R.B. Ashton
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Bikini Kaiju - Ch 15
🕑 Added 2025-06-02 10:00:03 +0000 UTCIt was over a fortnight before Naomi Cooper felt she’d really come back into her senses, after a blur of hospital beds, panicked doctor meetings, and phone calls with work where, somewhere along the line, she had been put on indefinite leave. Initially so she could recover, but later because Solomon took exception to her continued questioning of what was going on with the Sentinels and Pelican Crystal. He’d told her in definitive terms that she was not to pursue her angle on this: and if she dared go to a different publication, he’d sue her to hell. Yet the story was the one through-line she clung to as she struggled to focus on the day-to-day, faces and food and speech drifting in and out. She had an underlying sense of wrongness out in the world, and a desperate certainty that something more had to be done about Pelican and the kaiju.
But the sway of public opinion was against her. Questioning how far Pelican and their measures could be trusted had already got her frozen out of Stellar Indianapolis and any doctors or nurses she tried to engage in conversation laughed it off or changed the subject. When her parents had called to check on her, they’d told her to stop thinking about silly things and focus on getting better. And in the mess of it all, the hospital machines had kept beeping, leading to tension and arguments amongst the doctors. After the confrontation at the White Fort, which she had almost zero recollection of, Cooper had been discovered to be unconscious in Steel Ruth’s closed fist, having taken some portion of the blast from the perimeter defences that had felled the Sentinel. Ruth must’ve absorbed most of the energy, for Cooper to have survived at all, but while Cooper was recovering, almost back to her old self now, it had given her some unstable residual energy that was messing with electronics around her. It was bad enough that she was kicked out of the hospital before she was sure she was ready, to recover instead at home with only occasional nurse visits.
Her head kept spinning and sounds came and went, sometimes like hearing through a static radio. The lights around her flickered and she couldn’t even watch TV properly, as it occasionally cut out. The internet kept dropping. Side-effects of what she’d been through, the doctors said, not pretending they understood. Some men in suits had come to investigate it all but she’d turned them away as soon as she was able: they were either government or Pelican shills, and she had no interest in helping either. They said they’d be back and she seriously started considering buying a gun.
Through it all, she found a surprising ally in Deacon, a handsome neighbour who lived a few doors down in her apartment building. She had a passing, friendly relationship with him, which had blossomed as he’d seen her being discharged and offered to help her. He was, in fact, about as close as she’d let anyone come in years, being too busy for serious relationships or even friendships with the amount she worked and travelled. Somehow, he found time to nurse her when the rest of the world was abandoning her, and between bringing her meals and fluffing her pillows he relayed news that she couldn’t easily gather from her blinking electronics.
The two big stories that were capturing the world’s attention in Cooper’s second week of recovery, following the calming of the Sheerwolf and San Francisco disaster, were trouble in Yemen and concerns about unrest in The Borough. The latter was a constant on-again off-again topic for the news, the refugee city always an easy pick for stories of crime, illegal immigrant communities and general vice. The latest concerns were mass protests following the Strength Summit, with The Borough becoming a focal point for proposed government reforms. On the face of it, Pelican were suggesting relocation in order to knock down unsafe neighbourhoods, combined with increased law enforcement, but the protesters were refusing to move and instead demanding increased funding for kaiju defences. Things had allegedly got violent, with rioters and looters had emerged under the banner of protest, proving Pelican’s point – but Cooper suspected that was a convenient distraction. Pelican Crystal’s proposals, and the plans being agreed by the world leaders they had corralled, emphasised dismantling refugee cities in favour of funding what they called ‘heritage’ populations, established cities with greater roots and history. Or rather, those with more money. Cooper couldn’t quite focus to properly dig into this, but she was certain the entire enterprise was corrupt, despite the news claiming the proposed changes would benefit everyone.
The other major story of the hour appeared more straightforward: three warring factions in Yemen had escalated their conflict in the shadow of the wider world’s kaiju distractions. The most radical group had forcibly seized the capital city of Sanaa and were facing a siege on two fronts, with US military supplying aid to one side and already threatening more extreme measures. Cooper sensed where this was going before it happened: the news cycle deliberately made the distant war front-page news for a day or two, so that the public was ripe to back a Sentinel intervention.
Deacon was visiting when the news broke of Sweet Sloane flying into Yemen to put an end to the violence. She was tackling this alone, apparently, and they flicked through news channels to quickly learn that while Europe didn’t want to get involved, the US felt Sloane could resolve things herself. Cooper sat on her sofa close to Deacon, thankful that the TV was working for now, so they could watch the live footage of Sloane landing in the dusty plains outside Sanaa. It was a beige but expansive city of blocky buildings that looked like an intricate spread of sandcastles before Sloane, the monolith of her giant thundercraft with its stars-and-stripes paint job forming a suitable backdrop. She was dressed in combat boots, camouflaged hot pants and a khaki bikini bra with military yellow stars for nipples, hair in a ponytail under a military cap. She also had a great, empty khaki sack hanging off her thin belt. A skimpy cosplay of a military uniform more suited to a strip joint than an actual battlefield.
Sloane had landed not on the north side of the city, where the US allies were amassed, but on the south, where the third contingent held a shanty town of militia and armoured vehicles. They started repositioning towards her as she surveyed the landscape with her hands on her hips. Tank cannons and rocket launchers fired at her with no warning, the soldiers evidently decided on her intentions. The first few exploded against her legs, a couple reaching as high as her chest, charring her skin in small patches and tearing little bits of her clothes, before she stepped into the fray. Through spreading smoke and flashes of gun and cannon fire, the giantess stomped into the enemy army, crushing their armour under her boots and sweeping her hands down to scoop up groups of soldiers and vehicles to toss over the plain.
“Haven’t seen anything like this since Serbia when I was a kid,” Deacon commented, in mixed awe and horror at the sight. There were dozens of people squirming between the fingers of the giant woman as she held both hands up before her face, smilingly scolding as though telling off naughty kids. They were utterly helpless, and the thrashing of their limbs made their fear starkly apparent. She released her grip and sent them all falling to the ground.
A commentator on the news whooped and said, “That’s what you get when you cross the Free World. I hope their friends are watching.”
Indeed, it was a warning that most had heeded since the mid-twentieth century, when the Sentinels had made a mockery of most wars. Civil disputes tended to end as soon as one side successfully secured a treaty with the West and their giants. But such conflicts hadn’t happened in Cooper’s lifetime. There had, essentially, been peace. Not enough trouble to warrant this level of intervention, at any rate.
Sloane kicked a tank with a punt that sent it flying up through the sky, to another celebration from the anchor, and Cooper couldn’t help wondering where exactly that was going to land, and who else would be hurt. But the giantess was already moving on, the drone cameras following her from the sky as she bent to grab another handful of people fleeing from tents. They were running now, the poor soldiers – some were firing ineffectively over their shoulders as they went, but most had forgotten their weapons, trying only to get away. Sloane snatched them up indiscriminately, took the bag from her belt and started throwing people in. With the smoke clearing and resistance over she grabbed as many people as she could find, dropping them by the dozen to tumble deep into the bag, to form one writhing bulge. Sloane looked less pristine now, with her skin dirtied and grazed by occasional nicks of gunfire, scant clothing a little torn (but still, Cooper noted, concealing – apparently designed to tear for effect but with a durable under-layer). Seeing her grabbing up more and more people to haul away in a giant sack, Cooper couldn’t help remarking, “She’s like a damn ogre.”
“Collecting an entire army to take back to her cave?” Deacon said, holding in a laugh. Cooper kept her face straight to convey she wasn’t joking, and he got more serious. “You think she’s going to eat them all later?”
Cooper recalled the militia soldiers captured in Alaska, offered up to Washington Fury as a welcome treat. She replied, “Yeah, something like that.”
Soon, the deed was done and an entire prong of this conflict was devastated. Gone but for the smouldering remains of crushed vehicles, tents and prefab buildings. Body parts spread about in the dust at Sloane’s feet, only a very lucky few people left still trying to escape, or twitching on the ground. Sloane held the remnants of a complicated political movement in one hand, high above the ground, in the form of a bulging sack of prisoners. Her teeth shone in a smile as she looked to the city of Sanaa, and she announced, “Now I think I’ve made my point clear, are y’all gonna lay down your arms or make me come in on that pretty little city of yours?”
The fearless, ruthless army who had taken the city, who the world expected to fight to the death, and destroy Sanaa before giving it up, surrendered less than fifteen minutes later, in the form of a Jeep messenger racing outside the city to plead with Sloane. From there, it was a matter of the giantess standing guard while the American-sponsored rightful leaders of Yemen reclaimed Sanaa and disarmed the invaders.
The news provided round-the-clock footage, but the TV flickered again, and went dead, before Cooper and Deacon could see whether the other army would be taken prisoner for due process or summarily snatched away by Sloane.
“Damn,” Cooper grunted, then the light blinked off too. “Ah crap. Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Deacon said, unsurprised and unbothered. He went to check the fuse box. He flicked the switches, but the light didn’t come back on. He returned to the living room with a sigh. “Looks like we need to give it a break.”
Cooper regarded her own hands, what she could see of them in the dark, growling in irritation. Things were developing rapidly and she disliked how the news were framing it, celebrating this violence and Sloane. Hell, just the way they were willing to broadcast that massacre spoke volumes. They were making entertainment out of monstrosities. But here she was, unable to do a damn thing about it. To hell with Solomon, she needed to get back on this story, to resist the greater narrative somehow. Sloane and Pelican were not good people, and the Strength Summit’s corralling of the Bikini Sentinels was not a message of peace.
“You okay there?” Deacon asked, stepping closer as she silently fumed.
Cooper nodded, reaching aside to her laptop. “Yeah. Just something I need to do. I can’t keep idling here. Do you mind…” She trailed off. The laptop wasn’t responding, dead.
“Shit. I can bring you mine,” Deacon said, standing over her.
“Except that won’t fucking work around me either, will it!” Cooper snapped, tossing her computer aside and making him flinch. She caught herself at his reaction, taking a breath. She apologised, “I’m sorry. This is so damn… Frustrating. And the worst of it is that they did this to me. Made me a fucking walking short-circuit, screwed me in ways no one could’ve predicted just to get a point across.”
“I can bring you some paper. A pen.”
“They’re doing shit we don’t even understand!” Cooper went on though, standing. Her vision was blurring again, skin tingling. Dizzy from the ongoing side-effects of that damned jolt. “They’re doing things I bet they don’t even understand! Reviving kaijus, making new monsters, afflicting me!” She threw her hands up, and the room sparked with light again. Lightning arced out of her hands – she screamed as she stepped back, but it burst across the room and latched onto Deacon. He yelled in fear as his bones lit up, body bathed in electric light, and in the next instant the energy snapped off, the room dark again. It left behind a smell of burnt metal – and no Deacon. Cooper stared in horror at the space where he’d been standing. This was beyond imagining now. Had she just evaporated her friend?
“No, no, please,” Cooper stepped into the space where he’d been, waving her hands, flexing her fingers, willing the power to return. She stretched her hands and aimed with intent, bring him back! But nothing happened. She trembled in the dark. This was bad. Beyond bad.
A mild squeaking cut through her, and she frowned, trying to pick out the sound. Erratic, emotional. She looked down and her eyes bulged at the shape in the middle of her carpet – a scorch mark where Deacon had been standing, but it wasn’t empty. A tiny object stood at its centre, moving. Waving its arms.
“Holy shit,” Cooper gasped, crouching towards it. Towards him. She looked at her hands again, then down to her neighbour. Deacon was there, but only a few inches tall, frantically trying to get her attention. Gingerly, she reached towards him, to prod him, checking he was real, and he backed up at the impact, so light, frail.
“Be careful! Please!” his tiny voice squeaked. “Help me, Naomi!”
She stared for a moment more, scarcely able to believe it. Whatever had happened to her at the White Fort, it was evidently worse than anyone had known. Absently, she found herself reaching to her neighbour again, and pinched his left arm between her finger and thumb. He squeaked and attempted to retreat but she easily lifted him up, to dangle before her face. He swayed like a rag doll, crying, “Whoa! Steady! Naomi!”
Despite this weirdness, she smiled. He looked so cute – powerless. Perhaps, she considered, holding up her other palm to drop him into, this was something she could use.
