AUGUST 2013
An eight year old Kurt Hummel lies on his stomach on the floor in the living room watching Mulan on the Disney Channel. It's a Sunday morning. His Mom is in California visiting his Aunt Mildred, so his Dad decided they can skip church this morning. Kurt's dressed up anyway. He wears his favorite pinstriped gray trousers, black patent leather oxfords, and butterfly blue shirt. His lavender bow tie with the tiny white fleurs de lis is snug at his throat, and his hair is neatly combed. They'll go out later for ice cream so Kurt can show off his outfit. But Kurt's glad to miss the droning sermons and pointlessness of Sunday School.
Singing along with Mulan is so much better than singing hymns, and they're almost up to his favorite part.
"Hey, kiddo," his Dad says behind him. Distractedly, Kurt waves a hand for silence. He hears his Dad chuckle, and then a tray with a plate of syrup drenched waffles, a bowl of sliced bananas, and a glass of orange juice descends to the floor in front of him. They're toaster waffles, which his Dad always gives him when his Mom's away because Kurt loves his mother's made-from-scratch waffles, and therefore his Dad believes the ones from the freezer are actually a treat, but they're always like cold cardboard. Kurt knows how much his Dad likes to make him happy with them, though, so Kurt pretends they're special. "Breakfast," his Dad whispers.
"Shh," Kurt says, sitting up just as Shang begins to sing, "Let's get down to business..." Kurt joins him on the next line.
Then the screen goes silent and blank. "...the Huns," rings out in Kurt's high, lone voice.
Kurt doesn't have time to get out an indignant protest before an ABC Breaking News banner takes over the bottom of the screen and Diane Sawyer appears, uncharacteristically wide-eyed and listening intently to her ear piece.
"We have this live footage coming in right now from the San Francisco Bay," Diane Sawyer says. "Following this morning's earthquake, there's a large— This seems impossible, but it appears to be some kind of creature..."
Her image is replaced by shaky aerial footage of this enormous creature—it's bigger than a ship, bigger than the buildings in downtown Lima, bigger than anything Kurt's ever seen. It's like a mountain with limbs and a mouth. It's hauling its massive bulk out of the sea, lumbering toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Kurt blinks at the TV screen. It can't be real, except there's still Diane Sawyer's voice trying to explain the inexplicable. Maybe it's a weird ad for a new monster show.
But then his Dad's cell phone rings, and it's his Mom. His Dad puts it on speaker. She says that she and Aunt Mildred are in Aunt Mildred's car. They're on the bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the one on the television screen. She can see the creature, and when it roars, they can hear it both on the TV and also through the tinny little phone speaker. Weird, horrible stereo—it sounds like metal tearing.
The traffic is stalled. She and Aunt Mildred are getting out of the car, they're going to run. She's crying; Kurt can tell by the way her voice keeps breaking and how she's having trouble finishing her sentences. Then, because she's crying, Kurt starts crying, and soon his Dad is crying too and sitting down on the floor with Kurt, and they all keep saying, "I love you," to each other over and over and over, and his Dad's arms are tight around him, and on the screen the monster is lifting a gigantic clawed foot out of the bay, reaching for the bridge. It can't be real.
"Elizabeth?" his Dad yells, like if he says it really loud, it'll reach Mom and stop the monster and everything will be... not what it is happening right now.
His mother doesn't say, "I love you," again. She doesn't say anything.
His Dad pulls Kurt against his chest, one large hand cupping Kurt's head against him, trying to turn Kurt's face away from the TV, but Kurt's gaze is drawn sideways anyway. He sees everything as his father's heart drums against his cheek.
The people on TV call the monster the Trespasser, and the footage plays on every channel, all day, every day. Six days, millions dead, a three mile wide path of destruction, and the military finally drops it with three tactical nukes. A great city destroyed. A nightmare from a B-grade science fiction film come to life.
There's no body. They have a memorial service on a day that is defiantly sunny and clear. Kurt wears a black suit just like his Dad's. It's brand new, and the fabric of the trousers is itchy against his legs. In one hand he holds one of his mother's handkerchiefs. It's fine white cotton embroidered with blue and purple hydrangeas. Kurt rubs his thumb over the long silk stitches forming the green leaves. His father holds his other hand. Kurt doesn't cry while all the adults are looking at him.
SEPTEMBER 2013
Kurt sits in his bedroom rearranging the furniture in his dollhouse, because the Power Rangers are moving out to go to the West Coast in case there's another monster. No one knows where it came from yet, so no one knows if there'll be another. He stops for a moment and looks at the small wood and velvet sofa he's holding in a too tight fist. He already snapped a leg off a dining chair today and ended up hysterically distraught over it. It's in the garage on his Dad's workbench, gently held in a padded vise while the wood glue dries overnight. Kurt still has a headache from crying too much.
He loosens his hold on the sofa and sets it down; then he goes downstairs to find his Dad.
His Dad is in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, staring at a thick cookbook open on the counter. There's a raw chicken in a roasting pan next to the stove, a pile of peeled potatoes sitting on the chopping board, some broccoli nearby in a plastic produce bag. "Do you need help?" Kurt asks.
It startles his Dad, who rubs his eyes against the shoulder of his shirt before he turns and gives Kurt a weak smile.
"Mom lets me cut the potatoes," Kurt says.
"Sure, buddy," his Dad says.
Kurt gets the stool from the pantry and drags it over to where the potatoes are. His Dad hands him a knife. It's the wrong one, a filleting knife, but Kurt doesn't correct his Dad's choice. He takes extra care cutting the potatoes into quarters for boiling.
Dinner's terrible. The chicken is raw near the bones, the mashed potatoes are lumpy and dry, and the broccoli ends up squishy, bitter, and grayish. They laugh about it, but it's strange and hollow feeling. Then they cry, his Dad hugs him, and they go out for burgers.
While they sit in the hard plastic chairs under the fluorescent lights with the french fries on the table between them, Kurt asks his Dad something that's been on his mind, "I was wondering, Dad. Could I take karate lessons?"
The look on his Dad's face, of complete shock, tells Kurt the answer before his Dad has to say it.
"I could give up ballet," Kurt says. Because his Dad knows how much Kurt loves ballet class, the offer should let his Dad know that he's serious.
But it doesn't make a difference. His Dad shakes his head sadly. "No, Kurt. I don't think that's a great idea. Maybe when you're older."
"Fine," Kurt says, even though he wants to argue, but arguing with his Dad doesn't feel right. Instead he sucks thick cold mouthfuls of chocolate milkshake up his straw until his cheeks ache and he has a cold headache, too.
Kurt ends up quitting ballet eventually anyway. He loses focus with it—his instructor says it's because he's too angry—and the joy leaves soon after that. His mother isn't there any more to smile proudly, and even though his Dad is good at pretending, Kurt knows he doesn't really get it.
It's weird how much adults don't talk about what happened in San Francisco. They do on the news still, but the people who bring their cars in to his Dad's shop don't. They never say anything to Kurt, even if he mentions his mother. Most of the time they change the subject.
At school, the kids do talk about it. They play. At recess, they build little cities out of dirt and twigs and stones to kick over and break themselves, as if they're the monsters. They laugh as they stomp and roar. It's cruel, but none of them lost anyone. They think it's like a Godzilla movie. None of them are Kurt's friends, so it shouldn't matter. Except sometimes it does, because sometimes they're mean to him, and now they have one more way to be mean.
He doesn't hesitate to punch Jimmy Leighton in the face when he stomps on a pile of sticks that was meant to be a bridge and says in a high-pitched taunt, "Oh no, there goes Kurt's mommy."
Kurt ends up in the principal's office. He won't apologize to Jimmy. His Dad picks him up, and Kurt's not allowed to go back to school for three days. As if that's punishment.
"I'm worried," his Dad says in the car. They're stopped at a red light. "It's not like you to hit another boy."
Kurt shrugs. He felt perfectly like himself in the moment the punch landed and erased the smug cruelty on Jimmy's face. He felt strong and brave.
"Did he call you names again?"
Kurt shakes his head.
"Kurt," his Dad says, and he sounds extremely tired.
"I'm sorry," Kurt says. "Not for punching Jimmy, but I didn't mean to disappoint you."
"Oh, buddy." His Dad's hand lands on his shoulder, heavy and warm. "I'm not disappointed. Don't ever think that. I love you."
"I love you too, Dad."
"I miss Mom too, you know."
"I know."
The traffic light turns green.
FEBRUARY 2014
A second monster, now officially dubbed a Kaiju, crawls out of the Pacific Ocean and into the Philippines, under the twin cover of night and a tropical storm. By the time officials understand what's happening, the beast has made it into Manila. There's no advance warning. It takes the government of the Philippines less than four hours to accept the US offer of a nuclear strike.
His Dad tries to stop him, but Kurt watches the television coverage anyway; he refuses to look away. And he wonders if there's a boy or girl like him somewhere, helplessly watching someone they love die on TV. He feels it's important to be a witness.
A second attack means the possibility of a third. The international community redoubles its efforts to find the origin point of the second monster—posthumously named Hundun after the primordial chaos of Chinese mythology. By tracking the toxic signature left by the creature, The Breach is discovered, east of the Philippines, at the bottom of Challenger Deep near Guam. There, on the floor of the deepest part of the ocean, is the portal to wherever these monsters spawn. Some say it's a portal to Hell and the Kaiju are demons, coming to punish humanity. A super-sized Scourge of God. Kurt's skeptical of the theological argument. Others believe they're simply lost animals, scared and confused by having wandered into such an unfamiliar and hostile environment. But, Kurt agrees with some of the more thoughtful voices, those who note that The Breach is not a natural occurrence, which implies someone or something is responsible for making it. The Kaiju may be exactly where they are meant to be. Humanity needs to be ready.
Warning buoys are placed and a monitoring station is established at the Mariana Islands. It's not much consolation, but at least humanity won't be surprised again.
There's nothing about it that's not horrifying: not only the devastation wreaked by the Kaiju and the high cost of taking them down, but the knowledge that more may come, that the attacks on San Francisco and Manila are the beginning of something new and terrible. Kurt has nightmares for a long time. He gets into a fist fight at school that leaves him with a split lip, a black eye, and a week long suspension.
His Dad finally lets him enroll in karate lessons, because he thinks Kurt needs a way to control his anger. Kurt already knows how to control his anger, because he's never not angry. What he wants is a direction. In the meantime, he'll learn to use his body to fight.
NOVEMBER 2014
When the Pan Pacific Defense Corps are founded after the third Kaiju attack, Kurt knows his direction.