West 46th Street
New York City, New York, U.S.A.
May 15, 1998

Exiting the elevator of the building he visited on an occasional basis, Neville Jamison briskly strode towards the conference room that had become too familiar. The room in which a small international coterie of aging men plotted ways to keep humanity safe, even as they engaged in activities that seemed antithetical to their purpose. For this reason, the group met in secret.

Jamison himself belonged to this group, known as the Syndicate. It seemed to him a necessary evil, but an accretion of the group's brutal actions and internal power plays slowly increased his disenchantment with the organization. Even the comfort of his private jet could not buffer him from the sinking feeling that the Syndicate had fallen into decay, nor could it alleviate the jet lag that wearied him on his trips from London to New York.

Jamison's mind could only reel at envisioning the latest failure of the Syndicate. Many incidents within its charge could be kept secret or explained away fairly easily; the spread of an easily-contained (albeit nasty) mysterious virus, crashed extraterrestrial spacecraft explained as experimental aircraft, and so on. But not the one he and the Syndicate would be facing this day.

With his thoughts dashing among a number of potential scenarios, Jamison entered the dimly-lit conference room. Having given up cigarettes many years before, he involuntarily winced at the inevitable prospect of smelling fresh tobacco smoke. However, he only detected the stale scent of previous meetings.

As the door closed behind Jamison, the other members of the Syndicate turned in his direction to acknowledge his presence. Although Jamison typically saved his indignation for the latter portion of the Syndicate's meetings, his irritation at the latest incident and the absence of one man prompted him to speak immediately.

"Where the hell is Spender?"

The leader of the Syndicate, a heavyset man with slicked back hair whom Jamison knew as Spoletta, calmly and gruffly replied, "He is handling the situation."

"Him?" Jamison asked incredulously. "He is little more than a hatchet man."

"He's also in close touch with the Japanese. He'll give us the confirmation we need."

Looking at the new flat panel television hanging on a wall, Jamison asked, "What on earth is that doing here? Those cost thousands of dollars."

"Visual confirmation," Spoletta said. "Just so we're sure that everyone is kept honest."

Jamison sniffed, turning away from the monitor. "Our man Spender will see to that."

"Oh ye of little faith," a disembodied voice seemed to reply with bemusement.

Jamison turned back towards the television. From a mountainside observation deck on the other side of the world, Spender seemed to smile sardonically at the rest of the Syndicate. The intended target asked, "What are you doing there?"

"That wasn't explained to you?" Spender asked disingenuously.

"If we can dispense with the Kabuki," Spoletta said, "we should begin."

"If I may," Spender started, "it is back on the island. As usual, a contained release of radiation did the trick."

"What about clean-up?" Spoletta asked.

"We should have nothing to worry about. Any survivors from the fishing boat will likely be gone soon. Anything they say will be dismissed as delusional, based on their condition."

"And how do we explain a nuclear disaster on an island under Japanese authority?" Jamison asked.

"Joint authority," Spender said, "of Japan and the United States. Besides, the Japanese are not entirely adverse to nuclear energy. It could have been a failed reactor. After all, there is one on the island."

Jamison continued to press. "A failed reactor? That essentially burned up a Japanese fishing boat nearly 20 kilometers out? The burns on the survivors point to no other plausible explanation."

"You think we can't cover it up?" Spender asked.

Spoletta and the others turned to Jamison, who had started stealing Spender's attention.

"It seems almost impossible. And it seems inevitable that there will be some further investigation."

"I don't think we need worry. Besides, we have ways of ensuring that a power failure won't occur again."

"A glorified invisible dog fence?" Jamison asked incredulously. "This is becoming a much deeper problem than we can handle."

"We need a bargaining chip," Spoletta stated. "This is probably the best we have."

"And the most unique," Spender added.

"And the most difficult to keep secret." Jamison proffered.

"What is the worst that can happen?" Spoletta asked.

"That this will happen again. And maybe we won't be able to lure… it back to the island."

Turning to his left, Spender said, "Well, it's here now. If you wish to see it."

Spoletta nodded.

The camera panned to the right, transitioning from the observation deck to a panoramic view of the island's forests. As the lens of the camera automatically adjusted the the new view, the members of the Syndicate caught sight of a blurry figure gracefully lumbering in the distance. With the exception of Jamison, an obligatory sense of relief came to all of them.

Spender knew that he had the best view of the figure, which his compatriots could only see on a television monitor in New York. From almost a kilometer, he could hear it rustling on the islandscape, with footsteps that made a definitive thud. He could also see the creature quite clearly; it resembled an ancient reptile… perhaps a bipedal carnivore, but with more powerful arms. It also would have towered over such creatures, and could have taken them on quite easily. Its hide would certainly make the creature tough enough to withstand an attack by a pack of them. Even more challenging would have been the creature's dorsal plates, ascending in size from the back of its neck to the middle of its back, and then becoming smaller once again before tapring off on its long tail.

Placing a cigarette in his mouth, Spender mused upon the almost human characteristics of the creature. Its arms were more like those of a primate than a tyrannosaurus or allosaurus, and it stood upright. Spender also considered the creature's eyes, more expressive than those of other reptiles and amphibians. Its eyelids seemed to lend the creature a sinister aspect. Spender found the application of physiognomy and anthropomorphism to be misguided in animals, but incidents prior to the one with the fishing boat had already made him rethink his skepticism… at least in relation to this one.

Exhaling blue cigarette smoke from his mouth, Spender watched the creature turn in his direction. He reckoned he would remain safe for a few minutes before needing to return to the island hillside's observation and control facility.

Seeming to look at Spender, the creature opened its mouth and emitted an earth-rattling primal sound. Although the word "roar" seemed approximately correct, it was insufficient for describing what the Syndicate heard vaguely over the speakers in their conference room, and what Spender heard quite clearly on the island. It sounded more like an organic carilion, playing roughly the same melody: a high-pitched opening note, followed by a lower one, and an ascending legato.

The creature repeated its primal song, prompting Spender to smile.

Removing the cigarette from his mouth, Spender felt compelled to respond.

"Welcome back, Gojira."