Margaret has given up.

A part of her thinks she is being unfair. That she is wasting a precious opportunity gifted to her, that it is no longer a matter of having the strength to keep going but the duty to, but… she is just so tired.

The boulder she is leaning against scratches her back through her t-shirt. The one stained with blood and sweat and dirt. It stings, and hurts, but it's been a while since pain has been a factor to take into account when surviving is at stake. There is dust floating around her still, and it's hard to breathe, but she has no strength left to cough. She rests her head on the rock keeping her upright. Her eyes sting, tears blurring her sight, and keeping them in is giving her a headache. Her ears still ring after the collapse.

The hold on her hand is getting cold.

They had played the alarms too late. It had been early in the morning, prime time for people going to work and children going to school. The streets had been bursting with activity, with voices, claxons and car engines. They had been on their way to work, stuck in the morning traffic and listening to some country song she can't remember the name of. Then, the alarms broke into the morning hecticness, and the first aircrafts crossed the sky like bullets, all of them leaving behind a grating screech and panic.

Everybody knows that, once you see the first signs of combat, it's already too late.

A few rocks moving in front of her startle Margaret, enough to have her scoot back in her place. It's a person. Bloodied, battered and disoriented, but a person nonetheless. She should be ecstatic. She should be getting up right now, running toward them and screaming for help, because if you learn anything from the emergency simulacres they have you go through every month, is that being in a group is your best, your only, chance at survival.

She keeps quiet, watching, almost bored, as the person stumbles ahead, away from her, as fast as they can. A voice at the back of her head whispers that, if they are in a hurry, that means something is going after them. But she is just… done. She looks down, to where their hands connect, and takes in a shaky breath through her nose. She still doesn't allow herself to cry, and her headache becomes stronger.

It is then when she feels the footsteps.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

They are steady, calm, slow. The creature, the beast, is in no hurry. It's been a while, although she wouldn't be able to tell how long, since she last heard any explosions or, bombing, or simple screaming, so that means they are alone and away from any type of help. Good, she thinks.

The steps, and the trembling, get closer, to the point where the sheer intensity makes her teeth vibrate, and she tightens her hold until her knuckles go white. She bites her lip, and because her hearing is still not back to its full capacity, she makes an effort to look around. See which way death is approaching.

It's on her left. She can see, in between the collapsed buildings, a hulking form advancing, stepping on rock, metal and flesh. It moves unbothered, almost placid, and she thinks she can see a head move around and take in its surroundings. If she is lucky enough, it will see her.

She leans her head back again, closes her eyes, and exhales. Her mind is as quiet as it is loud, and her hand's grip is so tight she can feel the bones in her fingers shift and hurt. The beeping on her ears is painful, and the blood and sweat on her clothes makes them stick to her.

She just wants it all to stop. She wants to pretend she's still in her car, him next to her, and listening to shitty country music at max volume even though she hates it. She wants to go back in time and choose a different route, take longer to get dressed, or even forget to turn on her alarm the night before. She knows that is not possible, and she thinks that that hurts even more.

The trembling and booming steps come to an end, and Margaret fears for a moment she has gone deaf, because she does not hear the beast, the monster, come to stand in front of her. She opens her eyes when she feels something block the sun and, finally, she sees it. Him.

The kaiju is looking at her.

He is red and big. Those are the first adjectives that come to mind to describe him. There are horns at the back of his head, on his cheeks and on the sides of his face, the same one that looks at her with such intensity, such intelligence, that for a moment Margaret thinks he considers her something more than food.

Those golden eyes are stuck on her green ones, scrutinizing every inch of her being, looking into her soul, and she internally laughs, because he is going to find it pretty empty.

Belloc, the King, blinks lazily, still looking at her, and lowers his head. She stays on her place, sitting against that damn boulder and looking up ahead at death impersonated, and the kaiju only stops when he is close enough for her to tough him if she wanted to.

Why are you not running? He seems to ask. Why have you given up?

Margaret, for the first time in who knows how long, smiles. The kaiju's eyes seem to catch on the change of attitude, and watch in silence how she lifts her arm as high as she can while maintaining eye contact.

The hand holding her follows, and a bleeding arm sways in the air without a body to be attached to.

I am already dead, she doesn't say.

Green and golden eyes stare at each other, unblinking, breaths trapped in their throats, and hearts beating side by side.

Belloc holds out a hand to her, and Margaret takes it.