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January 20, 2025.
Seven days since Sydney. Seven days since Mutavore tore through the so-called "Wall of Life" like it was made of cardboard, proving what everyone in the Jaeger program had known all along—you can't wall out the apocalypse.
The four remaining Jaegers had assembled at the Hong Kong Shatterdome. Gipsy Danger, Crimson Typhoon, Cherno Alpha, and Striker Eureka—humanity's last line of defense, gathered in one place. Which was either strategic brilliance or putting all your eggs in one very destructible basket.
The public was still reeling from Sydney's fall. But the people who actually ran things—the politicians, the generals, the PPDC brass—they were focused on something else entirely. Something the public didn't know about yet.
The Kaiju had stopped coming.
Dr. Gottlieb's calculations had predicted attacks on January 8th and 11th. Certainties, not possibilities. The math was solid, the pattern unbreakable.
Except the breach had stayed silent. No Kaiju. No attacks. Just that ominous glow at the bottom of the Challenger Deep, waiting.
Nobody was stupid enough to think the Precursors had suddenly decided to call off their invasion out of the goodness of their hearts. Which meant they were planning something. Gathering forces. Preparing for something big enough that it required breaking their own attack pattern.
The whole world held its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But today brought different news. After three years of secrecy, three years of consuming resources while giving nothing back, Dr. Aidan Ryan had finally announced that Bay Three was ready. Whatever he'd been building in isolation was complete.
Today, everyone would finally see what their money had bought.
The Kaiju Science Lab occupied the Shatterdome's first sublevel—all harsh fluorescent lighting and the faint smell of formaldehyde that never quite went away. Marshal Pentecost led the delegation, with Mako, Raleigh, and the other pilots trailing behind like an entourage.
But the real audience wasn't in the room.
Multiple screens lined one wall, showing a video conference room where the PPDC leadership sat around a polished table. Every department head, every council member, all watching remotely. The council chairman occupied the center-right position, his expression hovering somewhere between impatient and deeply skeptical.
"Gentlemen, ladies," the chairman's voice crackled through the speakers, "perhaps we could skip ahead to Dr. Ryan's research results? We've been waiting three years. I think we've been patient enough."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the virtual council chamber.
"Yes, I'd very much like to know what justified that budget."
"Three years and complete operational secrecy. This had better be revolutionary."
"The suspense is killing us, Dr. Ryan."
The expectation was palpable, even through the video feeds. They'd come to see the mysterious project from Bay Three, the secret that had consumed millions in funding and one of their best scientific minds.
Instead, they were staring at a partial Kaiju brain floating in a preservation tank.
Aidan crossed the lab floor carrying a hexagonal device that looked like something between a puzzle box and a hard drive. "Before we get to Bay Three, we need intelligence on what we're actually fighting. I need to know whether we're destroying that wormhole or keeping it open."
He said it casually, like he was discussing lunch options.
The room went quiet.
"Wait." Pentecost's eyes narrowed. "You want to keep the breach open? Why would we—" Then understanding hit him like a freight train. "You want to take the fight to them. Through the wormhole."
"Of course," Aidan said, like it was obvious.
"Are you out of your mind?" Mako's voice cracked with disbelief.
Raleigh stepped forward, his tone carefully controlled. "Dr. Ryan, with respect—we can barely defend against the Kaiju when they come here. You want to invade their home territory? That's not strategy, that's suicide."
"I agree with Dr. Ryan," Chuck Hansen drawled from the back of the room, shooting Raleigh a contemptuous look. "But then again, I'm not a washed-up pilot who spent five years running away. We're not the same scared program we were when you quit, Becket. Striker Eureka can handle two Category-4s simultaneously. If you can't stomach the idea of fighting back, maybe you should stick to fishing boats."
"Chuck," Herc Hansen's voice carried warning and command in equal measure. "Shut. Up."
Chuck subsided, still glaring at Raleigh.
"Enough." Aidan held up a hand. "Let's see what this brain can tell us first. We'll discuss invasion plans after we know what we're dealing with."
He moved to the terminal where Newton waited, practically vibrating with excitement. The hexagonal device plugged into a port array, and Newton flipped a series of switches. Indicator lights blinked once, twice, then the device began to open—segments folding outward like a mechanical flower, revealing a projector core.
Light spilled upward, coalescing into a three-dimensional hologram.
"It's working," Newton breathed, barely able to contain himself.
The projection stabilized, showing images captured from an utterly alien perspective. The color palette was wrong—oranges and yellows that didn't exist in Earth's spectrum, shadows that fell at impossible angles. A massive organic structure appeared, looking like congealed flesh or cancerous growth.
A Kaiju writhed in the center of the image—one of the scythe-headed variants. Steel-cable tentacles wrapped around its body, pumping something into its flesh. Modification. Augmentation. The creature convulsed as its biology was rewritten on the fly.
The image flickered, jumped forward. Fragment by fragment, the Kaiju's memories played out in disjointed sequences.
Then came the money shot.
The hologram expanded, showing a vista that made everyone in the lab take an involuntary step back. A massive energy sphere dominated the center of the projection—dark blue, pulsing with bioluminescence, looking disturbingly like a gigantic eye. Beneath its glow, a tentacle the size of a skyscraper stretched across the entire field of view. Multiple Kaiju hung from its length like grotesque fruit, connected by thousands of smaller tentacles that pierced their bodies, fed them, controlled them.
To the right, figures stood on a raised platform. Humanoid, but wrong. Mantis-like heads, bodies too thin and angular, standing on two legs but moving with insectoid precision. They made sounds—not speech exactly, but complex vocalizations that suggested intelligence and purpose.
The Precursors. Had to be.
They gestured toward the suspended Kaiju like foremen overseeing a factory line.
Then the projection died, leaving only the ghost of that image burned into everyone's retinas.
On the other side of the wormhole, in the Anteverse itself, that same scene played out in real-time.
The world beyond the breach was blue and barren—a dying planet with an atmosphere that looked like permanent twilight. Serpentine shadows moved across the sky in impossible numbers, so many they blotted out whatever passed for sunlight here.
The Precursor facility rose from the lifeless ground like a cathedral built from nightmares. Its architecture mimicked organic forms—mouths, fangs, ribcages. Perhaps it was made from organic forms. Hard to tell where biology ended and technology began.
Inside, that same massive energy sphere pulsed with bioluminescent light. The lava-like gap in the floor served as an altar or staging ground, surrounded by monitoring equipment and Kaiju in various states of assembly.
Several Precursors—the red-crested variant, with membranous wings connecting their arms to their bodies—suddenly froze. Their heads snapped toward something invisible, sensing disturbance across dimensional barriers.
Someone had accessed a Kaiju's memories.
Someone had seen them.
The Precursors erupted into furious chittering, their wing-membranes flaring in agitation. The discussion was brief, angry, decisive.
They'd been careful for so long. Maintaining the illusion that the Kaiju were just animals, just monsters from the deep. Now the humans knew the truth.
Time to accelerate the timeline.
The Precursors moved to the altar and shoved several tentacle-wrapped Kaiju toward the breach. The creatures tumbled through the wormhole, hurled at Earth with all the precision of a hammer throw.
Back in the lab, the silence stretched uncomfortably.
Everyone stared at where the projection had been, trying to process what they'd just witnessed. The problem with memory extraction versus neural handshaking was obvious now—with humans, you could understand context, hear their thoughts, feel their emotions. With Kaiju memories, you got raw sensory data and had to reverse-engineer meaning from visual fragments.
"That's all we're getting," Aidan announced, running diagnostics on the hexagonal device. "The brain tissue's too damaged for deeper extraction."
The Kaiju head in the tank had stopped moving entirely—whatever spark of life remained had finally guttered out.
"I've made copies of the memory files," Aidan continued, disconnecting cables. "Tuantuan's distributing them to your personal terminals. Review them. Look for details we missed."
Pentecost opened his mouth to speak—
The alarm cut him off.
The Shatterdome's emergency klaxons erupted with ear-splitting intensity, red warning lights strobing across every surface. The sound meant only one thing.
Kaiju signature detected.
The waiting was over.