see Vasily poking his head through the door. There was a concerned look on the engineer's broad face, and for a moment he assumed the worst. It'd only been a few months since he'd been granted back his freedom, and it was still something he refused to take for granted.
"Is something wrong, comrade Mishin?"
"That, comrade Korolev, was something I hoped you could answer."
Sergei leaned back in his seat. "Come in, then. Tell me what's the matter."
Vasily shut the door behind him, then hurried over to the desk. It was then that Sergei noticed the stack of telemetric data under his arm.
"While we were doing the routine tracking of our satellites, we noticed an... irregularity."
"What kind of irregularity are we speaking of, Mishin? Is PS-1's orbit decaying more rapidly than predicted?"
"No," Vasily replied, pulling out the telemetric data. "It is simply that... well, some of our radar stations tracking the progress of PS-1 and PS-2 detected unusual data. It was almost as though there was a phantom satellite, occasionally reflecting our radar."
Sergei frowned, then motioned to be given the papers. Fixing a pair of wireframe glasses over his thick nose, he read over the telemetric data for a few minutes, then looked back up.
"This is rather curious. You said multiple stations picked up this anomaly?"
"Yes."
Sergei rubbed his chin. "This cannot be an American satellite. The size of this object seems to be much greater than anything we could put up, let alone them. Perhaps it is a natural body, passing between Earth and the Moon. Or..."
"Or what?"
"Perhaps it is related to the meters reported over the Pacific, the ones with the unusual descent."
"You aren't suggesting something fantastic, are you?"
Ever since that abominable creature slinked out of a mushroom cloud, the fantastic seems less far away, Sergei thought. He sighed. "I am suggesting that the meteors may have broken off from the 'phantom' you detected."
"Are we to report this to the higher ups?" Vasily asked. "If it's simply passing by, then the KGB shouldn't be concerned."
For a moment, Sergei considered the risk of getting that bastard child of the NKVD's attention, so soon after he'd been deemed rehabilitated. The idea of getting them in a panic over possibly nothing, and thereby making himself an easy target for their frustrations, was not a pleasing one. Absentmindedly, he ran his tongue over the fake teeth he'd had put in.
Khlopnut bez nekrologa.
"Send the report," he finally said. "And I want you to see if you can find any more of that phantom."
"Understood, Comrade Chief Designer," Vasily said.
"Dismissed, comrade Mishin." Sergei folded up his glasses and slid them back into his shirt pocket.
Vasily gave a slight nod, and left. Sergei waited for a few moments, then leaned back into his chair with a sigh, rubbing his temple.
Perhaps, if presented with the situation only a few years ago, I would have dismissed it. And yet...
He thought of the epitaph of his idol. Man will not always stay on Earth; the pursuit of light and space will lead him to penetrate the bounds of the atmosphere, timidly at first, but in the end to conquer the whole of solar space.
Did Tsiolkovsky ever wonder, Sergei thought, if the reverse could happen?
==/*\==
Tokyo
The worst part of any foreign work, Steve felt, was the flight. Language barriers did not give him a headache, and a tough case was a stimulating challenge. Even going into potentially hostile areas did not phase him, especially after Tokyo.
Flying, on the other hand, left him feeling like Gojira had collapsed a building on him all over again.
He rubbed his back as he made his way through the airport gate, his vertebrae creaking and popping like a rickety old springboard. He paused for a moment, then pressed his fists into the small of his back. A loud crack reached his ears, and he let out a satisfied sound before pressing forward with renewed vigor.
Absentmindedly, he noted it was sometime around ten at night, back in Chicago. Yet, here it was noon, and the bright sunlight made him want to squeeze his eyes shut.
"Martin Steve?" a heavily accented voice said.
Stopping, he realized there was a lanky young man waiting at the gate, holding up a sign that read "United World News". Steven rolled his shoulders, and made his way over.
"Steve Martin, actually," he said in Japanese, extending a hand. "Western naming systems, remember."
The man blinked, then abruptly offered his own hand. "Ichinose Kenichi."
Steve hid a grimace as he shook hands with Kenichi; the kid's skin was hot and sweaty. Despite the cool weather, stains were clearly visible under the boy's pits.
"I take it you were sent by the Tokyo branch of UNN?"
"Uh, yes, Mr. Martin." Kenichi withdrew his hand sharply. "Uh, I understand that you have had a long flight. There are a few hotels nearby, and-"
"That's not necessary, Mr. Ichinose," Steve said.
"You already booked a room?"
"No. I'm going straight to Hokkaido; there's a flight in half an hour, and I could be there in about three."
Kenichi looked as though he'd been struck dumb. "A-already?"
"There's a potential hot scoop there, and I don't want it to go cold before I arrive. For all we know, it could be put under wraps if we wait another day."
"A hot what?" The boy's brow furrowed. "W-wraps?"
"Turn of phrase, kid." Steve motioned. "C'mon. We should get in line before it gets too long."
Kenichi stared for a moment, then nodded. "Y-yes, right away, Mr. Martin."
"You can call me Steve."
"Right away, S-Steve."
As he made his way over, Steve risked a glance at Kenichi. He couldn't quite explain why, but there was something off about the boy. Perhaps it was something about his gait, the way his feet almost seemed to drag across the floor. His face definitely looked Japanese, but Steve found himself wondering if there was some mixed ancestry at play.
It's probably just the jet lag playing with my mind, he thought to himself. I should try and get some sleep on the plane.
Rolling his head around his shoulders, he heard more creaking and popping.
Though I'm not sure if my spine will survive the attempt.
==/*\==
Over Hokkaido
"Chitose, this is Screwball; ETA is fifteen minutes."
"Roger that, Screwball. You are cleared for landing."
The cockpit of Screwball's Sabre began to rock a little as he began to bleed off altitude, but it was manageable. Compared to Korea, a routine patrol flight was nothing to sweat over. Still, that didn't mean getting relaxed, not when even a moment's inattention could spell disaster.
The cloud cover parted, and he began to pass over the island proper. Despite seeing it dozens of times, he had to admit; Hokkaido was a beautiful place. In the winter, the entire place turned as white as paper, with hardly a sign of any other color. Though he was excited that they were finally packing it up and leaving, he'd be lying if he said he wouldn't miss this place.
His eyes flitted over the white-crested mountaintops, then fixated on a strange point. Frowning behind his mask, he cleared his throat.
"Chitose, this is Screwball. I think I see an unknown on the ground nine klicks to my eight'o'clock."
"Screwball, this is Chitose. Please clarify."
"Looks almost like a big dome. Permission to do a fly around."
"Permission granted, Screwball."
Carefully, he began to bank, swinging around in a lazy arc. Turning his head, he realized that it wasn't a trick of the eye; there was definitely a dome of some sort on the ground, in a clearing that he was sure hadn't existed last time he'd flown over.
"Chitose, it's definitely a dome. Looks like some of the forest around it has been cleared out-"
He didn't see the attack; all he knew was that the edge of his wing wing was suddenly burning, rivets popping out like seeds from an overripe fruit. Heat began to flood beneath him, and he realized the metal was swiftly becoming hot.
"Chitose, I'm hit! I think the dome's a hostile!"
"Punch out, Screwball!"
The pilot reached for the ejection handle, but it was too late. The wing tore free, like molten putty, and the fuselage was torn open like a can.
Then, for a brief moment, he felt searing heat, like he'd been shoved into an oven.
He didn't feel anything after that.
==/*\==
"It seems that the maser is doing its job, even on a low power setting," Xōyō said, watching the screen as the primitive aircraft broke into several pieces.
"Indeed it does," Tīshò said, arms folded. "Still, I'm not sure if it was a good idea, letting it see us like that."
"You said it yourself; we need to make an impression. We are ready, Ground Commander, and one of the power blocs has a base on this very island. We can remove immediate opposition and make our impression in a fell swoop."
Tīshò fell silent for a moment, watching the burning wreckage crash into the ground.
"Very well," he said. "Let's make our impression. Deploy the Mōgèrá."
==/*\==
You have been reading:
The Christmas War, Chapter One: Arrival