An End Chapter 9: Push Your Hand Towards the Sky, a godzilla fanfic

WARNING: This chapter contains references to suicide/suicide ideation and casual homophobia.

NINE: Push Your Hand up to the Sky

(START: 13 hours 8 minutes 45 seconds) - Wednesday night

It was times like this that Rick Stanton missed his mentor. Houston Brooks had a way of making the worst situations feel like a walk in the park. He survived Skull Island and was part of Monarch's original vanguard of post-World War 2 scientists. A parasitic Titan would probably be small potatoes for him. He faced skullcrawlers after all.

But the old guy was an eccentric hermit these days. He lived in Yunnan, never far from the Temple of the Moth, always monitoring Mothra and her successors with his lady love, San Lin, and the Chen family. Retirement did the soul good. Stanton was getting up there in his age, approaching the golden period of a Monarch researcher's life. But frankly, he didn't see the appeal in not working and smelling the roses.

Bioacoustics and communications were the cushiest positions a Monarch researcher could get. Stanton's preference for remote work and technology set him apart in the organization by a sizable margin. Most in Monarch valued fieldwork and face-to-face interactions with Titans. He wasn't against it, but the benefits of not being out on the field outweighed the negatives. Namely, not dying underfoot a giant animal.

"Hey, Rick," Sam Coleman's voice warbled over the static-filled connection of his walkie. Pulling his head out of the underbelly of the communications panel, he reached down to retrieve the radio. "You got good news?" It was always best to get to the point with Coleman. The younger man was prone to rambling and taking forever to get to the point.

"Uh, not really." Not that Stanton expected good news. For the last hour, he and Coleman fought to get out of a looping game of 'Lights Out'. The moment Coleman and the Engineers got the main generator to work, the power would flux or go out completely. It was like watching a bunch of children flip the switch on and off. Stanton's progress with communications would stall, crash, then he would start from scratch.

"Argument" did not describe the shouting match they got into because of the electrical mishaps.

"What's happened now?"

"So, the main generator's cooked."

"What'd you do?" Stanton glared at the frayed wiring under the dashboard.

"It wasn't me!" Coleman argued. "One of the Titan's fleshy things just speared it."

"What–how long ago, Coleman?" Stanton ducked under the console, setting the radio aside. There was a crackle of static, then silence. While he waited, he fiddled with the burned-out panel, fingers pulling the plastic away from the wires. "Hey," Coleman's voice burst up from the static, startling him. "Douglas says thirty minutes ago."

Grabbing the radio off the floor, Stanton asked, "Can you put him on?"

"Sure, one sec."

Another moment of silence. Then, "Douglas here." Stanton leaned against the comms panel, watching the skeleton crew in the communications room. "Douglass, how are we on the backup?"

"It's holding for now, but not for long. This stuff is growing in the cracks. Engineering's good and compromised."

"Security protocols?"

"Cameron's checking on the server room right now, but probably best to consider everything in engineering a lost cause," Douglas said. "It's like the goddamn tropics down here."

"Hmmm, quoting Alien. That's never good."

"Aye, well, it's that bad," Douglas said. "Water pumps are full of that shite, so the flooding in the caves is getting worse. I'd say flush 'em, but there's contamination."

"Well, between you and me, there's reason to believe contamination has already reached the town's water supply."

"No reason to make it worse, then, eh?" Douglas said. "I'll run it by the boys. Let you know what we decide. See you tonight?"

Stanton paused. "We'll see," he said. "I'll let the boss know."

"Efters."

Stanton barely acknowledged the line cut before he shoved the radio into his vest pocket. Leaning back against the console, he removed his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to pull at his thinning hair. The usual thrum of the communications room brought him no comfort. The discordance of missing mechanisms drew his attention to the need for balance.

At some point, the military would be at the outpost; whether to make their job easier or harder remained to be seen. Mark and Ilene were sick and probably only bound to get worse. Madison was a walking time bomb of teen angst, primed for overreaction.

Daddy-dearest had already talked to them about what to do with her when push came to shove. Mark operated on the pretense that he wasn't making it out alive. It annoyed Stanton and, strangely enough, on Madison's behalf. Emma Russell, a woman he admired for her dedication to Monarch, was dead. But even in dire situations, that woman had fought like hell to return to her daughter in one piece. Mark seemed resigned to whatever fate threw in his direction as long as it got his job done. Was he even going to fight this thing for his kid's sake? "He's not that suicidal, is he?" He muttered.

"What?" a girl asked. He neither recognized the young woman's voice nor remembered her name. Heather? Heath? An intern?

"Nothing," he said, waving her off. He never got to know Mark like Ilene or Serizawa. Sure, Ilene filled in the essential bits regarding his early hostility, but Mark was scarce. He kept to himself, listened more than talked, and when he spoke, he usually put his foot in his mouth unless he was coordinating with others. Since Serizawa's death, he felt everyone treated the guy like a glass cannon. They pointed him at a problem, and it usually got solved. The issue was that Mark became a less pleasant person when on-duty (so to speak). And, if Stanton wasn't seeing things, driving himself to the point of self-combustion, which helped absolutely no one.

Stanton wanted nothing more than to go home and listen to white noise, and fuck his boyfriend silly. He didn't want to deal with the Russell family drama or worry about another Titan jailbreak. Yet, here he was, doing that exact thing while his boyfriend tried to fix things in engineering. This was turning out to be a shitshow of a week.

"Dr. Stanton?"

"What's up?" Stanton looked up. The young woman again. She stared at him, a book in one hand and a mug in the other. Where'd she get that? "What's up, kid?" He repeated.

"It's Beth," she corrected. The concern on her face was shuttered by irritation as she pointed to the large view screen across from the comms panel. Stanton turned, a frown preying on his expression. At first, nothing seemed amiss.

The points of lights mapping out the major affected areas of the outpost shone against the pale blueprint moving on the screen. There were plenty of yellows (compromised) and not a lot of greens (working), but they outnumbered the flickering reds (out of service). Adjusting his glasses, he stared at the screen a little longer, trying to allow the anomaly to reveal itself.

"To the right," Beth said. Stanton looked to the right. The flickering blue light was outside the outpost map. Hands moving across the panel like second nature, he zoomed out of the outpost blueprint into the world map. The map vanished, replaced with a NO SIGNAL error page. "Damnit," Of course, the internet was still out.

Zooming out and then zooming back in, Stanton tried adjusting the map view again, switching to geothermal tracking. Staring down at the corner of the viewscreen, he caught a blip of the blue dot and where it was relative to their current location. The NO SIGNAL error appeared again. Pulling out a notepad, he started writing. "Near Georgia. 24.5 meters in width, 30 in length," he muttered, scanning the target.

"Godzilla?" A twinkle of hope in her voice, so not a detractor of the G-Man.

"No, this is someone else," Stanton said.

Returning to the outpost map, Stanton examined the lower levels. Mark messaged him on and off about the COSMOS S.O.S. frequency. The machine was damaged, but it was sending a signal. The problem was that it told them there was no Titan in the area to help them. At least … that was what they thought. Stanton had been tangentially aware of Russell's pet project since he started working on it *last year.

He intended to pilot it for widespread use in outposts. The theory was that any Titan on friendly terms with humanity—or any Monarch team—would come to their aid. It was a last-resort mechanism, one that took Dr. Russell a minute to convince the Monarch big-wigs that it would not be a repeat of the ORCA.

It was a hard sell without the ORCA to consider. No one, especially world powers, wanted the Titans roaming free if they could help it. None of them, including Mark, was quite convinced that prehistoric animals would help them.

He was jealous, honestly. They were both in communications and acoustics. Stanton wasn't sure why he wasn't invited to work on the COSMOS project.

Without cameras, Stanton listened for sounds to keep track of Dianoia's movements. Since the initial escape attempt, Dianoia remained in a kind of holding pattern. The only disturbance he was picking up was the sporadic blip he assumed was coming from the COSMOS.

Now a Titan was approaching the outpost. A Titan who wasn't Godzilla.

Reaching for his tablet, Stanton penned the longitude and latitude, and the Titan's pertinent details down and forwarded it to Mark.

"Let me know if anything changes." Stanton didn't wait for the intern to close her mouth. Brushing by, he made his way toward the exit. Beth stared at the large monitoring screen, mouth agape. "W-where are you going?" Beth called after him.

"To see the boss about a monster."

"We're sorry. Your call could not be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again later."

Madison stared down at the wiggling cord connected to the 80-pound emergency phone. Irritation spiked in her chest, sorely tempted to send the relic across the room as punishment.

"Anything?" Ilene's voice distracted from her violent fantasy, allowing logic to prevail. Setting the phone back down on the cradle, Madison huffed. "No, same 'call could not go through' response," she said.

Ilene sat up against the shoehorn-shaped headboard of the hospital bed, legs uncrossed and her tablet resting at an angle in her bandaged hand. For her part, Ilene was barred from heavy lifting. Coleman seemed energized enough to help them go burrowing into the outpost's old communications center.

He dragged everything from a morse code machine and old military radios, and wireless phones out for them to test. "A lot of it is old, but archivists are fantastic with quality-of-life maintenance. So, most of it should work," Coleman gushed, dropping manuals on Ilene's bed. He engaged himself in setting up connections that would extend from the medical wing to the communications archive.

It was kind of fun to watch him hurry down the hall, and then return with another cable. Coleman repeated the pattern until everything was connected. A few troubleshoots and tests later, he felt he could leave them on their own. "I've gotta help the guys in engineering, so best of luck."

That had been … two or three hours ago? Madison busied herself testing out her Morse code skills first. Calling on old memories of family camping trips, Madison tapped out her rustiest, "Can you hear me?" followed up with, "Andrew?" To the outpost in Yunnan. "Trouble at Colorado outpost. Titan awake."

"How long does it take for a message to reach someplace like Yunnan?"

"What did you use?"

"Morse code?"

"No," Ilene looked up from a manual, "American morse code, or Chinese telegraph code?"

"American," Madison said. "It's all my parents taught me."

"How many words?"

"Um, about eleven words per minute."

"If we were in Asia, I'd say about the same as North America. 250 to 2000 miles, estimated."

"So, we'd have to be in the same country?" Madison asked.

"Yes. It might take eleven or fifteen hours, depending on if the signal made it out at all," Ilene said. "Then there's the time it'll take to translate it from English." Ilene considered the young woman's expression. "We're about 7000 or so miles from Andrew. Give or take."

That had been enough to push Madison on to another mode of communication. The military radio. It was about as old as the coder, or younger—there was no telling with the dust and grit on the bag protecting the radio.

This was something she was less adept at. From what she remembered from her mother, military radios had a short communication range. Ten miles or more, depending on the strength of the antenna or satellite used. Restlessness tingled through her legs as she fooled about with the buttons and dials. She half listened to Ilene's voice as she talked about … something.

"Madison?" She snapped to attention, head whipping away from the radio toward the voice behind her. Sure enough, Emma stood leaning against the wall, hair wet, clothes smudged in dirt and ash. Madison felt her mouth fall open as she stared on. Emma watched her, eyes focused on nothing else, head tilted in that way she remembered. "Madison?" Her mother's lips moved, but the voice was not hers.

"Madison!" She jolted at the touch sliding across her shoulder. Ilene was sliding down into a crouch next to her. Madison barely had any time to swallow the curse on her tongue back down. Ilene's brown eyes met hers, aware. "What did you see?"

"What did I–?" Madison's eyes flicked over to the space on the wall next to the door. Ilene's hand moved to the center of her back as if to steady her. Madison hesitated, fingers curling in the cuff of her sleeve. "Madison…" she met Ilene's gaze one more time. The woman nodded, rubbing circles on her back. "It's okay. You can tell me."

Madison allowed herself a breather, swallowing against the knot in her throat. "I saw Mom," she said. "I keep seeing her."

"This isn't the first time?"

"No," Madison sniffed. "I saw her earlier when I got an examination."

"Oh," Ilene chewed her bottom lip. Madison felt her cheeks flush. She tried to pull away, but Ilene's hand made its way to hers and squeezed. "It's okay, I promise. I believe you."

"But it's not normal," Madison said, as if to clarify the meaning behind Ilene's assurance.

"No, it's not normal. But circumstances being what they are, that's a given," said Ilene.

"You think this is Dianoia?"

"It's possible you're just exhausted. None of us have gotten any rest since this all began," Ilene said. "Is there anything particular about her that stands out? When you see her, I mean?"

"She's … she's like she was when she died," Madison said. "Her hair's wet, so are her clothes. She's covered in dirt." Emma's last look played over and over in her head, her mother's face stretched like a long exposure photo.

"That's all?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it." Ilene continued to soothe the teen. For her family, it wasn't unusual to see phantoms or ghosts. Honoring their ancestors was par for the course, but they didn't wander with them. Emma's circumstances were such that her soul likely did not experience the traditional journey of an ancestor. Vengeful, orphaned, and hungry — at least two were the kinds of ghosts someone like Emma could technically become.

Hungry, a punishment for her wrongdoings. Vengeful, the twisting of her soul convinced that she was betrayed by Monarch and her family. With the latter, a wounded Emma could lash out at her daughter, and it wouldn't have to make sense. Pain rarely did.

But … Dianoia already proved it could manipulate people's perception of reality, and outright control them if it wanted. Families were one of its targets. It was already messing with Mark, so Madison was hardly out of the question. "It could be Dianoia," Ilene said at last. "We can't rule it out."

"Dad said he saw Mom, too," Madison said. "When he fainted. But it was before they had me and Andrew." Looking up from her lap, she asked Ilene, "Did you see anyone?"

"Juma," Ilene answered. "My partner."

"Your husband?" Madison asked.

"No, not husband. Partner."

"Wife?"

"Madison…" The pointed look she earned from the mythologist stopped her short of another question. "Oh! Does Dad know?"

"Yes. They've met," Ilene sighed. "Once. During a trip to al-Aqsa University."

"When was that?"

"A little after his divorce," Ilene said, her expression gauging.

"He never told me." A memory bubbled up from the recesses of Madison's mind, mired by the irritation of the present. Emma pacing back and forth on the porch of their temporary home in Montana, landline phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.

She'd been arguing with Dad, and she assumed it was about legal stuff. Madison spied a piece of paper with her father's handwriting on the hallway table next to the phone's cradle. 'Unavailable. Back Soon', the message said. As far as she knew then, it was a memento that Emma brought with her after they moved from Boston. Some random piece of paper that got packed up. Madison never considered that she might've gone up to the cabin to visit him and found it empty.

Madison thought Mark wanted nothing to do with anyone connected to Monarch. Wanted nothing to do with his family. Ilene and her family were an exception, apparently. And there was plenty that could've happened on that trip that made him and Ilene so … comfortable with each other. "What was Juma doing when you saw him—I mean, them?"

"We were with my daughters, on Infant Island," Ilene said, tracing a memory. "It was their third birthday." She remembered the touch of his hair, the way the sunlight shone on Mark's grays, Juma's smile as they lit the candles of six cupcakes. A dream world. A wish.

"That doesn't sound terrible." Madison tried to smile. Ilene shook her head. "It wasn't. And that's what concerns me."

"Because it knows you have kids?"

Ilene shook her head. "It knows what we want." Her hand slipped away from Madison's back. "*It knows what we want more than anything in the world." Standing, Ilene nodded to the emergency phone. "Try the emergency line. It might not work, but I think we should leave the radio to Stanton and Coleman."

Madison did as she asked, pulling the emergency phone out of the thick duffle. She'd never seen a portable phone this big before. "You guys used stuff like this?"

"Elders in my family did, yes," Ilene said. "The 1940s weren't so long ago."

"Eighty years is a pretty long time," Madison said. "Our old phone in San Fran wasn't this big."

"Tech leaps, different intentions." Ilene settled herself on the edge of the bed, careful of her bandaged hand. "That's a military-grade phone. Age aside, equipment that Monarch used needed larger components and demanded more power."

"I get that much." Madison watched the woman fidget on the bed. "Are you and my Dad … um…"

"Are we what?" Ilene stopped messing with her iPad long enough to regard the teen sitting across from her.

The question rests on the edge of her lips, tongue poised to force it out. It would be easy to settle it, to hear it from her, so she could focus on other things. Like getting them out of this mess. "Are you seeing each other?" She let the words fall, waiting for the truth. Or a lie.

"Would that bother you?" she asked. "If we were?"

"Yeah." My mother's grave is still radioactive. Of course, I have a problem with it. "Would you stop seeing him if it did?" Madison asked.

Ilene didn't break her gaze, even as her free hand fiddled with her necklace. "Not unless he asked me to."

"What if it caused problems? Between me and him? or Andrew?" Madison pressed.

"Did it cause problems for you all when your mother was seeing other people?"

"They weren't together, and Dad never visited." Madison shrugged. "They were getting divorced then." Not that that meant people didn't cheat on their spouses.

Ilene started to say something, jaw shifting. She stopped herself, took a breath, then said, "Your father is grieving. Now isn't a good time, and I wouldn't take advantage."

"But you've thought about it?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Madison knew she was being petulant, mean even, but this (whatever was between them) was bothering her.

"He's my friend, Madison. I've known him for longer than you've been alive," she said. "I've thought about it. He's attractive. Is that a crime?"

"Not really."

"His friendship is important to me, Madison," Ilene said. "Your friendship is important to me. If he didn't want me, I wouldn't risk it for something so trivial."

"My Dad's trivial?" Stop poking the bear, Madison.

"No—I," Frustration rolled across Ilene's shoulders. "Having an affair would be trivial. If I was interested in your father, he'd have to be comfortable with non-monogamy."

Madison stared. "Like, threesomes?"

"No, Madison," Ilene sighed. "An open relationship."

When Madison kept staring, Ilene asked, "Does a monogamous relationship just mean sex?"

"No." She paused, meaning knocking on her perception. "Oh. Okay." That was definitely something she couldn't imagine her father, Mr. *Moderate Democrat, Salt of the Earth Outdoorsman, no-boyfriends-until-you're-thirty being into…that.

But … she shook her head. "Would Dad say the same?" she said. "About … everything?"

"Your father's a very traditional man," Ilene said after a moment. There was something about her smile, dry—if not frustrated (at her or Mark, she wasn't sure)—that put Madison at ill-ease. "Juma and I aren't. We don't have hang-ups. Still, you should ask him. See what kind of answer he gives you."

As Madison busied herself with the emergency phone, she pretended not to hear Ilene muttering deliberately in Cantonese. She just might've actually pissed Ilene off that time. Not that she felt Ilene had any right to be mad at her. Dialing her brother's number, she listened to the dial tone.

"We're sorry. Your call could not be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again later."

"Anything?"

"No, same 'call could not go through' response."

(12 hours 45 minutes 8 seconds)

*All employees proceed to the bottom platform.

Few things bothered Andrew like impromptu fire drills. He didn't see the practicality in not giving people proper notice. The security team called them "Preparedness Drills", a way to train outpost staff on how to deal with immediate evacuation. To act quickly on their feet in the event of a terrorist attack.

He understood the spirit of the idea, but it seemed to miss the Forest for the Trees. The forest being that no one could spot a terrorist attack until it actually happened. And he would know: He was present the morning of a planned attack. He never saw it coming. It was clean up, text Yumeji and Mo-wan, and pretend Madison wasn't emailing Dad. He was out the door before Madison could finish burning breakfast. Off in the Monarch branded all-terrain vehicle Mom 'bought' for his sixteenth birthday.

Looking up from his notepad, Andrew watched the red lights dancing around the observation room in sync with the klaxon. From the corner of his eye, a blasé movement drew his attention toward the large viewing window.

*"Leo) Mothra grazed lazily on a collection of large leaves native to Infant Island. The drills were so often now that he barely raised his head or fussed any longer. Before, he would rail against the containment field until staff was forced to tranquilize him. It was an interesting, if not cruel, conditioning process to watch unfold. Especially under Dr. Ling's apprenticeship.

Repeat: all employees proceed to the bottom platform.

"If you can call it that," he said to himself. And he wondered how official his time was with Dr. Ling. At present, he knew the reason he was with Dr. Ling was on behalf of his father. In the vacuum of time after the Awakening and the establishment of Monarch's relief camps, they held a wake for Emma. A morbid way of counting survivors in their family, one that revealed just how uncomfortable the three of them were together without her.

At the time of the attack, he and Madison were on break from school. Dragging them across the globe made school relocation inconvenient. Emma pulled them from public school not long after she signed the divorce papers, opting for tutors instead.

Tutoring was still an option, but Mark was a traditionalist. He wanted to reintroduce them to 'normal school' so they could be normal kids. Which almost certainly meant staying in the US for a while. Maybe indefinitely. "At least, when we can get the world back to some kind of normal," He amended. "I can't watch you and work at Monarch."

"Mom could," was Madison's sullen reply.

Andrew wasn't against the idea, and, predictably, Madison made a show of her objection. Their reactions seemed to do the work of choosing for Mark. If someone had permission to go to and from Yunnan, Mark decided it would be him. "He'll be safe with me," Dr. Ling assured, only a little disappointed it wasn't Madison.

And he would be. Ling was the one who let him know what was happening with Emma and Madison. Let him know that his father was 'back with Monarch'. A little late perhaps, but better than never. He'd been at her side since the attack, watched Mothra's supernatural evolution behind the waterfall. All wondering if he'd ever see his sister and mother again.

He'd all but given up on the idea of seeing his father again. Considered him dead throughout the ordeal. Imagine his surprise when Mark, not Emma, disembarked from the Osprey with Madison, wet and morose from the events in Boston.

They shared nothing except the nod acknowledging each other's presence. Then Madison was in his arms, and Mark was off with Foster and Ilene.

There were plenty of people in their family who could take care of him and Madison in the event of their parents' death. Their grandmother, their aunt. Be that as it may, Mark wanted to be part of their lives again. He wanted them to know, after five years, he was willing to commit and be a father to them. The issue was, neither Andrew nor Madison were entirely sure they believed that.

If Mark was a phantom after 2014, he was a ghost now. They bounced between Chicago, Yunnan, and Colorado for Monarch stuff. He seemed to do the bare minimum of being a parent because he was also running damage control after the Awakening. Running interference against the FBI and that Stenz guy, who seemed to believe they were co-conspirators in Jonah's plan.

(Who would've thought your mom committing acts of terror would make you a suspect?)

Andrew had grown accustomed to Mark's unpredictable presence. He didn't take offense when Mark didn't show up for his birthday on Sunday. He said goodbye to his sister, enjoyed some cake, and departed for Yunnan.

(Dad was, what, forty-eight now? He looked every bit, if not older.)

Was he disappointed? Yeah, but Mark and disappointment were a match made in heaven. It would be awhile, if ever, before that expectation was replaced with something else.

Andrew spent a lot of his growing pains (post-divorce) socializing in Kunming, brushing up on his Mandarin. Anything to get him away from the Monarch facility.

It became necessary to stay in touch with Mark; it kept him grounded, reminded him he wasn't alone. That what happened wasn't a dream, and his body didn't feel geriatric for no reason. It was against the court mandate.

Not that he cared, but Andrew was sure his father could tell. His surprise always came through the way he said Andrew's name. When he called him at the outpost, Madison snitched on him, and their conversations would end within minutes of Emma entering a room. If Emma so much as suspected Mark was on the other line, the phone was taken from him.

So, he called him at night, or when he could get away from the family. Mark obliged him, because—at some point—both of them knew Emma wouldn't make good on threat and have him arrested for violating the court order.

No one (who wasn't Mark) really asked him how he felt about San Francisco; if they did, he deflected. "I'm fine." It was given that most knew why Dad fell apart, but the expectation that Andrew had gotten over it was both odd and intentional. He resented everyone believed it.

Currently, everyone was trying to figure out why his mother dove headfirst down the domestic terrorism pipeline. But Godzilla had that effect on people. Extremes, never shades of gray. Didn't make him any less angry, didn't make it any easier to realize the fragility of his heroes.

Repeat: All employees proceed to the bottom platform.

Emma treated his sympathy for his father as a shortcoming. "He abandoned us, Drew," she'd say. Like he hadn't been there, watching her pull him off the bathroom floor after one too many drinks. Like he hadn't sat in court, watching him yield guardianship under scrutiny. "Expect nothing from him." It wasn't enough that they no longer saw each other. He also had to snub his father.

But Mark listened to him, even though he didn't want to. Andrew understood Mark would always be his confidante. The person who understood his need for detachment, his fear of Titans. The week spent trapped under the rubble, yelling until they were hoarse, made them closer than anyone above them could imagine. Whoever the two of them used to be before that building collapsed on them, never came out of the detritus. And it was hard not to feel like the spurned child because Mark seemed more invested in righting Madison's ship than his.

Andrew worked to separate himself from Emma's work and Madison's unquestioning support in everything she did. He made friends, and could almost say he had a girlfriend (Shuyan) for three weeks. The reality he lived in versus the one his family experienced on a day-to-day basis was normal and mundane. Emma kept trying to involve him in her work. He made it a point to pick a fight with her, determined to be uncooperative.

That scarcity, unfortunately, didn't work with Ling Chen. Patient as she was peculiar, the elder Chen twin asked that he be present with her during research hours. Once he volunteered to help her, she made sure he couldn't disappear whenever he wanted.

Accountability sucked, sometimes.

Repeat: All employees proceed to the—

The klaxon halted, emergency lights flickering out. The drill was over, he figured.

This was a test of the emergency evacuation system. This was only a test.

The observation room door slid open, drawing his attention away from the doodles on his notepad. Stepping into the room, Anthony Martinez and Jackson Barnes zeroed in on his position, exasperation rolling off them.

"Told you he'd be here," Martinez nudged his partner.

Barnes cast Martinez a look as Andrew spun in the chair. "Hey, guys," he greeted.

"You were supposed to leave the facility with the rest of us," Barnes said.

"I figured it was another drill," Andrew shrugged. "Feels too soon for another attack."

"Yeah, but that's not the point, though," Martinez said. "What if it really was one?"

"Uh, I'd hide?"

"Are you asking, or telling us, smartass?" Barnes asked.

"Telling," Andrew said. Martinez cast a critical eye around the observation room. "Where would you hide?"

There were a lot of ways to answer that question. Andrew chose honesty. "I feel like I shouldn't answer that," he said. "Y'know, for security reasons. Besides, I'm sure Mothra's got my back."

"This Mothra doesn't know you from Adam." If it were possible for Barnes to cross his arms any tighter, he probably would've. "We can't depend on these things to protect us. Use your head, man."

"But that's why Monarch's studying them. So, they can know us from Adam," Andrew said. "If they knew us, they'd protect us."

"Maybe, but that's a big what if," Martinez tsked. "Better to trust the system we have now than go on blind faith."

"Faith's what Monarch's all about, though."

"Not for us," Barnes glared. "Now, c'mon."

"Um, I think I'm good here." Despite himself, Andrew uncrossed his legs, pressing the balls of his feet against the ground. Barnes stopped short, Martinez flashed the teen a 'you're on your own' look and kept it pushing out of the observation room. The good cop, bad cop routine was over it seemed. Barnes dropped all pretense of polite admonishment as he drew himself army straight. "I think you misunderstood an order for a request," Barnes said. "Get moving. Now."

Andrew lingered in his seat, sparing Mothra a quick glance. The Titan was hard at work building a web around the pillars of his enclosure. Pushing out of the chair, he followed Barnes out of the observation room into the hall. Most of the interior was still under repair. Tarps covered walls damaged from explosions and gunfire, hiding traces of blood long since stained into concrete.

By the time Ling and Brooks brought him to the facility, the bodies were gone. He saw enough of the chaos to realize something awful had occurred (aside from his family being kidnapped). Moving back and forth through the same hall allowed him to watch the cleanup process day by day.

"Where's Dr. Ling?"

"She's in the situation room," Barnes said. "She asked us to find you."

Of course she did. Barnes was a stickler for following orders and other normal grunt behavior. Martinez usually wasn't rule-bound unless the situation called for it. Both tracking him down was not a normal occurrence, even when Ling was looking for him.

So, something must've been up besides bending his ear for breaking protocol.

"What were you drawing?" Barnes asked.

"Who says I was drawing?"

"I noticed," Barnes said.

The hall bent to the left, leading them out into the lobby. Shaped like an octagon in its design, the expansive lobby felt more like the tunnel system of an ant colony. Four tunnels on the left, and four stairways to the right, leading to the mid-to-upper levels. The center of the lobby was, as the alert reminded, the bottom platform. In the event of an emergency, if they couldn't escape, it would take them down into a shelter where they'd stay until help arrived.

Andrew followed Barnes through the far-left corridor, jogging to keep up with him. The Yunnan outpost, a large pre-WW2 building, was part of a Soviet monitoring system during the Sino-Soviet alliance. After the alliance collapsed, the building fell into disrepair. Recent times, however, saw the outpost restored and under complete control of the Chinese government. It was the only way Western researchers could use it for Monarch research.

"Sonic the Hedgehog," Andrew said after a moment.

"That's cool," Barnes says in a way that belied disinterest. "Knuckles was always my favorite." Andrew rolled his eyes, his imagination running with an image of a Knuckles-esque Barnes and a Tails-esque Martinez. What did that make Foster and Griffin? He wondered. There were only two girls that he knew of in Sonic. Neither of them aligned with Foster's hard-nosed personality or Griffin's understatedness.

The situation room lay at the end of the hall. It was the only room with no kind of door, which meant security around the entire area walked on a hair-trigger. Cameras followed their movement down the hall, pivoting back at the slightest detection of movement elsewhere. If not for what his mother did, they probably wouldn't be under so much surveillance.

(Not that the government needed excuses for more surveillance.)

Inside the situation room, Ling and Foster stood at the 'head' of the round table facing the entrance. Griffin and Martinez sat across from each other, eyes following whatever the illuminated table was projecting. Surrounding them were groups of scattered soldiers, watching their commanding officer. Ling looked up from her conversation at their entrance, a wane smile playing on her lips.

Right, so serious business was happening.

Foster maintained the usual expression of 'no fun allowed'. This was a job for her, babysitting scientists—a danger to themselves as well as others if not kept in check. And on some level, Andrew understood why his father seemed to get on with the jarheads easier than people in his own field. Control freaks.

"About time you got here," Foster said, palms facing down on the table. Barnes sat next to Martinez, chewing the edge of his lip. "I woulda been here sooner if someone hadn't ditched me," Barnes grumbled.

"I knew you had it handled," Martinez grinned, elbowing him. "Besides, I wanted to get the best seat."

"Knock it off, guys," Griffin said. "This is serious."

"With this bunch, when isn't it?" Barnes said.

"If you're done?" Foster interrupted. Barnes ignored the leveled gaze of his commanding officer, tapping his fingers on the table. "We have a situation at the Colorado outpost," she said.

"What happened?" Andrew moved closer to the projection table, eyes squinting down at the LED light pouring up from the flat surface. There was a look about Ling. Not exactly pitying, but not at all reassuring, either.

"Earthquake," Foster said. "Communications with the excavation team went dark at 0:700 hours Tuesday. We were told they were monitoring the situation, but they suspect the Titan is responsible."

"Dianoia? I thought it was a vegetable?" Andrew asked.

"That was what previous researchers believed," Foster affirmed. "It's not."

"So, who woke it up?" Martinez leaned back in his seat, a vein of irritation thrumming above his eyebrow. "The ORCA's gone, right?"

"It is," Ling said. "But we've been developing another way to communicate with them. Similar to the old ways."

"The old ways being…?" Griffin trailed off.

"The old ways being collectivity," Ling said. "We've been uncovering more and more evidence that humans and Titans lived together as part of the old ecosystem." Her hand moved across the illuminated table, pulling up various data points from Outpost and research sites. Andrew had seen a lot of the old reliefs during his time with Emma. Only a few were new to him.

"Every Outpost we've established, every artifact we've discovered thus far, all have a common thread. Both species were partners. There are stories of great horns used to call for aid from neighboring communities, and to the Titans." Two photographs of reliefs depicting curved horns at the lips of an exaggerated human figure, followed by a monster. A painterly portrait of two women singing, hand-in-hand, scrolled by.

"Myths of telepathic communication, the kinds of connections we could only dream of."

"Or not," Martinez grimaced.

"Can it, Martinez," Foster said.

"I'm just saying -"

"Stop saying and listen." There was no mistaking her fuse was growing short. Martinez pretended to zip his lips and throw away the tab.

"This is information we would've gone public with after the hearings at the General Assembly were concluded. It was our token of goodwill to the public, a way of making them less afraid of the Titans. But recent events derailed those plans." Ling's eyes flitted over to Andrew. He did his best to keep his expression neutral as she continued. "The United Nations tasked us with controlling the Titans. We told them we wouldn't."

Foster's eyes zeroed in on the three soldiers, who said nothing in a kind of unison that Andrew recognized from arguing with his parents. Disagreement on the tip of your tongue, ready for the world to hear you push back. That a bunch of adults were acting like scuffed children was kinda funny. "We told them it was possible to foster a genuine relationship with them, that we could rely on them for aid when necessary. A very different relationship from the atypical animal."

"That's what Dad was working on, right?" Andrew pipped up. Mark had sent him a message just a little after he left, apologizing for sleeping through his departure. He paid it little mind, figuring he'd answer it later, and they'd talk.

"Yes. The COSMOS," Ling said.

"So, did it work?"

"I don't know," she said.

"We've got reason to believe it did." Foster pulled up a chart on the table. A graph with wild dips and rises in audio waves moved across timestamps. Foster paused the graph on the highest dip, shifting the graph from audio waves to gamma rays. "Here. This is where the first signs of activity were recorded. Tuesday evening. The staff weren't aware of it until the next day. And the next." She scrolled further down on the graph, the blue bars sliding into red. "This is the next spike, Wednesday evening. Active radiation." The graph was replaced with a map detailing the outposts in the States. Foster pointed to the dark spot in the Mountain West region. "The outpost went dark after that."

"Are they dead?" Andrew asked. Better to know now, grieve later.

"We don't know. Everything that enters the area we lose contact with."

"They're alive," Ling reassured, ignoring Foster's wary frown. "I can feel it."

"Is this a rescue mission?" Barnes' attention remained on the map. "Or a cleanup?"

"Strictly rescue for now," Foster said. "Admiral Stenz is on standby for cleanup, and the Argo is being prepped. Let's get moving, people."

"Ma'am." The trio rose from their chairs and moved in eerie unison with the other soldiers in the room toward the exit. Andrew watched them move around him, paying him only minor attention with a salute or a nod. He never paid much attention to the soldiers swarming the temple and the outpost. They were props, statues that didn't come to life until something needed shooting. Now that they were in motion, a creeping déjà vu clawed at him.

Only a year after the Awakening, he was back in the same place he'd been when Ling visited him that day. Madison was in trouble, an outpost on the verge of destruction if it wasn't already gone. Patterns being what they were, their father was going to -

"Andrew," Ling's voice startled him. She moved around the table, pushing the chairs in as she approached. "Are you alright?"

"I'm going with you." That much he wanted, clear and inarguable. Ling laid a hand on his shoulder. What was usually a comforting gesture unsettled him. "Of course. I wouldn't leave you behind," she said. "Stay close, okay?"

"Yeah. You got it," he agreed. They stood together for a moment, moored to each other's energy. Despite the circumstances, he liked his time in Yunnan and considered it a second home. Emma considered it her preferred base of operations outside of Boston, her true home. He was sure Madison felt the same then, maybe even now.

Leaving Yunnan meant he was in for another big change. Maybe he would only have his sister this time, or maybe he'd lose both of them.

And Monarch wanted people to trust the Titans. Unbelievable.

"Dr. Ling," Foster drew her attention away from the teen. The colonel was adjusting her hat, pulling at the sleeves of her jacket. "Whatever you need, get it now. We're out of here in 45 minutes."

"Of course, Diane," Ling nodded.

Ling's hand remained firm and anchoring, a gentle squeeze bringing him out of his zone. "Get your things. I'll meet you outside."

(12 hours 20 minutes 30 seconds)

"Hey, Dad. How're you?"

Mark lay idle in isolation, staring up at the worn ceiling of the MRI machine, drifting in and out of waking. The pressure in his head knocked at his skull, and it wouldn't stop. Every muscle from the neck down felt over-primed and ready to tear at the slightest noise. The magnetic thrum of the medical coffin he lay in was playing merry havoc with his already frayed nerves.

"I'm all right, Chief. Not my first rodeo."

"I know."

A concussion. Not necessarily an injury he was a stranger to since returning to Monarch. In his case, both were a parting gift from a goddamn Titan. He'd spent the better part of the previous day fighting off a migraine that insisted on looming in the background as he worked. It had only gotten worse since Dianoia's antics, and now there was legitimate concern it might be something more. A concussion on top of having his brain scrambled by a psychic animal. What luck, eh?

"So, what are you looking for?" Mark barely heard the question his daughter was asking of the other Dr. Jefferey Morgan. What indeed.

It hurt to open his eyes. Tiny sparks raced across his vision as if he opened them long enough to stare at the inhospitable dimness. He'd been sleeping for what felt like hours. Hours he couldn't rightly account for between the start of nightmares of being torn apart by dying colleagues and the jolt of waking up on his stomach. He might've been stuck in that loop if Madison hadn't come to get him.

"Changes in the hippocampus," Dr. Jeffery said. "Something we've noticed in humans after prolonged contact with telepathic Titans are changes in behavior."

"What changes?"

He trusted everyone was doing their job and getting folk to safety. Mark couldn't do any more than that because his body decided it would not let him push it any further than he had.

The sedative Dr. Morgan gave him helped with the pain. But now he was groggy, in no condition to put up his usual fuss. And so, he was alone, with a concussive migraine and the chatter of an overly curious daughter. And when left alone with his thoughts, Mark veered toward self-pity.

"Psionic abilities affect the very physical part of our mind, the brain, like depression or anxiety. But instead of shrinking the brain, the brain becomes swollen."

"Meaning, what?" Madison asked. "Does he become super smart, like Pinky?"

Without work, his inconsistent medication dosage intensified his feelings of hopelessness. He opted to work nonstop rather than fixate on the unchangeable. And if he couldn't do that, he was preoccupied with old research papers and whatever his contemporaries were doing in his absence.

That got him thinking about how little a social life he had outside of work post-college. About why he was back at Monarch, loopy and injured. (A vicious cycle, the mind was.)

"Well, actually, Brain was smarter than Pinky–"

"Jeffrey, try to stay on task," Dr. Annabelle said.

"Hey, she asked."

That got a laugh out of Madison.

Mark got it, though. This was his lot in life. He didn't ask for the position, but he took the responsibility because it was asked of him. The last will of Ishiro Serizawa. And even in the man's absence, disappointing Serizawa was something Mark never wanted to do. Never.

That got him feeling like that young know-it-all who wore his skepticism like a badge of honor, even as Serizawa proved him wrong about so many things. But it wasn't just Serizawa's will that Mark was carrying out. There was also Emma's. He had to take care of the kids—his kids—again. He couldn't make rash decisions because every choice Mark made impacted them. Every rational part of his mind knew that.

"We initially believed that the swelling would lead to improved cognitive functions. But that hasn't been true," Dr. Jeffrey said. "Instead, we've seen everything from aneurysms, comas, and slurred speech. Hallucinations, synesthesia, mania, and loss of motor functions."

"To put it shortly, Madison," Dr. Annabelle said, "our brains can't take what the Titans dish out."

The emotionally unstable, avoidant part? However much he loved his family, they always pulled him back toward Monarch, and he hated them for it. It was the last place he desired to be, yet he kept circling back to it like True North on a broken compass. If he died, his ghost would probably wander the halls of any facility as punishment.

(Emma was probably doing that right now. Serizawa too, if he wasn't busy haunting Renji. Graham, though? She passed the pearly gates, no question.)

The very raw, angry alcoholic in him wanted to do what was easy. Hide and drink. Agreeing to a divorce as soon as he got served was easy when he didn't fight the allegation that he was an unfit parent. Leaving for Colorado the following week was even easier when no one asked him to stay.

He could call a bluff when he saw it, and Emma was not expecting zero resistance. She'd been expecting a fight, some shed of dignity, from her husband. A legal battle should've pushed him to prove he could be their father. But the evidence, as far as the courts were concerned, was damning. A high ethanol diet as self-medicating, waking up from a blackout in odd places, didn't inspire confidence when he kept doing it. Liver and doctor's orders be damned, he wanted to see how far he could push it. How long could his body, in a constant state of chronic pain, last before it just gave up?

"But what about Dr. Chen?" Madison asked. "She can communicate with Mothra."

"Ilene's family is an interesting case … in this case," Jeffrey's nervous laughter prickled the back of Mark's groggy brain. "Mei and Maggie Chen are a big reason we know as much as we do about psychic connections to the Titans. And for certain, they show the same symptoms we're seeing with your dad's brain. But–" A beat, then, "Their brains are, for lack of a better word, 'healthier'."

"Healthier?"

Mark lied to himself. He told himself, "You're better than that, Mark. You can't hurt them, not like that."

Emma was determined to 'beat' him at his own game. She challenged his attempts to withdraw from them and hide. He could never be mean enough, could never beg her off enough to stop unannounced visits to the cabin (but never with the kids). She kept appearing at AA meetings he barely attended.

(He just had to keep going a little while longer.)

Emma surprised him in the mornings, sitting casual-as-you-like at the dinner table. Sipping coffee, reading progress reports about Monarch that he never wanted to hear. It all led to the arguments that followed the rejection to come back and work things out.

"Many people who work for Monarch don't come to this job with philanthropic intentions," Dr. Jeffrey said. "Most people, they're messed up from what happened in 2014. Depression, suicide ideation, anxiety, anger issues. They don't want what happened to them to happen to anyone else."

"Meaning…"

"Ilene and Ling are third-generation Monarch recruits. Their mother, her sister, and their grandmothers are closer to what we'd consider major traumatic events," Jeffrey said. "The colonization of mainland China by Japan, migrating from Xi'an to Yunnan to America. But even with all of that, I'd argue their mental health is better than most people who work with us right now."

"Most people who work with Monarch nowadays, since we've gone public, see Titans as monsters or problems," Annabelle said. "The Old Guard, like the Chens and Serizawa's, are incredibly rare and dying out."

"And it doesn't help that yakos like Lee Shaw, Hiroshi Randa, and your mother damn near wrecked our organization going rogue. It's put our entire organization in the crosshairs."

"Honey, Shaw was trying to help us. The Apex thing was Randa's fault."

"Right, right." There was a pause, one Mark's imagination ran away with. "Uh, no offense, kid."

"I know what you meant," Madison cut Dr. Jeffrey off. "I'm not stupid."

The inevitability of their fighting led to other, more intimate things. Sometimes, a single cigarette was shared, or it was an edible. Silly small talk that went nowhere on the porch, or at least long enough that he fell asleep. If she left, she'd be back the following day, a bucket of water ready to shock him out of a drunken sleep. He'd be in a sour mood, but she liked it that way. It was, as he learned, easier to push his buttons.

(…Just a little longer.)

The longer she stayed, the more those frustrations shifted toward the physical. Maybe his eyes lingered on her chest, or she'd accentually touch him. It eventually became about obliging frustration through touch. Her frustrations were his—and Mark always followed her lead. One leg between his, the other pressed against his outer thigh, grounding him. Teeth marking his lip as he swallowed her gasps. Pushing and pushing at him, moving him until all he could do was give and hold on. Pretending that nothing changed.

("I missed this," she'd whisper. "I missed you.")

Closeness intensified by absence, intensified by resentment. When all was still, he'd memorize the way her fingers traced infinity symbols across the scars on his back and shoulders, down to his stomach, hips, and thighs. Her ministrations always paused on the scarring where rebar ripped its way through him, missing Andrew by some miracle. If it rained, there was no consoling the muscle in his leg. If people asked about his odd gait, a joke got them off his back.

Not Emma, though. She'd kiss his scars, hand sliding along the raised and discolored skin. "There isn't enough concrete in the world to excuse how you're acting," she'd whisper, holding him close. "We're safe."

"Yeah. Sure. Safe." He lived near the mountains where Dianoia slept. They were anything but safe. Wherever he went, a sleeping Titan followed. But they were together, and most nights he could hold her without nightmares.

"Andrew and Madison need you." Did she need him? Probably not. "Get your shit together, Mark." I will. I don't know how. Mark wasn't sure which response was the right one. So, he let his body do the talking. He moved, letting Emma slide under him, and he laid his head on her belly. It was a rare enough post-coitus, post-divorce moment that it stirred an effort in him. He wanted to try to not disappoint.

"Why does everyone think it's okay to badmouth my mother in front of me?" Madison's voice, muffled by the inner workings of the MRI, was sharp. "You guys aren't like this with my dad, and he ditched you."

"It's nothing against you, kid," Jeffrey assured, undaunted by her anger. "And your dad, he had nothing to do with what happened."

"No, he just drank most of his liver away while Mom took care of me and my brother."

Jeffrey's sputtering encouraged the secondhand embarrassment creeping up Mark's neck.

"Madison, a lot of us respected Dr. Russell, erm, Emma, before the thing with Monster Zero," Dr. Annabelle said this time. "Some of us even respected Ren and Hiroshi. But—they hurt people going rogue like they did. I've lost friends because of her."

He remembered seeing Madison's little face light up when he showed up, sober but light-headed, light-sensitive. How she hopped into his arms and squeezed him breathless. How Andrew was a little less eager but happy to see him. He lasted half the day before he laid eyes on Godzilla.

It wasn't even current footage, but the Titan's departure from San Francisco. He'd never seen it, what with being trapped under the rubble then. Its wounded march into the bay set his teeth on edge. The cheering made him want to jump out of his skin. That thing was a monster. Why were they cheering it on? He automated himself through conversation and the eager guide of his children, who were learning about the Titans. Emma held his hand, willing him to stay with them. First chance he got, he went topside. First to catch his breath, then to retch his nerves out behind a bush. The rest of the afternoon was spent hiding in Emma's office, trying not to think about Godzilla.

"How do you think I feel about what happened?" Madison said.

"I can't imagine you feel good," Anabelle said. "And I'm sorry about that. Jeffrey is too. Right?"

"Right. I—foot in mouth disease."

"You said something about my dad's brain not being healthy?" Change of subject. Good.

Ilene, Serizawa, and Graham all seemed to understand (or tried to), considering their marital problems were water cooler talk. "These things take time," He remembered Graham consoling later that evening. "That you're here at all means a lot. Don't disappear on them, Mark."

It took a little longer to crack. Another week, another fight.

One day, he woke up beside her with such startling clarity that he mistook his happiness for the genuine article. It was like second nature, touching her again. Kissing her good morning, playing with her hair. Emma's smile had been such a salve, no matter how confused it was. She was happy to see "the old Mark" back.

"I love you," didn't stick to the roof of his mouth. And it wasn't enough to hold her for a little while, but for as long as possible. Maybe that should've tipped her off. They sat on the edge of a pier together and watched the ripples in the lake until it became the world.

Saying, in so many words, that he was afraid of what Monarch unearthed, wasn't difficult. Some part of him wanted that to be heard, wanted her to understand why he was so dysfunctional. "I know it's terrifying. But there's no going back," she said. "It's our responsibility to make this world better for them. We protect our children by protecting the Titans." That she could still believe that baffled him. Monsters with the power of an atomic bomb, that could level cities in hours. It was certain death for humanity, and she wanted to protect them.

They couldn't protect them, not from Monarch, not from the Titans. And he couldn't reconcile that his curiosity about the unknown made this ugly reality possible. It haunted the aches in his body that he'd put his children in danger. In his pursuit of the unknown, he'd nearly gotten his son and daughter killed. He wanted—needed—Emma to disprove those fears, give him a reason not to take the next step. She had, in her own way, and it wasn't enough. Emma, however hesitant she seemed, left him to watch the sunset while she made dinner.

Staring out at the mountains where Dianoia slept, Mark didn't think. He slipped into the water and sank. Mark knew the lake like the back of his hand, remembered the days of playing hide and seek with Cassidy. He knew exactly where he'd land if he didn't swim up. So, he sat in the murk, eyes closed, holding his breath until he couldn't. And when he couldn't, held fast to whatever was moored to the earth.

Mark thought if he got far enough down the road of death to make the attempt "worth" something, he might've seen his mom and dad. Maybe even his dog, Joe Kidd. But he couldn't remember even that. Just waking up to a white room, Cassidy asleep on one side and Emma holding his hand like he'd disappear. It hurt to breathe, from his mouth or his nose. Hurt to talk. His stomach felt turned inside out, and his eyes burned worse than did when he got concrete in them.

When he opened his eyes again, Cassidy's glare was the first thing he saw. "You're such an idiot, Mark." And with no voice to defend or explain himself, he had to agree. But more than anything, it didn't curb the gnawing in his heart, the desire to disappear into a long sleep.

Vulnerability was a hell of a thing to give to Emma, especially after being so damn rickety, unreliable. Emma yelled at him plenty, but never once could he say, "I need you. I need help." He actively rebuffed the notion and called himself a liar. Emma was the bigger person (at the time), certainly gracious when it seemed she was so near to bringing him back into the fold. "You don't have to do this alone," she said, fingers playing with his hair. "Please. Please, let me help." He agreed to inpatient care, and disappeared the moment he was allowed to leave.

Emma's tears, her pleads, it struck him as pity. He wanted to self-destruct and beg their forgiveness later. Anything, if it got him on the other side of the freaking coward he'd become. If she ever told the kids, neither Madison or Andrew never brought it up with him. (Though Andrew always seemed angry enough with him to know.)

Emma visited less. That was a condemnation enough. Calling her number and getting an 'out-of-service' message was the nail in the coffin. He spared himself the embarrassment of calling his ex-co-workers, not ready for the judgment.

He wasn't surprised about the cold shoulder in Antarctica. Not from Emma, and not from Madison. Betrayal begot betrayal. Still, there had been some hope after Andrew gave him a chance. What else could he do but show up, and prove to them he could be there? That he wanted to be there, PTSD be damned.

Well, here was where he seemed to belong. Here for them, for Monarch. He was here, tending to his wife's twisted grieving process in her absence, to his own. Andrew loved to call him their Captain Kirk. And as he did, Mark tried to deflect with objection. "I prefer Sisko," he said.

"That's not the point!" Andrew complained. "Also, Sisko? When Picard is right there?"

Madison acted as she did now. Reminding him every chance she got that the parent she wanted was dead. That his demise would, legally, inconvenience her more than he already did alive.

But he wasn't expendable anymore, everyone needed him. Mark spent a lot of time wondering how Serizawa handled that, knowing what he did about his mentor's sordid family drama.

Outside of the MRI machine, the dynamic of the room beyond the examination room was charged. Madison stood as far away from the Morgans as possible. She leaned against the wall with her arms crossed.

Mark positioned the chair he fell into between his daughter and the doctors, pulling the hoodie he wrestled from Carl tighter around himself. Anabelle and Jefferey stood on either side of the light box that illuminated the scan of his brain.

"Do you want the short version or the long version?"

Mark's reaction wavered between a shrug and a shake of his head. "Let's try to be concise, guys. Not going to be awake for much longer."

"That's fair," Dr. Annabelle sighed. "We were telling your daughter that, because you've created some kind of connection with Dianoia—"

"Or it created a connection with you," Dr. Jeffrey corrected at Mark's glare.

"Your hippocampus is swollen, which typically means you're at risk for an aneurysm," Annabelle said. "Exacerbating this is how your PTSD and, um, alcoholism has also affected your brain."

"We think it might be possible to avoid the, uh, dying part if the Titan were to sever your connection to each other." Dr. Jeffrey said. "Which would be amazing for our research data."

"Sure, thing. I'll wiggle my nose and ask nicely," Mark rubbed his forehead. Madison moved away from the wall, eyes focused on the bruised veins standing out on her father's neck.

"Has that ever worked?" Madison asked. "Like, ever?"

The uncertainty on the Morgans' faces said more than it didn't. "There have been attempts, but," Dr. Jeffrey scratched the back of his head. "We've never found a consistent way to communicate with them before the patient was killed."

"Jesus," Madison swore, and for once, Mark didn't feel like chiding her. "Is this only happening to me, or is Ilene—is Dr. Chen also at risk?" Mark said.

"We assume that Dr. Chen is also at risk, but the why of it is harder to figure out," Jeffrey said. "Neither she nor her sister have experienced adverse effects from their apparent connection to the original Mothra."

"What about Jerkins and the excavators? Did this—was this something that could've happened to them?"

"We don't know. There're no remains to study, so it's anyone's guess," Jeffrey said.

"Permission." Mark and the Morgans shot the young girl a look. Madison met her father's gaze, repeating, "Ilene said that Mothra wanted to connect with them, that it built trust with them. It asked for permission."

"That's certainly one theory," Dr. Jeffrey said. "We'd need to study that." Mark sighed, pressing his hands against his face. The grogginess he'd been fighting since the evening was creeping up on him.

"Right, well, in the meantime, can I go back to my room?" Mark asked. "I need to sleep." There was a pause between the two Morgans. Mark studied the anxious excitement flitting between the two of them. The knots in his stomach burned with envy he felt too old, too smart, to experience.

"How are you feeling, Dr. Russell? I mean, besides tired?" Dr. Annabelle asked.

"Honestly?" Mark said.

"Y-yes, if you're comfortable."

"Comfortable? Hmm."

"Which is to say," Annabelle gesticulated, "There have been indicators that the symbiosis goes deeper than just a connection of the mind. Some subjects could become, um, hostile or distressed whenever they were near the Titan. There's an emotional bond that forms over time. If a Titan tried to escape, their other half would feel it."

"Because of the security measures?" Madison asked.

"That wasn't where my mind was going, but yes. But they could want it to escape, even," Annabelle said. "As a species, empathy is our greatest strength and weakness. So … if Dianoia really wanted to escape, it has you to appeal to."

"So, how do you feel?" Jeffery asked.

Mark couldn't begrudge them the barely restrained curiosity. He recognized the starry-eyed minds, reluctant to let loose one of their only living test subjects. Real-time results and changes. Someone to interact with who experienced the issue in question. Experienced the heart of an animal trapped behind ice and lime. An animal he never acknowledged, even as he stared up at its prison in awe as a young man.

Dianoia was not alive, not a person, not suffering. Not then, and he was reluctant to acknowledge its personhood even now. Its life didn't matter in the drama of a frenzied kiss, a lullaby companion to the faith that lay in his pocket, a broken compass. Her hand on the detonator, freeing hell from prison.

Solipsistic as that was, there was an irony in the possibility that some of his pain, anger, and dysfunction belonged to an unwitting partner.

"Tired." His stomach churned, and acid crawled up in his throat. If it was possible to climb out of his body and vanish, he would've done it already. "I can sleep here if you need to—watch me." It was a compromise he was willing to make as his head throbbed again. "I just need to sleep."

"No, no! It's okay," Dr. Jeffrey said. "We still need to examine Dr. Chen." Mark nodded, pushing himself up from the chair, hand reaching for the cane. Madison pushed the head of the cane into his hand, hurrying toward the door. It was open before Mark had his feet steady under him. He moved toward the threshold as Madison stepped into the hallway. Stopping on the threshold, Mark stared at the couple. "Morgan."

"Y-yeah?" Jeffrey perked up.

"If you have an issue with me, or my wife. You take it up with me," he said. "Leave my daughter alone. You understand?"

"What? But we weren't–!" Annabelle cleared her throat, cutting her husband off.

"Of course, Director Russell," she nodded, hand slipping into Jeffrey's. Whether for support or prevention, Mark didn't much care. Considering the matter settled, he joined Madison out in the hallway, scratching idly at the band of his mask. They didn't speak. Mark pretended not to notice the glances Madison kept giving him, choosing to count his steps.

One problem got stacked on top of another. That was what the last couple of days (hours?) were feeling like now. A cascading failure of his directorhood, a failure to protect people who looked to him for answers. Admiral Stenz wasn't above using any justification to get rid of him, or for military action. He didn't trust Mark, and not just because he was Emma's ex. Mark blocked any attempt to corner Madison for any information about Jonah's group. It strained their cordial relationship.

Stenz and Foster were focused on catching Alan Jonah and his growing network. Growing because of the destruction wrought by the ORCA. The Titans were a justification for 'radical action' against climate disaster. Regrettably, Emma had become a martyr for the anti-human, pro-Titan movement. Jonah was a lot of things, but an idiot wasn't one of them. He knew how to leverage and manipulate vulnerable people.

Barely six months after the death of Ghidorah, videos across the web created a tragic narrative. An environmentalist was tragically cut down by her government protecting their financial interests. Monarch, once an organization for good, kowtowed to corporate interests like Apex and Blackrock.

"Emma Russell bought us more time. If she hadn't, we would've gone extinct. She was thorough and didn't make this decision lightly. The awakening of King Ghidorah and the release of the Titans have brought us even closer to balance. A restored world."

And the videos kept coming, attacking Monarch personnel, their complicity in planetary genocide. They were attracting various identities across the political spectrum. Monarch had a PR problem, but it also had the problem of fending off environmental fascists trying to infiltrate their organization. It didn't surprise him that Stenz was counting the days until his fuckup. They had the perfect scapegoat in the martyr's ex-husband.

Mark used to think that a man's first instinct would be to rebuff genocidal apologia. That it would be easy to spot. But if you prettied the language enough, you could fool anyone, it seemed.

"If you frown any harder, your face will get stuck like that."

"How's that?" Mark answered before he processed what was said. Madison shrugged, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Just something I heard from Dr. Stanton."

"Rick would know, wouldn't he?" At her frown he leaned conspiratorially, whispering, "He looks like he smelled the worst thing ever and never recovered."

Madison smiled, more because of the effort than genuine humor. She was so used to his sarcasm and weariness. There wasn't much of the goofy dad he used to be; the glimmers felt more like phantom pangs than a living part of his personality. "Thanks," she said.

"What for?"

"For sticking up for me," Madison said. "I know you don't have to—and that you weren't happy about what Mom did…"

"Madison," he stopped, bearing his weight on the cane with both hands, the way he remembered his uncle Emile did. "No matter how I feel about your mother, what she did … you're a kid. I don't blame you for trusting her. She's your mother. We're supposed to know better."

"Are you patronizing me?"

"I'm not."

"But?"

"No, buts," he said. "No one's—you don't deserve flack for what Emma did, and they know better."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"Some adults are just overgrown kids," he smiled. "Whatever you decide about Emma, I know you'll make the right choice. I mean that."

Madison watched his expression and looked for any tell or a lie. He nodded toward the room at the end of the hall. "C'mon, let's get back to the room."

(11 hours 59 minutes 10 seconds) - Thursday morning - Midnight

Andrew had never been on the *UNS Argo. It was a behemoth of a machine that he'd only seen from afar, and photographs didn't do it justice. Up close, menace, if not malice, rolled off its sharp edges and hard corners. Guns bigger than a truck-mounted on its front, retracted, idle until necessary. Bombs bigger than the ones he'd seen laying on the deck of an air carrier sat on its underbelly, cradled by crane-like teeth.

It was, maybe two or three times the size of an actual stealth bomber, and housed an entire army in its underbelly. The only thing bigger than the flying warship was Rodan, and the fire demon was some place napping in the void, since no one knew where he was.

Moments like this made him wonder how much of Monarch really was (still) an environmental organization versus another arm of the military. He knew they didn't start that way (technically), but had long become entrenched in the war machine before he was even an idea in the universe.

Titans were dangerous, but then so were people who had the codes to nukes or guns. He couldn't argue that some level of protection wasn't required. The animals operated with almost the same level of consciousness as humans.

Ling argued that Ghidorah, alien or not, was part of a greater ecosystem that represented the universe. It, like humans and other animals, deserved to live as much as they did. But where it became dangerous was how it loathed humanity and was happy to see them and his Earthborn kin go up in flames. The M.U.T.O., as much as he didn't want to acknowledge it, were just animals trying to do regular animal stuff (albeit at their expense). It was likely that was the common state of mind of most of the Titans they'd discovered. Andrew didn't believe in wiping them out like his father did (or used to), but there had to be a middle ground somewhere.

How did the scientists reckon with so much of their mission surrounded by who his mother called jackboot thugs and wannabe superheroes? Spinning in his chair, he craned his neck to get a better look outside the window. Clouds passed by the reinforced glass and around the ship. If they were moving, Andrew didn't feel it.

Diane Foster was standing across from him. At the top of the stairs that divided the cockpit's monitoring stations and primary seating from the pilot and co-pilot chairs. Her back, straight and broad, faced him while Ling stood at her side, watching him.

Martinez, Barnes, and Griffin were probably off on the lower decks doing prep work to fight the Titan. If they had to, anyway. Everyone certainly was moving like it was going to come to that.

"How are you?" Andrew swiveled in his chair, observing Dr. Ling's approach. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, and her glasses hung around her neck from a silver chain. Ling kept her arms crossed, and her Monarch-branded jacket zipped. Andrew offered her a smile. "This is pretty cool," he said. "The ship, I mean, not the situation."

"I understand," Ling laughed. "It is an impressive ship."

"And Dad was on here the entire time last year?"

Ling nodded. "As I understood it, yes."

"Lucky," Andrew whispered. "Has Madison been on here?"

"I don't know."

"So, I might be the first?"

"Does it matter?"

"On a list of cool things we get to do first, yeah," Andrew said.

"Foster?" Ling turned back to the colonel.

Foster barely turned her head when she answered. "No, your sister has never been aboard the Argo."

Andrew grinned. "Cool."

"Andrew, what do you know about the Titan at outpost 17?" Foster asked.

"Not much. I know my parents wrote a paper on it. My dad's mentor oversaw some of the excavation in the 2000s. That it was supposed to be brain dead." He paused, watching the colonel move down the stairs. "Are you asking because you don't know, or was this a pop quiz?"

"Pop quiz," Foster said. "It's my job to know what we're up against."

"Sure, I get that," Andrew hopped out of his chair and moved toward the railing above the passenger seating on the left. "What can it do if you don't mind my asking?"

"We're not sure." Ling spared the colonel from answering the question, drawing the young man's attention back to her. "A lot of the history is spotty, and our mythologists don't agree on what the reliefs mean," she said. "Like Mothra, it might possess telepathic abilities. Or it could be alien like Ghidorah."

"Sooo … you're going in blind, is what you're saying?"

"Not entirely blind," Foster said. "But it's important that you stay close to us."

Andrew felt his chances were probably better doing the opposite. But he was a teenager, so everyone treated him like an idiot. Careful not to roll his eyes, he moved back to the table. He followed the low frame tracking of the map on the LED table. Two dots moved across the map, one blue (the Argo), the other green. "Who's this?" Andrew tapped the green dot moving ahead of them.

Ling stared down at the map, eyes searching the moving aerial view. Andrew pointed again, finger following the jerky movements of the dot. Ling blinked once, twice, then called to Foster. The colonel jogged up the stairs, joining them at the table. "What is it, Chen?"

"There," Ling manipulated the map, changing the topography from aerial to terrain. Foster leaned against the table, hands bracing the edge. "I see it," she said. "Something's following us."

"Not something, a Titan," Ling clarified.

"Did one of them escape from an outpost?" Andrew was puzzled.

"Not likely. We would've been alerted." Ling switched the view again, this time to the map of the outposts. Except for outpost seventeen, all of them were in the green. Closing her hand "This is someone we missed."

"Their trajectory is definitely the outpost," Foster mused. "Where the hell were the early warning systems?"

"They're down, ma'am," one pilot called. "Military's still testing them."

Pressing a hand to the earpiece, Foster walked back toward the stairs. "Griffin."

"Yes, ma'am?" Griffin's voice stuttered over the static.

"Get ahold of Stenz. Tell him we've got another M.U.T.O. on the loose."

"Oh, god, another one of those bug things?"

"No, a Titan," Foster said. "He'll know what it means." There was a short affirmative, followed by a click on the other end. Foster shared a look with Ling, "You ready for this?"

"This is what we do, Diane," Ling answered. "I'm ready." It was all the notice Foster seemed to need from the eldest Chen sister. Her gaze shifted to Andrew, ceaselessly critical. "What about you?"

Andrew felt a chill run down his back. He thought of San Francisco, the terror that reduced his ten-year-old self to a crying mess. Watching the world crumble under the rise of the Titans, learning of his mother's death. Andrew was never prepared. He preferred to wonder what his life would've been like if none of the horrors that defined it happened. How much of the person he was now would be the same or different from the imaginary Andrew, who was only worried about grades and girls?

Was he ready? "Nope," he said. "But I'm ready to help."

"All right, then." Foster's scrutinous expression kept him on edge, but the nod got him off the hook. For now.

(10 hours 50 minutes 50 seconds)

Repeated blackouts throughout the outpost dimmed its primary lighting systems. The halls, from what Madison could see through the thick reinforced glass of the isolation room, were grim. Something befitting of an old slasher film from before she was born. Even the isolation room lights, once overbright, had dulled.

At first, Madison figured it had to do with standing in an over-illuminated exam room. Maybe staring at the illuminated lightbox at brain scans. X-Rays, whatever they called them. But the room had been just as bright when they returned. It wasn't until the power gave out again, popping the lights overhead, that Madison truly noticed the difference.

Mark was sound asleep at that point.

Allegedly.

Sitting in the middle of the table, Madison played solitaire on her phone, with no particular desire to win. Under her, Carl lay asleep, tail shielding his eyes from the minimal light in the room. Around this time, Madison would've been chatting with JustJosh on the Titan Kingdom forums.

They'd met in the discussion forum for the Titan Truth podcast and hadn't stopped chatting since. Most of what she knew about JustJosh was his age (about as old as she was), and that he lived on the other side of the world in New Zealand. The closest thing she had to an age-appropriate friend was inaccessible by traditional routes.

She missed talking to him and wondered if he was worried about her. They'd rarely gone a couple of weeks without talking to each other at first. The podcast was biweekly, and currently covering Monarch's Titan Relief efforts. People who could be bothered to call in talked to the host about everything happening on the ground across the world. Some people were fairly composed in their storytelling, while others broke down in tears, devastated to relive the horrors.

JustJosh had been one of those callers. His family had been displaced by what the island's Japanese community called Baradaki. Madison went to Josh's YouTube page and sent him a message asking for more information. Survivor encounters and the Monarch public and private reports diverged, exposing many discrepancies. Mark was less than forthcoming. Ilene had no issue telling her New Zealand was home to more than a few Titans. Baradaki was just one example. The organization, however, renamed it Varan, which is why she couldn't find any info on it at first.

Madison didn't see the harm in telling Josh she was the daughter of a Monarch employee. It was the only reason she suspected that their online dalliance had become a genuine friendship. It answered questions she would've been no good at fabricating lies for. Granted, her father didn't know about her 'leaking' information—but that was a disaster she could handle later.

A drawn-out groan drew her eyes away from her losing hand. Mark lay on his stomach, arms stuck under the pillow, face down on the mattress.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?" Not the sound of someone awake.

She only acknowledged his sleeping habits in passing when they all still lived together. He slept on top of the covers, never under them. Table lamp on. At a mere seven years old, Madison questioned the necessity of her parents sleeping in separate beds. It made little sense, given the traditional expectations of husband and wife. She caught the tail end of a nightmare and assumed he tried to hurt Emma when she saw her mother fall over the coffee table. That was the first (and only) time she'd slapped him, and apologized immediately after, scared of losing TV time.

Emma explained it without detail, telling her that Mark was still recovering from his injuries and couldn't share a bed with her. "It's like you and Andrew," she added. The comparison made little sense. Andrew had nightmares, yeah, but he didn't push her around (much) because of it. After three years of scrutiny, the injury excuse didn't hold up, so he left.

"Are you awake?"

"Mmm-hmm."

After Emma's death, the most she learned about herself was how used she was to being alone. Andrew was around without being around. He dealt with their mother's death by reconnecting with old friends or playing video games. He legitimately did not seem to have time for her.

Her father's sleeping habits were that he slept very little. The floors of their temporary homes creaked under his roaming. She'd pick up on his rummaging in the kitchen on trips to the bathroom. It wasn't unusual to find him reclined on the couch, dead to the world.

Andrew wasn't bothered by it, even if it meant they had to deal with a cranky scientist every morning. Madison had a feeling Andrew did something similar when she was sleeping.

Madison pulled the slipper shoe from her foot and chucked it at his middle. The shoe hit the edge of the mattress, flopping ungraciously onto the floor with a dull thud.

"Dang it," she followed the descent with little interest in where it ended up. What it landed by, however … Madison stared at the bag lying idle under the mattress, wondering how she'd never noticed it before. Slipping off the table, she walked toward the bed.

Dropping into a squat, Madison pulled the bag from under the bed. She recognized it as the one Mark had used earlier. Carefully, she unbuckled the clip that kept the cover shut and gently unzipped the bag. Carl moved to inspect the open bag, his pink nose flaring in concentration. Brown eyes gold as Carl's mouth parted—almost poised to say something. "What?" Madison made sure she whispered. The tabby stared for another moment, then shook itself. Taken aback, Madison watched him sit, scratch the back of his ear, and trot away, tail low to the ground. Weird cat.

She reached into the bag, fingers sliding across the fine scratches on the back of the laptop. Pulling the laptop out to set it aside, she shook the bag's contents free. Or so she hoped. Plastic jewel cases tumbled out on the floor, followed by wrinkled papers, photographs, and the jangle of keys. Madison winced, certain her clandestine activities were blown. Peeking up over the edge of the mattress, she caught her father's eye as Mark shot up, searching around the room.

Yep. Mission failed.

Carl, meowing his yawn, started back toward the bed. Feeling a bit like a criminal, Madison watched her father with trepidation. He pulled himself into a sitting position, hand rubbing the center of his chest.

"You okay?"

Mark stared at the table, then down at the edge of the bed. His daughter watched him, worrying her bottom lip. "Yeah. Charlie horse." The answer, dispassionate and short, earned an arched eyebrow. He kept his head down, hand digging into the mattress as if to ground himself. "What time is it?"

Madison looked about the mess she made, carefully tracking the anxious trotting of Carl, who pawed the research papers as he stretched. With one glance at her phone, she said, "It's pretty early still. I guess."

"That's helpful." Mark dug the heel of his hand against the side of his head. "Shit."

"Migraine?" Madison's hands smoothed the raised fur on Carl's back. The tabby climbed across her lap, claws scratching at her skin as he balanced himself. Carl hopped onto the mattress, purring, turning in circles. Mark's hand mirrored the motion across Carl's back as he fretted back and forth.

"I don't know," he said finally, scratching under Carl's chin. The hand digging at his head had come down, resting on his knee. His eye, under the area of effect, remained firmly shut; the other moved its attention back to the mess on the floor. "What were you looking for?"

"Not much, just something to pass the time," Madison tried for honesty. "The Walkman had to come from somewhere, right?"

"You could've just asked, Maddie," Mark said.

"You were sleeping," she said, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Mark adjusted himself on the bed, stretching himself across on his side like a sloth. "Anything broke?" He asked. Madison did him the courtesy of putting the papers in a pile to her right, and setting the sole book (Wolfish: Wolves, Self, and the Stories We Tell about Fear) on top of them. Scooping up the CDs, she gave each a cursory once-over before shaking her head. "Looks good, taste in music aside," she said.

"Says the girl who likes Ray Donna," he grumbled, eyes drooping. "Lana del Ray," Madison corrected, reaching for the photos on the ground. Her father's general lack of organization wasn't so surprising. Emma—her mother wasn't neat either. None of the photographs were remarkable outside of the fact that she'd never seen them. Dogeared and wrinkled, the glossy images stirred her imagination.

Mark in mid-light of a cigarette hanging from his mouth, hair wind-blown, the Chicago harbor behind him. On the back of the photograph, her father's handwriting—Chicago, '96—was scribbled in the corner. The rest following it was of her father smoking in various locations. Swirls of smoke around him, expressions dipping as low as a scowl to a genuine mid-laugh smile. "I didn't know you smoked," she said.

"Used to smoke a lot. But it wasn't like–" he shrugged. "Y'know." Madison didn't press the issue, pushing the picture into the back. The silhouette of a man, frozen in a backflip on the beach, surrounded by similar shadows in various actions. "Is this you?" Madison raised the photograph over the edge of the bed.

"No. I don't remember who that is," Mark fiddled with the edge of the photograph before letting his hand fall back on the bed. Pushing the picture behind the set, Madison recoiled. Ilene sat in front of a glass window, mug between her hands. She was smiling, body dwarfed by a Chicago Bears jacket draped on her shoulders. Her hair was longer, too. Madison flipped the image over; the note read, 'Chen, I. September 2007'. "Where was this?"

Mark's hand appeared over the edge. She moved the picture closer. "Dean and Deluca's," he said after a moment. "It was a couple of months after you were born. Emma was on bed rest. Ilene was in town, and she invited me out for coffee. That's when I told her about you."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he coughed. Madison considered the image again. Chen, somewhere between her youth and the woman she knew now, smiled into her father's camera. Her hair was wet, swept back and away from her face. She tried to imagine the conversation between them, maybe her father showing her a wallet's row of baby pictures. Also, happy. Tucking the picture behind the set, Madison giggled.

Staring up at her was Emma, maybe no younger than her father in the first picture. She sported spiky shoulder-length hair, a striking red instead of dirty blonde. Raising the photograph into her father's line of sight, Madison gave it an extra shake. "Did everyone look this bad in the 90s, or was it just Mom?"

This time, Mark took the photograph and stuck it under the pillow. "Don't make fun," he said, failing to hide his amusement. "I thought she looked cute." There were a lot of ways to poke fun at the answer, specifically for its honesty. It existed in the rare moment where something about Emma other than her affiliation with Alan Jonah was the focus. Emma was, at least in memory, someone her father loved. A person with whom he shared a life he guarded jealously. It stung to think Mark wasn't being as open with her as she thought he was.

Madison raised her eyebrows at the next picture. Her father was standing off the curb outside a Seven-Eleven, wearing an outfit similar to the one in the group photo Ilene showed her. Next to him was a man she'd never seen before, both of them drinking Slurpees of dubious color. In the background, a group of territorial teens glared daggers at their heads. One had thrown what looked like a soda can. On the back of the photograph, Mark wrote, "Inglewood, 1999. Not a very nice place."

"What were you doing in Inglewood?"

"I don't remember," he said.

The next photograph in front of her was just as unfamiliar. Aunt Cassidy sat in the middle of Emma and Mark, baby Andrew in her lap. To Mark's left sat the man from the previous photo, a stranger she assumed was an old friend. His arm was around her father's waist. Mark's face was red with laughter. The stranger watched on, maybe a bit too admirably. "Who's he?" Bringing the picture into his line of sight. "Long-lost cousin?" Mark stared at the picture with half-open eyes, not seeing it so much as trying to burn a hole in it.

"That's from Andrew's first birthday," he said. "We went to Sherline's Bakery for the evening."

"Okay." She turned the picture back around to study it a little longer. "But who's the guy?"

"An ex, I think," he said. Madison lowered the picture, skepticism etched on her face.

"Mom's ex, or your ex?"

"Your Mom's. Why?"

She waggled the picture, then pointed at the hand on his waist. "He seems per-it-tee comfortable there, if you ask me."

"Based on what?" Mark baffled.

"There was this friend I had," she adjusted herself so that she was facing him. Mark had the decency to prop himself up to hear her. "When I was still going to public school. They told me they thought one of our friends was the uh, F word."

Mark's eyebrows made a slow descent into a scowl. "You're not still friends with this person, are you?"

"Who? The one that used the F word?" At Mark's nod, she said, "I haven't seen them in years, Dad. And we all know better now."

"Madison…" Mark started.

"Not the point," she interjected. "When I asked how he—*they knew that, they showed me a picture." Madison raised the photograph again and pointed to Emma's 'ex.' "It was a bunch of pictures like this one on their phone. They were all over each other, holding hands, even though he—I mean—they were seeing someone else."

"How old were you?"

"Eleven," was all she offered.

"That doesn't count, then," Mark dismissed.

"It does!"

"You're just kids mimicking what you see," Mark said. "I didn't have any girlfriends at that age."

Madison pulled her cell phone out of her hoodie pocket. With the speed that only a child raised around technology possessed, she flipped through the security screen and accessed her gallery. "Look, see." Raising her phone, she tapped awkwardly at the fuzzy photograph of a group of kids trunk-or-treating. "That's them."

Mark stared at the two boys, arms slung over each other's shoulders, mouths coated in chocolate, wearing *Blue Jay and Racoon costumes. He scrutinized the details of the photograph a little longer. Following the blurs running behind them, toilet paper on someone's front lawn, and Madison dressed like She Ra.

"Madison," Mark said. "They're kids."

"Doesn't mean there isn't anything there," Madison insisted, swiping. Another photograph of the group, this time Christmas. Madison, morose and glaring at Andrew from the couch. His oldest was oblivious to the daggers pointed at the back of his head as he posed with a video game console. The two boys from before were present, this time with girls.

Unlike the picture she was comparing this to, they were separated, one girl in the middle, the other on the left. All four kids were fiddling with stocking stuffers—jewelry, candy, little figurines. The boys smiled at each other, mischief in their smiles. The moment's happiness caught him, and his heart twisted with regret. What had he been doing when all of this happened? Lying somewhere drunk, contemplating felo-de-se, watching the wolves thrive in their community?

Does it matter? He thought to himself. They were happy and safe, away from you.

"Dad?" Madison's fingers tapped his wrist.

Jolted from his discursive thoughts, he said, "Contrary to belief, Madison, exes can still be friends with each other."

"So, you admit he's your ex," she nodded sagely.

"What? No, he's Emma's ex," he said. "I don't have a gay bone in my body."

"You could have a bi bone, though." At her grin, Mark rolled so that his back was facing her. What a ridiculous line of questions. What was even the point?

Madison climbed up onto the bed, setting the pictures aside. "It was a joke," she sat cross-legged on the mattress, leaning against him. Mark looked over his shoulder, gaze simmering, not with anger, but something else. Shame? "No, it wasn't," he said, tone flat.

Madison insisted. "It's not like I'd see you any differently if you liked guys, too."

At that, Mark pushed himself upright. "Madison, you've been biting my head off whenever I breathe in Ilene's direction," he said. "What's saying you wouldn't bite my head off for liking the, uh, masculine type, too?"

"Because that's not how I meant." Madison's gaze shifted to her hands.

"Enlighten me, then."

Keeping her gaze steady on his, she said, "I would... I would still be upset."

"That much, I figured out." Mark crossed his arms. "So, I'll ask again: What's this really about?"

It's not supposed to happen. You aren't supposed to be with anyone except Mom. Madison felt she could say all of this, and Mark would understand. Understand, but not tolerate it. "It feels too soon."

"Madison, we were separated three years. Even when everything was happening, I didn't..." He sighed. "It was over. And she's gone. I'm not allowed to move on?"

"I'm not saying you can't move on," she argued. "But she's only been gone nine months. You talk about her like it's been longer."

"Because it has been longer for me," Mark said.

"It's like you don't care."

"I care. You know I do."

"And you're always angry with her."

"You're telling me you're not?"

"No, but..." Madison shook her head. "But it's more than that for me. I'm more than just mad at her. I still love her. I've never seen you cry about her once."

And to that, it seemed he didn't know what to say. There was a coldness about how he talked about Emma. It was never about who she was, but what she did. Judi Bloom could get away with saying horrible things, and the most he would do is call it bad timing. Madison felt alone in her grief, felt she was mourning a completely different person than everyone else. Moments like the one they shared over the picture were no longer the norm, and he was clearly determined to keep that from her.

"Madison..." his fingers slipped through his hair. "Look, there are some things I will never share with you. Just like I know, there are things you don't share with me. Am I wrong?"

"No," she said, quietly. "You're not."

"And there are things I won't do in front of you. Crying is one of them." Ignoring the roll of her eyes, he pressed on. "That guy was my friend, her boyfriend. She was my wife and I love her. I loved her, but she's gone." He pulled at the ring on his finger, twisting it. "I'm sorry I gave you the impression I didn't. But.. how I grieve about that? I need that to be between me and God. Okay?"

She nodded, a subtle frown pulling at her lips, betraying her discontent. "What was his name?" Madison watched his expression switch from irritated to exasperated.

"Matt, I think," he said after a moment. Madison leaned across the bed, pulling her legs out from under her so that she lay on her stomach. Mark resumed pressing his fingers against the knot in his chest, feigning disinterest as his daughter spread his CDs about on the floor. She chucked a case onto the bed between them. Climbing back into an upright position, she tapped her finger against the front of the case.

"You mean Matthew, right?" she asked.

"How's that?"

Madison picked the case up and opened it. Before now she just looked at the front, the shaky handwriting characteristic of her father's overbearing hand moving across the paper. Faint eraser marks haunted the dingy paper, only slightly covered with the dried colors of alcohol markers. Zeroing in on the text next to an overbright Polaroid of Emma in a dimly lit room, she read.

"I had this great speech that was gonna win you over, but–" Madison scrambled back, avoiding her father's reaching hand. "–but! But I'm wasted. Please accept this not mixtape–stop!" Madison moved again, grinning at the dead fish flop her father made, almost falling off the bed. "Please accept this mixtape as a token of my apology. It's not the *143s, but I'll get there. Promise."

Pulling himself upright, he laid back, arm flung across his face, red from exertion (or embarrassment). Madison kept her distance as she opened the jewel case. The print paper was yellow and wrinkled. Tapped inside were two sticky notes, one written by her father, the other by her mother. She read her father's note.

"Matthew, could you give this to Emma? I forgot to give it to her before I left for home. Thanks. For the ride and … everything else." Madison wrinkled her nose at the song selection. Bob Seger, Dishwalla, Tonic, Third Eye Blind. No one she'd ever heard of, but she suspected the songs were romantic. Looking up, she caught her father's self-conscious smile.

"I think I saw one of these in Mom's room when we lived in Boston."

"Yeah, she made one for my birthday," Mark said.

"Was burning CDs a thing people dating did?"

"Mixtapes. And, yes, we did," he said, hiding his face again.

"That is really corny, Dad."

"Well, it seemed like the deep and romantic thing to do," Mark smiled. "Helped us guys get in touch with our 'feminine' side without being too girly."

"So, that Matt guy is Matthew?"

"No idea. Can't remember."

"Liar."

Mark stared down at the front of the case. The slow burn of embarrassment continued to tingle at the tips of his ears, crawling down his neck and across his face. Staring him in the face was a relic of his youth: shoddy scrapbook skills and cover art adorned with torn pictures of his late wife and then not-girlfriend.

Unconsciously, he fiddled with his wedding band. Pulling at the ring, he slipped it from his finger. Madison watched the movement, curious and worried about his intent. Concerned about what it meant that he might be into Ilene, that he might've had a relationship with her before now. That both of them were lying to her, and so casually, after the bullshit her mother put her through with her brilliant "save the world" plan.

"There was someone … someone Mom was seeing for a while–"

"Madison, I don't–"

"You don't wanna know. I know. But hear me out. Please?"

Mark's head whipped up. His expression was not necessarily angry, but certainly not receptive to the request. It settled into something masking the hair-trigger temper she was too familiar with by then. He was expecting a fight, so she would try not to oblige the expectation.

"She was seeing this nature conservationist we met in Montana. Miss *Mayumi, that's what she told me to call her," Madison started. "She got into what Monarch was doing because she was worried about the impact our—I mean, their—research was going to have on the forests and stuff." Madison paused, watching her father. Mark's eyes were down on his ring again, fingering the dings on its edges.

"Mom started spending a lot of time with her, but I didn't think it was a romantic thing," Madison continued. "Andrew and I kinda found out by accident. I was mad about it, but Andrew told me I shouldn't be." She snorted. "It's not like Mom and Dad are getting back together." It wasn't a bad imitation of her brother, all things considered. Mark nodded, pressing his lips into a firm line.

"It just seemed so weird that Andrew and Mom were acting like there was this huge You shape in our lives that wasn't missing. And if they weren't doing that, we were all angry at you."

Mark grunted.

"Mom, she seemed happy with Miss Mayumi. Miss Mayumi was kinda like having you around, but not drunk."

"Madison, is there a point to this?" Leg to stand on or not, she honestly was nibbling away at a burning fuse.

"I think so," at her father's sigh, she continued. "Mom thought—she thought because Miss Mayumi was so protective about nature, she'd understand what we were gonna do for the Titans. I didn't even know she told her." Madison shrugged. "Guess I should've figured when they started fighting all the time."

Again, Mark stayed on the path of silence. Emma didn't take well to people disagreeing with what she thought was the wholehearted truth. He wasn't any better, but usually knew when to shut up. Impartiality all but died once she put her mind to something. Mark shut down on her the moment she'd started talking about reworking the ORCA. He couldn't stand to look at her. He'd felt so betrayed. "What happened?"

"She left. Just stopped talking to us," Madison said. "It was like we didn't exist. I was so mad at Mom, but she told me she didn't understand what we—what we were doing. How important."

"Did she ever report your mother?" Mark asked.

"No," Madison snorted. "I think she thought Mom was just talking crazy."

Mark couldn't begrudge her that. One of Monarch's primary issues as a private or public organization was scaring people off. Even in the vaguely worded legalese, their sales pitches boarded on the fanatical, if not pretentious. Recruitment in average communities flopped because most people thought they were a PETA knockoff.

He paid the recruitment booths and posters in college zero attention because he'd never heard of them before. He'd been dead set on joining the Wolf Conservation Center, or the International Wolf Center. Their tagline, "Bringing Balance to the World," struck him as hippie bullshit. He was not one bit surprised genuine environmentalists wanted nothing to do with them.

"Mom used to say that you abandoned us." Madison was looking at him now, nervousness gone from her body language.

Mark nodded. "She wouldn't be—wasn't wrong," he said. "I did. I can explain it away with this or that, but I left. She stayed, and I left. That made her a better parent. In that respect, anyway."

"Maybe," Madison said. "But now that I'm thinking about Miss Mayumi … I'm thinking she pushed you away."

"You don't believe that, though, do you?" Mark said.

"I'm not saying you didn't leave on your own, but Mom … She wouldn't hear Miss Mayumi out on anything." Madison shook her head, eyes prickling with tears. "It was the same way she was arguing with you guys before Rodan woke up."

We are the cause. We are the infection. Mark remembered. The words rattled around in his head every day since the argument. Her cold, cold, dispassionate declaration said more than their two years of arguing, three years of radio silence.

Paleontology and zoology spaces were rife with white supremacist thinking. Mark didn't pretend to be an expert. But then he didn't need to be when most were open about it. Sure, universities disclaimed and condemned the pioneer conservationists, archeologists, and historians. Dead men. It was easy for people to nod and agree in passivity. Challenge that further by suggesting an overhaul of the discipline? Well, people showed just how unwilling they were to First Nations stewardship.

"I don't even know if she's still alive," Madison said.

"We can try to find Mayumi for you. See what happened to her," Mark offered.

"Thanks." Madison breathed against the knot in her chest.

He loved hunting and fishing. Even in moderation, the guilt that pranced around in his head as he pulled the trigger, and hauled the fish to the cabin, never ceased to sound. The quagmire of philosophic debate, staring at the single tree in an ocean of ecosystems connected.

Viruses weren't always malicious by nature. More often than not, they eventually strove for some coexistence with their host. The benefits of a living host outweighed the negatives of a dead one. Particularly, adaptation. Emma used to laugh at people who said the things she did that day. What happened when he left? If he stayed, could he have prevented this? Was she always like this?

"Why did you come back?" Madison asked.

Mark blinked. "How's that?"

"Mom … she'd been so sure you wouldn't… that you wouldn't come find us."

"You're my daughter. I'd do anything for you, all of you," Mark said. "I don't give up on family."

"But you did."

Pain shadowed his expression as he turned his back and lay down. There was no defense against that, not enough groveling or penance in the world to make up for what he did.

Madison understood the hurt that gnawed at her, the anger that curled tight around her, that demanded she guard herself around him, would never be sated. Their circumstance, such as it be, was a spiral with no end. Again and again, she sensed this, but anger required fuel. It was much easier to rub at an injury than to make peace with its existence.

"If it takes what's left of my life, I'll make things right for you and Drew," Mark said. "I swear."

(10 hours 02 minutes 02 seconds)

History was the ghost of a world that conceded its hold on reality. What the people could piece together about a culture or person would always be incomplete. A book could no more capture the totality of a year than a summary could cover the centuries.

"*There are stories that answer and stories that alter," her mama would say. She believed mythology was storytelling that embraced unreality to process the truth. It was a dangerous process that blurred the boundaries necessary to protect truths and culture.

Ilene thought about that a lot whenever she faced disparate pieces of Titan history archived by her family and the Serizawas. Their department was one of many sectors in Monarch compromised by Alan Jonah's attack. Years of work from before her time was missing, or their servers were corrupted. Thanks to their actions, those disparate pieces of history were shattered even more.

The military, the UN, spent years threatening them with a hostile takeover. It loomed over them like the spite-driven *"Hague Invasion" Act. It'd become so common that almost no one took them seriously anymore. Regrettably, that was a mistake. The posthumously named "G-Day" exposed their under-preparedness for an Awakening. It was all the UN needed to persecute, to the point of irresponsibility.

The nuclear explosion set off in San Francisco made most of the city off-limits for years. No one was in or out. It failed to do anything except empower Godzilla and allow the surviving M.U.T.O. to escape. The US government and the UN weren't blamed for this. No, the blame fell on Monarch for failing to predict and submit a reasonable action plan for civilians.

Internally, the organization was split in the aftermath. The plan to work closely with the military and the UN was led by Lee Shaw, Monarch's only surviving founding member. The man had been furious to learn what had happened. *"'Let 'em fight?' That's the best you could come up with?" Nothing gave away the old man's roots as a fatigue-wearing grunt quite like his disdain for Serizawa.

To her understanding, bad blood ran between the Serizawa and the Shaw-Randa family. Although accounts varied, all versions described a military dispute between Lee and Ishiro over Godzilla. Or, it had something to do with Hiroshi Randa and Ren Serizawa's unlawful acquisition of Hollow Earth tech in 2017. Tech that was sold to Apex Industries, which ended Monarch's affiliation with the weapons manufacture. Ilene wasn't a gossip, but knowing Serizawa 'allowed' the US to pursue charges against Shaw's son explained a little about the strife.

Shaw's relationship with the Titans was odd. He seemed to admire Godzilla, just like Serizawa's father. Believed in Houston and Randa Sr.'s Hollow Earth theory (even claimed he'd seen it with his own eyes). But his chief concern was always with the safeguard of humanity. "What if Godzilla lost?" Shaw believed Serizawa wasn't doing enough as director on that front. Trusted far too much in the 'benevolence' or spiritual power of the Godzilla as a protector.

They needed real intervention, evacuation, and disaster plans. Not just for America, but the world. It was reactionary, but not necessarily unreasonable. Shaw dedicated his career to finding a balance between protecting the environment and national security. The issue, however, was that military action entailed certain death for the Titans. The security council wanted more than a little control over Monarch's operations. Shaw's influence couldn't do much except slow them down.

Try as they might, they couldn't get guarantees of the Titan's safety on the global stage. San Francisco was being used as the reason the animals couldn't live, free or captive. It was Serizawa's belief that no harm should come to the Titans. Their survival meant humanity was missing something about their collapsing ecosystem.

Despite their family's loyalty to Monarch, the Chens collaborated with the CCP to safeguard their homeland and nearby islands. Since WW2, this had been a multi-generational effort. They were even collaborating with the new BRICS initiative to create stronger financial safeguards. If Monarch failed, most non-Western powers wouldn't be caught on the backstep.

Monarch's internal strife became an exercise in optics, one that fueled mistrust among researchers. The party for Shaw, oddly, was concerned more with human protection, and less about the Titans as living creatures. Acting out of pragmatism, Titans were just science experiments. Those for Serizawa were more conflicted. San Francisco couldn't be repeated, but the Titans were part of an ecosystem they swore to protect.

Ilene's faith in Serizawa was shaken, just a little. Or enough that she cooperated with inquiries and investigations about his directorship. Rumors spread about him being a traitor, that he was working against the US for other countries. It was odd to Ilene that anyone thought Monarch, in its present form, was only beholden to the US. No matter how many people defended him, Ilene felt there was a concerted effort to get him replaced, if not disgraced.

Emma's presence had been a blessing then. Awkward as it was to witness the death throes of Mark and Emma's marriage, Ilene couldn't fathom forsaking the familiarity of their chaos.

Mark withheld much of his opinion on what was happening with Serizawa, but rejected any opportunity to testify against him. Ilene preferred to believe it was because he was still frozen in time. Still thinking about the accident. He and his son had been in physical therapy then, exhausted by baby steps and simple tasks.

Emma was often angry on Serizawa's behalf. They talked to each other about where things might've gone wrong. Ilene didn't believe in the almost no-hands approach to Serizawa's directorship, nor did she think Shaw's militarism was the way. Emma was undoubtedly more radical in her solutions. Free the Titans, and let them establish habitats naturally instead of keeping them cooped up in enclosures. The restoration of Janjira's Godwood forest, sprouting up in the city, was something she felt was possible elsewhere. But only if they got rid of the UN stipulations.

"We can do something about this, Ilene. But it can't be with the UN and the military." Ilene cherished that closeness and was grateful Mark had been absent for most of it. Betrayal didn't quite cover the grief she experienced when she realized what Emma and the other researchers were doing. All that time she'd been blind to it, allowed herself to ignore the message in Emma's anger. Then, she was powerless to stop the unnatural death of the world her friend set in motion.

"That.. bitch." The grief and rage she'd held in since Ghidorah's release compressed into two words. Ugly, viperous words Ilene typically avoided among colleagues. Emma, how could you? Did everything they worked for mean nothing?

Even now, she couldn't find it in her to think about Emma or her actions impartially. Serizawa, he made his choice, and it saved Godzilla. Saved them all. But none of it would've been necessary if Emma hadn't turned against them. So, all she felt was rage.

Monarch's central archive database in Washington wasn't fully operational yet. Most of her work was held on servers in Yunnan, which were still being repaired or replaced after Jonah's attack. Colorado's archives were also only just re-establishing themselves. While Guillermin's printed works about Dianoia helped with cross-referencing, they only provided fragmented information.

Dianoia's story was a small part of a larger canvas, and there was a chance she misunderstood the texts.

Humans sacrificing their children communicated a lot about social norms. Ancient Rome condoned filicide in the event of deformity or other weaknesses, such as "the wrong sex". The story of Romulus and Remus reflected this in an almost quasi-fairy tale about the brothers. The practice of child sacrifice in Carthage, while in constant question, reflected casual filicide. Their children were not ill, for no god would accept a spoiled sacrifice. Their society believed divine appeasement would solve the poor survival rate of children.

Starving animals turned on their communities to survive, humans were just another type of animal. There were a few speculated cases of cannibalism in their old world. And Titans, terrestrial or not, weren't above cruelty or collaborating with like-minded species. She didn't believe the destruction of the old world was a one-sided affair.

So, the role of Dianoia's power unsettled her. If the why behind the story of Dianoia's power was social collapse among the fauna and the flora, what did that say about the Titan specifically? Was it an opportunistic predator, or did it believe—as she believed in Mothra and Godzilla—that it served a grander purpose?

Did it hold humanity in contempt like Ghidorah did and take glee in harming the most vulnerable—children?

Only two men on Jerkins's team were married with children. She and Mark had children, yet it wasn't limiting its scope to parent and child. Most of the excavation team were single (they practically lived in the caves). What or whom did it have to sway their souls with—if it swayed them at all?

Ilene traced the outline of the drawn face-in-process on her tablet. Wei-Wei's round face and over-the-shoulder ponytail were a mere impression of faint lines, all waiting to come together. Trouble was that the battery on her tablet was dying, and she couldn't find her charging cable.

The backup generators wouldn't last long. The room was getting darker, and the lights were getting weaker.

She looked at the photo on the screen and smiled at the girls in their Christmas dresses on the couch. It'd been a long month with intermittent video calls. She was ready to go home, stop wondering how they were, and finally hold them.

They were fine, that much she could tell, but she wasn't. Ilene felt off balance, not herself. The Morgans were content to chalk it up to the infection. Looking at the situation from their perspective, Ilene supposed they wouldn't be incorrect.

She was losing time, fainting, and her body ached. Ilene couldn't remember when she started drawing pictures of her daughters and was afraid to attribute it to Dianoia. Nothing about the Titan felt like it was communicating, but figuring out the switches on a board. Its energy was disruptive, even trapped behind ancient rock.

Mei and Maggie shared their reservations about bothering the Titan, the same as Mark. She needed the curiosity of its life satisfied, however. And Mark was just as curious, but he couched it behind 'security' and 'protection.' Things truly snowballed after she described her family's connections to Infant Island and Mothra to him. His love for sound and hers for mythology come together, creating a potential solution to communications with the Titans.

If she compared them to Mothra, Dianoia's actions felt impulsive and rudderless. When Mothra communicated, she moved with such intentionality, but she had no sense of intention beyond need with Dianoia.

Ilene couldn't talk to Mark about what he was feeling. While he had a framework, he withdrew from the mere idea of—as he called it — "mind-melding" with a Titan.

What he experienced in the ocean after Godzilla's revival was a fluke. His degree in animal behavior, even. The headaches weren't a consequence of anything except sleep deprivation. Suggesting that he shared headspace with anything other than his thoughts shut down the conversation entirely. Even when she tried a more realistic approach, he brushed it off.

"Look, I'm not trying to call you crazy or anything," He stumbled when he'd irritated her enough to give him the silent treatment. "It's just—I'm not that kind of person."

"That kind of person?" she repeated. "What kind of person am I, Mark?"

"No—I don't. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that I don't believe in that kind of thing."

"Kind of thing?" Ilene continued with short, bitter remarks until he was honest with her.

"I can believe in Titans because I can see, smell, and hear 'em. I can concede to that reality, but…" He shook his head. "This thing you can do with Mothra, it's just—it's not … it's not me."

Did a Titan have to fall on him to believe it, she wondered?

Ilene was used to the mild detachment that came with "mind-melding" with Mothra. The faint sense of lingering in the back of her mind, the trill of acknowledgment that followed if she and Ling called for aid.

Ling was likely already connected to Mothra's reincarnation. When she thought of her older sister in her mind's eye, her form was steady, anchored to new threads in the warmth of a sun she had yet to meet.

Ilene was still bound to the old tethers, which lived on in Godzilla. Godzilla, who was missing, but may have been trying to reach their blockhead of a director. It was just another reason to return to Yunnan.

In the event of her absence or some other emergency, Juma would take the girls to their grandmother. Haifa had become unpredictable because of the terrorist attacks. Right-wing and Neo-Nazi groups were attempting to sabotage water systems. Enough explosions happened around villages near the city, that it disrupted Abu-Zurayq's hunting path. The Titan was actively attacking villages off the harbor, primarily out of agitation. It, like Rodan, was causing significant destruction with the mere flap of its wings.

"It's looking for those devils," Juma said one night during a lockdown. She could hear the gunfire and the Titan's roars in the background. "Trying to flush them out." The intent of Abu-Zurayq and the National Army wasn't lost on Ilene. Not when she was getting almost daily updates from the Monarch Accountability Archive (a grassroots watchdog group).

Ilene hadn't expected to spend over two days at Outpost 17. At most, she expected to hand the situation off to Dr. Bloom and Francis and maybe work sporadically on the COSMOS with Mark. They planned a simple test in the enclosure, just to check the system and collect some data.

There was a knock at her door. Ilene looked up from counting the cracks on the floor to see Rick, masked, waving her over. Ilene thought to tell him she couldn't let him in, never-mind let herself out. The door pushed inward, Rick sliding through the half open space.

"Hey," He greeted, watching her take a step back. "Hope I'm not interrupting your beauty sleep."

"You know you're not," Ilene said. "What's going on with the Titan?"

"Still in a holding pattern, but it's wrecking the infrastructure," Rick said.

"The generators," Ilene said.

"Got it in one," he said. "It's also attacking water and air filtration systems. But that's not why I'm here."

"Come out with it already," Ilene said. "What do you have for me?"

"Well, not you per se," Rick waved his free hand about, then offered her the piece of paper he had written on earlier. "But I figured I'd come see you first."

Rolling her eyes, Ilene took the paper from him and unfolded it. Squinting, she tried to read Stanton's handwriting as it moved up and down. Coordinates, longitude, latitude, and right below it, a misshaped turtle shell. "What is this?"

"Well, from the looks of it, another Titan," Stanton said. That got her attention. Going over the shape again, she met his worried gaze. "Here?" He nodded. "In the States?"

"Yeah, and it's moving fast toward us," Stanton said. "One guess why."

"Dianoia," Ilene breathed. "Does Mark know about this?"

"I sent him a message about it," Stanton said. "I can just hear Stenz plotting our demise."

That went without saying. "Hey." Ilene looked away from the chicken scratch on the paper. Stanton gestured hesitantly toward her. "How'd your exam thing go?"

"The Morgans think Dianoia may have formed a psychic connection with me and Mark," Ilene explained.

"Because of the direct infection?"

"Yeah," she nodded. Stanton sucked his teeth, mind likely coming to the same conclusions as she was. "The why or what for? I think we can assume it's escaping."

"G-Man picked a hell of a time to go AWOL," he said.

"I'm not sure he would've made a difference," Ilene said. "There's so much we still don't know, could know."

"Well, some things are best left unknown, if you get me," Stanton cautioned.

"I meant about the infection, Rick." Ilene rolled her eyes. "Madison—she told me Mark is deteriorating. We need to know why, especially since I'm not experiencing all the same symptoms."

"Sure," he shrugged. "But our problem right now is time. We don't have time to figure that out or stop it from getting worse. And, I don't know about you, but I don't wanna be in the middle if a fight's a-brewing."

Ilene considered his words, arms crossed.

"I'm heading to Mark's room. Care to join me?"

Ilene started forward, then paused, eyes on the door. Stanton gestured to the door, "C'mon. I doubt it'll hurt us any more than it has." Ilene stared for a moment. Stanton stood with the door open, waving her over.

Sometimes, Ilene wondered how she and Stanton existed in the same space without fighting all the time. The man enjoyed getting a rise out of people and barely flinched when someone gave as good as they got. Part of her wondered if Houston Brooks' outlook on their job had anything to do with that.

Most of the disasters that Monarch experienced didn't roll off his back, but he handled it with a lot more grace than most. Ling spent considerable time with Stanton before they met, but she rarely had anything negative to say about him. If anything, she treated him like an annoying older brother.

Ilene followed him, eyes watching the security camera tracking her movement. Stanton winked at her and moved down the hall toward Mark's room. Ilene cast a concerned glance into the isolation rooms next to her. Most researchers were sleeping, staring at the walls, or out of sight. She wanted to ask them about their symptoms and see if they differed from hers and Mark's, but—

"Ilene! Hi!" Ilene stepped back to the door she had just passed. A woman with graying hair wrapped in a bun stood on her tip-toes to be seen in the smudged window. Mrs. Verlaine. She was only a little older than her mother. Her hand was wrapped in gauze, fingers pressed together underneath it. "Mrs. Verlaine," Ilene greeted. "How are you?"

"Oh, well, I could be better, but what's a minor burn on the hand to whatever that Titan's doing?" Mrs. Verlaine smiled uneasily. "Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm all right, thank you, Mrs. Verlaine," Ilene said. "We'll have this sorted out soon, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, dear," The way she said it stopped her breath, "But I appreciate the sentiment." Tapping the window, Mrs. Verlaine stepped away from the door and moved back toward her bed.

Stanton slid the dongle against the data reader. The light switched from blue to green. He pushed against the slow-opening door, barely getting it to crack open even faster. When it was open enough to slip through, Ilene went first. Mark sat on the bed with his back to the wall, half-sleep, legs crossed. Madison lay next to him, her head resting on his thigh and her arms protecting her middle. Poor girl had worried herself into exhaustion.

Mark looked worse in person. His skin looked sallow, the bruises and veins standing out against his complexion. Meeting her eyes, he offered a wane smile in greeting. His fingers carded through Madison's hair, never losing its pace as he tried to sit upright. Stanton appeared to take stock of the environment and whispered, "Hey, bad news."

Ilene slapped his arm. It was a reflex at this point. Stanton shoved her at her shoulder, genuinely annoyed.

"I would expect nothing else," Mark sighed. Uncrossing his legs, he smoothed Madison's hair away from her face. "Sweetheart, wake up."

Madison whined, turning her back to Ilene and Stanton, burying her face in Mark's hoodie. "Maddie, Ilene, and Stanton are here." She looked up at her father with one eye, then glanced over her shoulder. "Can I pretend they're not here?"

"Rude," Rick muttered.

"Afraid not," Mark smiled, rubbing her shoulder. "Up and at 'em." Madison stilled for a moment, hiding her face again. Mark kept moving his hand in gentle circles on her shoulder. Finally, she pushed herself upright, stretching her arms over her head. She eyed Ilene and Rick warily. Ilene could easily see that the teen wasn't completely awake.

"What are you guys doing here?" Madison asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing more wrong than usual, kid," Stanton said, raising an eyebrow. He pretended to think about something at her glare, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, Coleman wanted me to tell you he's got your brother on the radio."

Ilene tried to smother the surprise that jolted through her as Madison's expression brightened. If you knew Stanton, a lie was easy to spot. Madison, whether because of half-awareness or exhaustion, didn't pick up on it. Mark seemed to try to suss out the truth of his words as his daughter turned to beam at him, already moving toward the edge of the bed. "When?" She asked hurriedly.

"When I got down here, it'd just been five minutes ago," Stanton gestured to the door. "He might still jabbering the kid's ear off."

"He called?"

"No, he used the radio," Stanton said. "Probably just a fluke he got through, but our two ways are still working, so…"

Energized, Madison climbed off the bed and headed toward the door.

"Madison," Mark pushed himself toward the edge of the bed. As Madison hurried over, Mark pulled the photograph of Emma from under the pillow. Pointing down at the bag, he said, "I need you to get that to Coleman."

"What for?" Madison squinted.

Mark rolled his eyes. "He wanted to see my written notes about Dianoia. For the archives." Madison looked at the bag, then the photograph in his hand. Ilene watched the picture pass from father to daughter. Madison studied the picture, unconsciously grabbing the strap of the bag. Hoisting it on her shoulder, Madison folded the picture—pointedly ignoring the grimace on Mark's face—and placed it in her pocket.

Stanton followed her to the door, raising his dongle. "I've got one." Madison fished the dongle out of her hoodie pocket. Swiping the security pad, she pulled against the slow-moving mechanisms on the door. Turning, she eyed her father warily as she stepped backward across the threshold. "I'll be back," she said.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Mark waved. Then she was gone, running down the hall. Stanton watched her go, every ache and crick in his bones and muscles crying out in envy. He missed being able to run that fast.

"Are you alright?" He heard Ilene ask. He pretended not to watch the reflection of his friend fussing over Monarch's resident grouch. Mark pushed himself toward the edge of the bed, his expression—if it were possible—brightening when Ilene sat next to him. "I'm okay, thank you, Ilene." His hand lay open on his lap. Ilene took hold, fingers intertwining with his. "How are you?"

"Okay," Stanton interjected, clapping his hands together. "We got problems."

"So, you said," Mark stared over Ilene's head. "What's going on, Stanton?"

"Have you read your email?"

"No, I was busy with Madison," he said.

"There's another Titan on the way," Stanton said. "Coming straight for us."

"What? From where?" If he could've, Stanton was sure Mark would've started pacing. As it was, he looked ready to keel over, and Stanton wasn't eager to spend any more time in isolation than he was right now.

"Around Georgia, thereabouts."

"I've got family in Georgia," Mark blurted. At their stares, he waved them off. "What's been the response so far?"

"Well, I couldn't tell you what the response in Georgia is like, but considering its size, I doubt it's being ignored."

"How are we reacting to it, then?" Ilene asked.

"I let security know what was going on," Stanton assured. "Evacuation is done, but there's still people hoofing it."

"How long before it gets here?"

"Maybe the end of the day or tomorrow," Stanton said. "Either way…"

"It's gonna be a mess," Mark sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "All right. I think the rest of the uninfected personnel should get going."

"What, leave?" Ilene turned to him.

Mark nodded. "There isn't much they can do here," he said. "Obviously, we need to stick to quarantine protocols, but they can't be here whenever Dianoia or the other Big Guy sets things off."

"And the rest of us?" Stanton queried. "You're really staying behind?"

Mark said nothing.

"Y'know, altruistic as it feels, that's a permanent solution to a temporary issue."

The muscle under his right eye twitched. "Well, I can't stop you, Stanton," he said. "Between the three of us, you might actually be in the clear."

"I agree with Stanton, Mark," Ilene said. "I understand the need for caution. But staying behind might cause more problems than it solves."

"How so?"

"Well, test subjects for one," Stanton interjected. "A viable way to create a vaccine."

Mark understood but didn't see the point of playing roulette with people's lives any more than they were.

"And unlike a few years ago, we have funding for quarantine measures. Masks, isolation rooms, tracing, monitoring systems. The works," Ilene added. "We needn't condemn people to death over exposures."

Touché, Miss Chen.

"I've been making backups of everything we've been working on, moving it to emergency black boxes," Stanton shifted. If anything of the building survived, he hoped it was the servers. "Bloom will probably want to save the actual samples, though."

"If that's possible. If not," Mark frowned. "Drag her out of here. She's worth more to Monarch alive than dead. Y'know, if you're going through with leaving."

"Ditto for the director," Stanton agreed.

"How's that?"

It was a question, but not necessarily how he meant it. Stanton learned a long time ago it was just something Mark said for lack of saying anything meaningful. "Well, you've got two underage kids."

"I've got that covered, Stanton."

"I mean, are you sure? Rather not have to deal with angsty teens crying their eyes out because their father abandoned them."

"Rick!" Ilene cried.

"I'm not abandoning them," Mark snapped.

"Eh," Stanton shrugged. "I went to school with guys like you, Russell. Dated a few, even. You say that, but you'd do it in a heartbeat if you thought it was best for everyone." Stanton stared him down. "And what you think is best usually has nasty consequences. Like a certain someone joining forces with that Jonah guy."

"How the hell was that my fault?" Mark stood up that time. Ilene followed, stepping in front of him. He shot them the iciest glare he'd ever seen on the man, like, ever. Ilene stepped away from him.

"You guys, we don't have time for this," she said.

"Oh, I think now's a good time," Mark glared over her shoulder at Stanton. "Where the hell do you get off?"

Stanton raised his hands in faux surrender. "I'm not saying it was, but Emma … she clearly felt responsible," he said. "Why else would she do it?"

"Because that's what Emma does—did!" Mark countered. "If she thinks she's right, she'll do whatever the hell she wants. I had nothing to do with it."

"Lady almost loses two halves of her family, and you figure—what? She wouldn't turn to someone else to stop that from happening again?"

"If Emma cared so much, she wouldn't've tried to bury me in Antarctica!" He cried. "Not that you would know, sitting cozy up in the Argo."

"That's not my point."

"I don't care what your point is, Stanton! You're out of line!"

"Mark, Rick–!" Ilene looked between the two of them. They ignored her, entirely focused on each other.

"That's my point," Stanton pointed. "You hear something you disagree with, and you block it out. Your daughter saved your life, even after you ignored her, and you wanna tell me she wouldn't turn her back on you if she thought she didn't have to?"

"Madison wouldn't–" Mark stopped, arm jerking when Ilene squeezed his hand a little too hard. "She's not—she's not me, and she's not Emma. She wouldn't."

"Yeah, we all thought that about Emma," Stanton said. "Look, I'm not trying to be a complete asshole, but actions have consequences. You Russell folk are well-meaning people, but you have the worst discernment of anyone I've worked with."

"Meaning what?"

"We're all here to work together, Mark. This is a collective thing, not a one-man army. I'm saying, don't be a hero. It just creates problems for everyone." And he would really, really, really love to get through the next fiscal year without a rerun of last year's apocalypse.

"I'm not trying to be a hero," Mark said. "I'm trying to keep things from escalating."

The only reason Mark had gotten no closer was because of Ilene. Men like Mark had also knocked around Stanton for most of his youth. He wasn't too concerned about getting a black eye, especially since the director's second wind was fading fast.

"Then I think you should've listened to your daughter," Stanton said. "That was your choice. Going down there escalated things."

"Look, I can see how, now, it probably wasn't a great idea," Mark conceded. "But it was one of those situations where—I couldn't predict what would happen. I didn't have a choice."

"You could've tested it outside of the enclosure, right?" Stanton said.

"No—maybe," Mark grimaced. "I needed to be sure it was going to work. And we needed to find out what happened to Jerkins and the other team. I couldn't take the chance of leaving them down there."

"I realize that, but you're absolutely sure of that?" Stanton said.

"Of course not—look, where are you going with this?"

Aside from questioning your engineering skills? He looked at Ilene, then back to Mark. "That maybe you aren't in your right mind."

Mark's mouth snapped shut, the ready-made response dying in his throat. "I'm not what?"

"I said, I don't think you're in your right mind," Stanton repeated. "As in, under the influence."

Mark seemed to freeze. *"What the hell is even that? I haven't touched a drink in a year!" Mark pushed against Ilene as a sort of delayed dawning crossed Stanton's expression. He was about ready to punch the twerp back into the next —

A hand landed square against his chest and shoved. He stumbled back, landing on the edge of the bed with an undignified yelp. Ilene stared him down, hand firmly on his shoulder. "Don't move," she said, and still he remained.

Ilene pointed a manicured finger at her colleague, cheeks red with irritation. "Please stop making things worse," she said. "Give me the keyfob." Stanton tossed the security device to her without argument, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "Hey, I'll work on my messaging. But don't shoot the messenger."

"Just get everyone ready to leave, Rick," Ilene said testily.

"Yes, ma'am," Stanton faux saluted and headed toward the door. Ilene was throwing the keyfob back before he could plan a sentence. Opening the door, Stanton chucked the keyfob back to Ilene. "For the record, I wasn't accusing you of wagon jumping, Russell."

"Shut up, Rick," Mark snapped. Stanton slipped through the door, pulling it shut behind him. Ilene allowed the silence to linger between them, largely for her own sake. Panic clawed at her throat, her heart pounding like a drum. The knot in her stomach tightened, choking back any words she might have had.

"Ilene…"

"Just–" Ilene raised her hand for silence. "Be quiet." Mark was still under the hand resting on his shoulder. The irritating buzz of the overhead lights filled the room, followed by the dull throb of his headache. Staring at the wall across from him, he counted the blemishes of red matter inching up the wall.

"Mark." He jolted, looking to the right of him. Ilene sat beside him, tired eyes watching him.

"What?" He started, "What was that about?"

"He's worried," Ilene said.

"He picked a hell of a time to be worried," Mark glared. "Do you feel the same way?"

"I agree we might've acted hastily, yes," she said.

"Oh, wonderful," he hid his face behind his hands. Ilene's hand moved across his back in a pattern similar to how he'd done with Madison. His pride bristled. Sitting up, he propped his elbows on his thighs. Chin resting on the intertwined fingers, he asked, "I thought we were on all the same page. Did I miss something?"

"No. I can only speak for myself, but I think we're all working under duress," Ilene explained. "We were worried about the researchers, so we withheld criticisms." As he prepared to argue, she lay a hand on his arm. "We need to work on our communication. That much is clear. This isn't necessarily new, but Serizawa was always with us. He always seemed to have the answers."

"Great." Mark sighed. "Now I'm competing against my mentor."

"Not competing, Mark," Ilene said. "It's just a different dynamic, and you've been away from us for a long time. Stanton, Coleman—they still see you as a visitor."

"But I'm not 'just visiting,' Ilene," he pushed. "I'm here. I want to stay and help."

"Then you just have to show them that," she said. "You already are."

She watched him stare off at the wall again. "We need to talk about what happened in the enclosure," Ilene said. "To Jerkins and the excavators, you."

"What happened to me?" Mark was incredulous.

"When you asked if you left the deck, what did you see?"

Mark kept staring ahead, eyes moving at what she believed was his processing. He said nothing for a while, then, "Someone was outside the enclosure. I thought there was, but I didn't go anywhere, so—"

"Mark," Ilene admonished. "What else did you see?"

"What does it matter?" He tried to withdraw. She pressed the issue. "It matters because of what we saw happen with the other team. Because it happened to you."

The tick in his jaw was hard to miss. He turned to face her, anger simmering to a cool but visible in his brown eyes. "Madison told me you might've said something about Dianoia's abilities."

"I did," she said, chin lifting. "She deserved to know. You know she did. Now…" she nudged him, not unkindly, but just enough to let him know she meant business. "What did you see?"

"I saw my wife," he said. "It wasn't Jerkins or any of the others. It was Emma." When she said nothing, he continued. "She wanted me to follow her."

"Did you?"

"Yes," Mark said. "I thought — I tried to stop her from entering the enclosure. But something changed. I was underwater." Ilene listened to him recount the tale, expression drawn with pain. Of pulsing lights, phantoms dragging him into the dark, tearing him apart as they collapsed onto themselves. If he editorialized details, she prayed it wasn't necessary. "I felt what they felt," he whispered. "Their last moments were just … an overwhelming fear—but it wasn't all from them. It was the Titan, too."

"You think it's afraid?"

"Maybe," Mark said. "I think it doesn't know what's going on."

Ilene's fingers smoothed through Mark's hair. He jolted, freezing her motion in mid-caress. It was damp and brittle. A strange contrast to the low fever rolling off his body.

"What's this about?" He asked.

"Force of habit." Ilene's fingers completed the arc through his hair. He didn't move as they slipped to the nape of his neck. A little thrill moved through her when he leaned into her touch, somewhat relaxed.

"So, why does Stanton think I'm drinking?"

"Not drinking," Ilene corrected. "Dianoia used Jerkins and the excavation team to escape."

"We were in the same meeting room, Ilene. I saw it, same as Stanton," Mark said. "So, what does he think I don't understand?"

"This connection we have with Dianoia," she said. "If it can do that to people it never infected, then it stands to reason–"

"It'll do the same with us," Mark finished. "And, what? We're easier to control because we're sick?"

"I think so," Ilene said.

"And you think my daughter needed to know that?"

"Yes."

"She—worries too much. About this, about me," he shook his head. "She's just a kid. I need her to be a kid, Ilene."

"Andrew and Madison are children, Mark. But what they're not is ignorant. They're part of a generation of children who've seen the same things we have. They need to be prepared," Ilene said. "G-Day—it changed things. You can't keep trying to hide them from the world."

"I'm trying to protect them," he said. "This shouldn't be—this isn't their war."

"This isn't a war. At least, *not one we could wage any better than an ant could wage war with humans," Ilene corrected. "Meet them where they are, Mark. Madison, at least, is ready for Monarch. Why can't you be?"

Every day Ilene was away from her girls, they changed. Learned, and became different people. In her absence, her children were growing. But where Ilene maintained a connection, Mark hadn't. He was stuck in the past, still catching up with the rest of the world. Understandably, Andrew and Madison were still kids to him, not on the verge of young adulthood.

"What kind of father would I be if I let them into Monarch?" He sniffed. "Just let them run head first into situations like this? It's not right, Ilene."

"Yet, it's already happened," Ilene observed.

"Madison was … I almost lost her on Skull Island," Mark exhaled. "Year barely even started, and she almost died again because I let her follow me." His voice strained, wavering toward the end. "Andrew … he looked at me like he couldn't believe I let it happen." A shaky laugh followed another sharp intake. "Then this happens. And you're—you're asking me why I'm not ready for them to be here?"

Ilene tried to smile. "I understand why you're afraid, Mark. I appreciate what you're saying to me, honestly. But now, I don't think you can dissuade them. They want to help you, but you have to compromise somewhere."

"I don't think I can."

Ilene thought of watching Madison go from a worrisome seven-year-old to a self-possessed teen. She watched Andrew go from a frail, withdrawn boy to a young man preoccupied with his own world. Mark gave up that opportunity. His eternal image of them, the one he could recall, was informed by absenteeism. He would either learn to accept who they were now or live with an idea of them that was no longer a good fit.

The curls of hair at the nape of his neck swirled between her fingers. Except for his bangs, it was grayer than the rest of his hair. She'd only seen slivers of silver in her hair, usually mistook them for dandruff. "Have you thought about how they feel?"

"How'd you mean?"

"How they feel about you, their only living parent, in this line of work," Ilene clarified.

Mark shrugged dismissively. "They're probably worried," He answered. "But it's–"

"It's not different," Ilene interrupted. "Ling and I knew our mother and aunt could face the same dangers we face now. It terrified me as a child."

"Yeah, but their chances were low," he said. "It's not like with us."

"No, it's not," Ilene said. "Which means Andrew and Madison have more to worry about, don't they?"

Mark stopped short of a response, bowing his head. Ilene ran the tips of her fingers down his arm. "If I were to die, it'd be … I don't wanna say normal but—"

"It's what you mean, though, isn't it?" Ilene challenged.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I'm not supposed to outlive them. I'm here to protect them, make sure they get where they need to go. *The rest is … confetti."

"Is that all you see yourself as?" she asked. "A means to an end?"

"Now?" He bobbed his head. "Before, maybe not. Before it … it seemed worth it to be more."

Ilene considered the moment, what she could say next. What was there to say to such a despair?

The Chen family was not matriarchal like the Muso of Yunnan's Lake Lugu. But it seemed to go without saying that, because of their lineage, her mother's position as head of the family was incredibly important. Especially after the passing of her father, Andy. Maggie Chen was never isolated from her greater family unit, and so whatever hardships she experienced raising her and Ilene, it was never alone.

Ilene admired that Emma's kids didn't slide into the same turmoil as Serizawa and Randa's sons. That all the while, she fought to keep some sense of normalcy while she had it out with Mark. Mark ran from problems, communicated worse when he didn't want to listen. He seemed aware of all of that now, but not prepared to take accountability for it.

Serizawa, she remembered, used to pity what had become of his 'student'. "A man frightened of his own weakness." Ilene never quite understood the sentiment until his funeral. Ren watching Mark mourn his father. The two men regarded the late Serizawa in extremes; a father who saw in him similar failures, and a son alone in his resentment, not unlike the kind she'd seen in Andrew. Ren disappeared shortly after the wake. Ilene never got the chance to speak with him.

"Do you remember *Elias?"

"Doc Adwan?" At her nod, he said, "Yeah. Good guy. Mythologist, like you, right?"

"Topographer, actually," Ilene said. "We met on Infant Island during college. An anti-logging protest, actually."

"Infant Island has colleges?"

Ilene often forgot that people saw Infant Island as terra nullius. "A land without a people", for the taking, not a thriving ecosystem with its own indigenous peoples and culture. Years of Japanese colonization, historic revisionism pushed by Western academics, didn't help matters.

Modernity, spurred on by Japanese occupation, eventually gave way to aggressive logging campaigns in the 1950s. It decimated most of the protected lands and only ceased in 2006 following a hard-fought battle for independence. The Kosumosu (named "Infant Islanders" by colonizers), her ancestors, were still doing all they could to repair the damage wrought by man.

"Yes, and stores, among other 'civilized' iconography," Ilene sighed. "Wei-Wei and Faye were born on the island. It should've been a happy moment, but I was terrified of everything."

"That's normal." Mark tried for a smile, nudging her. "First-time parent jitters."

"No," Ilene shook her head. "It felt like more than that. On the island, I had nightmares. Felt everything I'd ever done for Monarch—it put them at risk." Mark's hand rest on top of hers, squeezing. "Elias, he told me I was overreacting, that it was just postpartum depression. Just nightmares."

"But you didn't think so."

"No," Ilene said. "There weren't any dreams to speak of. I woke up every day, convinced I would watch my family disappear. I couldn't do anything to stop it. I was convinced it was the mountains outside the city limits."

"The mountains?"

"The Elias' triangle. My husband's namesake, if you can believe it. Most of the land beyond the mountain is untouched."

"Any reason?"

"Luck. The Kosumosu were able to declare the land protected, but there had been several deaths before as well. According to legend, a malevolent beast fell from the stars and would try to devour the people of the island. After a fierce battle, the two priestesses of Mothra sealed the monster within the mountains."

"Sounds familiar," he said wryly.

"History doesn't repeat, but it rhymes," Ilene sing-songed. "To disturb the mountains is to invite the return of the Star Beast is how many of us were warned against visiting it. Not all of us felt that way, however. Elias wanted to establish a permitter around the base of the mountain. Monarch believed the radiation readings they were picking up were cause for concern."

"When was this?"

"The girls were born January 22nd of '16, so, February," Ilene clarified. "I asked him to come with me to Yunnan, just until their next birthday. But he couldn't leave—or didn't want to leave. It was important. Evidence that would show us if there was a Titan beneath the mountains." Tears stung her eyes as she tried to blink them away. "I wish I had been more insistent."

The cave-in, they told her, was what triggered the Titan's awakening. Elias and a few other researchers got caught in loose bedrock when the collapse started. There had been nothing and no one to save following the Titan's escape. Burrowing out of the heart of the mountain, it took to the air, seemingly docile. No one had seen anything quite like it. Its body was almost entirely stone-esque in its appearance, yet it glided with the grace of an eagle. Ilene remembered watching the news, thinking it resembled a dragon from a fairytale.

Ling thought it looked like an Alitta virens, and was given the unfortunate honor of naming the Titan.

Alitta's "wings" (which might've been its legs) were flat and of varying size proportionate to its body. It drifted around the island on currents that shouldn't have been strong enough to carry it, eventually burrowing back into the Earth. It repeated the pattern over and over, never leaving the perimeter of the collapsing mountain. There had been no way to reach Elias and the other researchers. The authorities weren't willing to risk provoking the Titan, and so it was allowed to drift. Drift, and drift until it returned to the base of the mountain, where it remained with the victims it claimed that day.

"I couldn't stop what happened with Elias," Ilene whispered, hand sliding down her forearm. "But I blamed myself all the same. I couldn't look after my children, not properly. I thought—I couldn't—I didn't see the point without him." Mark studied her bloodshot eye and the bruising around her cheek.

He didn't feign ignorance. "But you found one." Mark straightened. "You're still here."

Ilene moved closer, leaving no space between them. Her fingers twined with his, squeezing. "Eventually," she said. "The girls, they've only known Juma. And…" She sighed. "It's been hard to talk about Elias. But I do, because they deserve to know him, even if it's only through other people."

"Emma's death wasn't an accident," Mark said. "I know they blame me for how things turned out between us."

"But Andrew and Madison need all of you, Mark," Ilene said. "Not just the parts you think are important."

Mark frowned, swallowing against the knot in his throat.

All, and not some. Sound advice that, unfortunately, that couldn't scale the indifference of his inner voice. There were things Mark knew he could do for his children beyond the bare minimum. Be present, be engaged in their lives, maybe not act like an aggressive mother hen. It wasn't the first time Mark came to that conclusion.

The problem was wanting to do more than what was enough. Kicking the bottle was climbing Mount Everest. Not easily achieved when he lived with the same stressors. Emma's death sent him tumbling down the sheer cliff-side. He made a fool of himself at her memorial and fought with her biddy of a mother among friends and family, most of whom didn't like him. None of that embarrassed him. He'd been preoccupied with feeling justified. It'd been how the kids looked at him the morning after. The fear and anger, disappointment. That got him to kick the habit, actually got him to stay an AA consistently.

He still wanted to drink, but judgment stayed his hand … for the time being.

That kind of willpower was harder to achieve with wanting to be present for himself. External to himself, the obligation to Serizawa's mission and the kids kept him in perfunctory motion. Get up, eat, go to work, sleep. The process of living wasn't so much hard as it was tedious, more so if he thought about the process. Blips of happiness, life, flickered like fire in the rain. As a kid, he wondered what it would be like to live as a wolf. Wolves invoked that fire just long enough to make him envy the simplicity of their lives.

Mark didn't want to be reminded to be there for himself—didn't want to be at all. None of that seemed possible, and it made him angrier, more withdrawn. Knowing what he felt, knowing that he couldn't backtrack his way into death.

He stared down at his hands, the callouses and splits in his palm made themselves known every time he rubbed his hands together. It didn't last; Ilene separated his hands, holding his right in what might've been a supportive gesture.

He'd known Ilene since he joined Monarch. The thing he appreciated about her was the willingness to meet him where he was, no matter when they met again. She'd been as wary of Mark after San Francisco as everyone else; it was less a condemnation from her, and more of an understanding of why things happened. She never excused him.

Visiting her family in Palestine was an almost happiness, a fleeting moment in a world of personal despair. He hadn't considered her romantically in his thirties; it seemed unlikely he would develop feelings for her now, at almost fifty. He certainly hadn't planned on swimming down the river of same-sex denial again.

But there he was, at the most inopportune time, wondering if they could happen. The timing of their conversation told him it was probably unwise to pursue the idea any more than he had. It didn't so much clarify his feelings for her and Juma as muddy them. Left him uncertain about everything else.

"Ilene, I don't know that I can make any of this right," he leaned against the hand on his neck. "You said it yourself. Serizawa had all the answers. He wouldn't've let this happen."

"Mark, Ghidorah happened on Serizawa's watch," she reminded. "Titans will never be an outcome we can control. We have to accept that there's only so much we can do to protect them, and ourselves, from these circumstances."

"Do we?" he challenged.

"Yes," Ilene nodded. There wasn't a hint of ridicule in her tone.

"Yeah, well, let me tell you something." He wasn't trying to be angry, not with Ilene, but the slide of the conversation was pulling toward that black pit. "I was taught you protect people. You don't let them get hurt. You don't lie to them and tell them nothing will happen." He swallowed against the pain burning in his chest. "He doesn't let his family … he doesn't…"

"Mark," her voice was firm. "You cannot control who gets hurts, or who doesn't. Your children aren't helpless, and this situation is not only your responsibility."

Mark stared as though he'd been slapped.

Ilene stood and paced. She wasn't inclined to comfort crying men upset by harsh truths. Monarch's history was marred by intergenerational chauvinism, fractured along nationalistic lines. From a young age, watching the men in the Chen family rise from or fall victim to national superiority complexes was the norm.

"I'm not–I never said…"

"You didn't have to," she interrupted.

Despite good intentions, Mark's belief that only he was responsible, that every issue they were facing was an individual failing versus collective, and simply not the turn of the world, was self-centeredness.

Prior to the events that brought them back together, Mark couldn't—or wouldn't—answer the call-to-action Monarch or his family asked of him. In the few times she saw him before Palestine, he reeked of pain, contempt and self-pity. And yet, it was that same self-interest, his estranged family, that brought him back to Monarch. However reluctant he was, Mark worked with them, helped when he could've withdrawn into self-defeat and unchecked anger.

Just like he was doing right now.

"Sorry," Mark apologized after a moment.

"I know," she assured. "This isn't easy."

"Yeah, no kidding," Uneasy laughter bubbled up between them. "Some leader, huh?"

"I trust you," Ilene said, her tone exasperated. "We need you to trust us. That we'll sort this out as best we can." Approaching him, Ilene reached for his hand. "Okay?" Mark held fast to her as he regained his composure. Shivers moved down his arm through hers.

"Right, okay," he nodded. "Okay."

She tugged on his hands. Looking up, Mark sat a little straighter. He let her hands go, dragging his palms across his thighs. Ilene cradled his face, the move slow and intentional. Mark's eyes shifted slowly to her hands, then back to her face.

Ilene's expression communicated familiar determination, one he remembered and welcomed years ago. "Okay," he repeated. Leaning down, she kissed him, slow and steady.

(END: 9 hours 59 minutes 59 seconds)

Author's Note (2/24/25—3/2/2025):

(1) This last chapter is, again, extremely long and split into two. The following chapter will just be the rest of this chapter ("Push Your Head Towards the Air"), and the last two chapters ("An End Has a Start (II)" and "Well Worn Hand") will deal with where we left Madison in part one, and the finale... which is full of Titan battles, which is why it's taking so long to finish.

(2) When I started writing this story, I genuinely wasn't gonna make Ilene/Mark (Marlene) a thing. I love the idea of the romantic relationship (that's where my mind jumped when she grabbed his hand and the KOTM novelization expanded on that scene), but I also really enjoyed their relationship as it was. A friendship developing between strangers (I forgot Mark didn't know anyone except Serizawa and Graham). Ultimately, it was one of those things that altered the longer I worked on this and rewrote things.

(3) Andrew was originally not a character who was going to appear beyond a few mentions. He was a prompt to jumpstart the what if aspect of the story, but the longer I worked on this, the more of an opportunity I gave myself to actually work on making the character more than just someone referenced. I ended up writing a side story centered on him about San Francisco (all on paper), which helped with his characterization. He's been fun to write for, especially playing against Ling, who is far more trusting of him than Mark is with Madison, but extends to how Mark believes his son hasn't been compromised by Emma.

Thank You:

(1) I wanna thank dragonzair sticking with this story even after I removed it from AO3. I don't wanna get a big head about it, but your reviews have been something I've always looked forward to reading.

References/Commentary:

(1) When I started writing A Start/An End, it was supposed to take place in 2021. It's technically set after an AU version of GVK. Unfortunately, I didn't take Madison's age into account (she was fifteen in GVK and twelve in KOTM) and reedited. So the ORCA ended getting conceptualized in late 2019. The GVK (AU) happened January 2020, and A Start/An End occurs in mid-February 20th-21, 2021 after Mark's birthday (Feb 18th). The characters, unfortunately, end up jumping from one disaster to another.

(2) A lot of the lengthy back-and-forth between Ilene, Mark, and Madison were inspired by the second season of Interview with the Vampire (s2). Claudia and Louis' relationship was daughter/father is damaged and sort've frozen between this ghost of the morally dubious Lestat (father/lover) who harmed them personally. Ilene and Mark, and Emma's other relationships happen in the dubious gray area of a divorce, one that Emma was attempting to halt. Mark has some guilt about that, while Madison doesn't see her mother involved with other people as 'wrong' like she does with her father (who has to atone for leaving them). Mark, Ilene, and Emma are all queer. But where Emma and Ilene are living it, Mark has never really given himself the opportunity (and now he's older, and has certain ideas about expiration dates on sexuality). And because of that reluctance, Ilene, and her partner, Juma, have spent long enough thinking about their would-be relationship to know, in the words of the Vampire Armond, "I want you more than anything in the world."

(3) An example of a Moderate Democrat (i.e., most of the democratic party itself) is Nancy Pelosi, Joe Biden, Chuck Schumer, and Barak Obama. As a conservative party, Democrats are theatrically progressive, or progressive in ways that don't shake the status quo. Madison, as a result, as has a certain idea about her father, ideas that Ilene doesn't disagree with.

(4) Resident Evil 2 was also something I was playing as I wrote this, so just for the hell of it, I used the computerized evacuation dialog.

(5) The Rebirth of Mothra trilogy might be my favorite Godzilla adjacent franchise, particularly because it actualizes Mothra's reincarnation cycle in a fashion that runs more familial than with the idea it's the same Mothra returning. I like to think the Mothra that died was the 'sister' and the Mothra, born after, is the 'brother' she left behind because he was a late bloomer. The Mothra who helps Jia in GXK is from an older family of Mothra that never left the Hollow Earth.

(6) A lot of the politics featured in the story result from current events and my preoccupation with the politics of the post WW2-era (that led to US Global Hegemony). Namely, the establishment of Western organizations like the United Nations, International Criminal Court, International Court of Justice. It's splitting hairs, but Monarch as a solely US-based creation bothered me, so I just changed a few things. Namely, the naming convention of the Argo. Instead of the USS Argo, it's just UNS Argo.

(7) Madison's friend is nonbinary (they/them). I never got as far as giving them a name. But the gist of it is, she got the story from the horse's mouth and not a 'friend-of-a-friend'.

(8) The Regular Show was one of those Cartoon Network serials I watched and unironically enjoyed (like The Amazing World of Gumball). I knew a lot of kids who loved it to pieces.

(9) A reference to a Spander (Xander/Spike, BTVS) fic called 143 (by C. Woodhaven). A secret code that means "I love you", which seems like an emotionally constipated thing to do as a man trying to romance a man or woman without committing to the bit.

(10) Mayumi Nagamine is the protagonist of Gamera: Guardian of the Universe and Gamera 3: Revenge of Iris. I'm not a Monsterverse fan who thinks Gamera should be part of the Legendary canon, but sometimes, I have to remind myself fanfiction is not a reflection of reality and to play with an idea.

(11) A fudged version of the Zora Neale Hurston quote ("There are years that ask questions and years that answer") from Their Eyes Were Watching God.

(12) August 2002, President George Bush Jr. signed the "Hauge Invasion" act. As one of the countries who refused to sign the Rome Statute, in the event of the US military persons being prosecuted for war crimes (we have a list of those) by the IIC (International Criminal Court), they would invade Holland to prevent the prosecution. In this story, the UN security council has over five members, and drives most of the antagonism regarding the fate of the Titans.

(13) There are certain ideas in Monarch: Legacy of Monsters that I'm not crazy about. I wouldn't even say this is my favorite Monsterverse media (it's below Skull Island, but above GVK and GXK), but I appreciated that someone backtracked enough in the story to ask, "Uh, why wasn't there a defense plan if one of the Titan's got loose?" And I'm glad Lee Shaw was the one to say it. But, after GVK, it's hard to shake the feeling that, um, the writers (Michael Dougherty) aren't huge fans of Ishiro Serizawa. His son (Ren) hates him (in a way that never feels justified, narratively), and Shaw's commentary feels like a critique of Serizawa's role in Godzilla '14, if not the film's theme itself.

(14) A reference to the "Daddy Chill" YouTube meme from 2019. It just sounded like something Mark would say in a moment of anger.

(15) H. G. Wells's War of the Worlds is one of my sci-fi novels. Effectively about a white man wondering "what would it feel like to be colonized as we colonized the world?", the question in a fantastic setting works for something like human dealing with the reemergence of giant monsters. I think GVK undoes a lot of character progression Mark achieved in KOTM, but I can also accept that, even if he ceased wanting Godzilla/Titans dead, he would probably always carry some fear/uncertainty about them. Ilene's quote (taken from the Artilleryman character in Wells' novel) feels like a fitting rebuttal from someone who doesn't entertain the idea of, in the words of Walter Simmons, "Human Supremacy" on any level.

(16) The Haunting of Hill House is a series I have mixed feelings about, but "the rest is confetti" is a quote I think about often. But instead of a character making peace with the end of their life and how it was lived, the quote felt fitting for a character dealing with suicidal ideation and the aftermath of a suicide attempt.

(17) Another element taken from Rebirth of Mothra. Ilene's husband's name was originally "Andy" (after actor, Andy Lau, who starred in House of Flying Daggers with Zhang Yiyi) but afterward became Elias (the name of the Shobijin in the trilogy) and her father was named Andy instead. It seemed more fitting for someone born on Infant Island as opposed to simply being a descendant, and it was a way to refer to the film outside of Mothra.