Archive of Our Own

Fifty laps: that was how many times Kafka needed to run around the track that morning, at least according to the lead of his medical care team. His muscles needed to remember how to stretch and contract, his heart how to accelerate and keep pace, his blood how to ebb and flow. It made sense, and Kafka felt that fifty laps might be a bit too pitiful even for himself despite the fact that he'd woken up from a four-month coma only two days ago.

He was wrong, as he often was about these things.

It turned out fifty laps was overly generous. Hell, even twenty-five was ambitious.

It was the seventh lap that did him in. One moment he was staring at Kaguragi's back, so far ahead of him, already on his twelfth circuit even though all the rookies had started together; the next moment, Kafka was on his back, staring up at the blinding glare of the sun. Young, concerned faces crowded the edges of his swimming vision.

"Sir! Sir, are you all right?" Ichikawa's voice sliced through the thickness in Kafka's ears. He sounded like they were underwater.

Furuhashi leaned in, holding up a closed fist near Kafka's face. "Old man, how many fingers can you see?"

"Erm… none?" Kafka croaked out. He blinked away the dizziness and braced his palms against the rough concrete of the tracks, pushing himself to a sitting position.

Bad idea. A sudden wave of nausea ballooned in his belly and he groaned. He clasped a hand over his mouth, determined not to make an even bigger embarrassment of himself.

"Careful!" Platoon leader, Tae Nakanoshima, who was overseeing their exercise, steadied him. "Damn, the med team said you'll be ready."

"I-I am ready, I just…" Just what? Fainted? Kafka sighed, trying to get his bearings straight. "How long was I out?"

"About three minutes," Shinomiya answered, an irritated wrinkle already forming between her brows. She must have been quite worried. "Hakua was about to fetch a stretcher, you know!"

Nakanoshima gripped his arm and helped him to his feet. "You need to go back to the infirmary. Ask them to run another round of tests. Ichikawa, Minase, go with him, please."

The two teens flanked Kafka and they left the new, enlarged race track. The low murmurs of the others faded in the distance as the three of them approached the building.

"Maybe you should have started out with five laps," Minase said, not unkindly, and Kafka couldn't help but feel babied. And not in the warm, fuzzy way either.

"I think they should have given you more time to rest, sir."

Kafka rubbed the back of his neck. Mild vertigo bloomed in his skull whenever he turned his head. "Perhaps they thought I'd had too much of that already. Four months is a long time to sleep."

The med bay was empty when they arrived, but Minase sent an alert to the med team on the check-in screen.

"I can handle it from here," Kafka assured them, as they all stood in what felt like bored silence. They must be itching to go back to their training.

Ichikawa gave him a doubtful glance, but Kafka waved it off. "I'm serious, I'll be fine here! Even if something happens, someone is already on their way, aren't they? You don't need to babysit me."

The young man a gave a long-suffering exhale. "All right, sir. But at least sit down while you're waiting."

Like an obedient pupil, Kafka slid his rump onto one of the chairs in the reception area. Ichikawa gave him one last critical stare, before he and Minase waved farewell.

Not long after, someone in a crisp white lab coat entered the med bay. Kafka was surprised to see Okonogi. She looked up from her tablet and sent him a smile.

"Hibino! I should have expected it was you."

If he had been feeling any better, blood would have rushed to his cheeks. But it seemed like his blood wasn't very excited to go anywhere near his head, because when he stood up, his surroundings wavered a little.

"Y-you're not part of the medical team," he said, a little daftly. Of course she knew better than him which team she was a part of.

"Oh, they all went off to that dim sum place that just opened. Early lunch, 20% off. Left me to cover on-call, because, well according to them, it's all just stats, and I'm good at stats. You know, I am actually quite flattered."

Okonogi's fingers flittered swiftly over the keys on the dashboard, and one of the glass panels surrounding the examination bed slid open. Kafka stepped onto the recessed floor inside the panels, the overly sanitized air assaulting his nose. He'd spent a lot of time in one of these in the First Division base. Enough to know that one of the tinted glass windows was actually a double-sided mirror. Beyond it was an observation area, and back in the First the space had been large enough to accommodate a dozen people. He didn't know how big this one was.

"So, what happened? Why did you get sent here?"

Kafka bit his lips, but he could hardly lie or equivocate during a medical check-up. "I fainted."

"Oh dear, that's no good. Well, if you could just lie down there, I'll get all these hooked up." Okonogi followed him inside the panelled area, picking up several coils of thick insulated wires attached to mobile machines surrounding the bed like a gang of octopi.

Kafka followed her instructions, squinting at the numbing fluorescent lamps above. She placed sensors over his shirt across his chest and abdomen, then lifted the hems of his trousers to do the same on his legs. Immediately, charts and numbers popped on the holographic projection of Okonogi's tablet.

"Your blood pressure is too high. Strange, considering you just fainted." She glanced at him, her eyes owlish behind her large round spectacles. "Oh, I see. All these machines are probably stressing you out, huh? I get it, you must be dead tired of getting poked and prodded and inspected like an insect."

Kafka's brows rose at her perceptiveness. He hadn't even registered his own anxiety. But now that she'd mentioned it, he noticed his muscles were tense and his jaw was clenched. A heaviness simmered in his belly. Despite the exhaustion in his bones, his body was all keyed up.

"Try to relax, take a few deep breaths," Okonogi suggested. "It's just little old me here with you. I'm hardly that important to be intimidating."

He couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips despite his nerves. "Hey, don't sell yourself short. You're the one who keeps everyone alive out there. Oh, and you paid my bills for years."

"Huh? Your bills?"

"You're the one who calls in the cleaners, right?" Kafka gave her a grin. "In a roundabout way, you're the reason I always had a job that paid!"

She returned his grin. "I never thought of it that way, but I suppose so!" A green dot appeared on the projection. "Look, your blood pressure's going down. Maybe a chat will keep you distracted while I run the full diagnostics suite. So," she turned back to face him as the bigger machines all started whirring to life. "Any plans for your day off later this week?"

"Um, I think I'm gonna get a burger. I haven't had a burger in four months."

Okonogi chuckled, adjusting her puffy ponytail. "A burger's always a good bet. Anything else?"

"Well, there's this book series I used to keep up with. I heard the writer came out with a new installment two months ago. Maybe I'll check that out."

"Books?" Okonogi hopped closer to the examination bed, a huge smile stretching across her face. "I didn't know you were a reader!"

Kafka smiled, sheepish. "Not much, really. I don't have a lot of time to read a lot. But this series is about a detective who investigates kaiju-related crimes, so it's easy for me to get sucked in."

"Wait, you're not talking about The Secret Kaiju Dossiers, are you?"

"That's the one!"

"No way, I love those books too!" Her eyes shimmered far brighter than the overhead lamps could account for. "The last one that came out? Total banger! I read it in one sitting."

"No spoilers!"

"Nah, I'll let you rawdog that one."

Kafka choked on a laugh. "Rawdog?" Not the type of vocabulary he expected from someone usually so prim and proper.

"Oh, excuse me, I just get so excited about books." Okonogi fussed with the wires around him. "I don't get to talk about what I read all that often around here. I mean, there's the vice-captain, but his ears would fall off if I don't restrain myself, you know. And I tried getting Ashiro on it, but she hasn't really taken it up."

"Mi- I mean, the captain? Nah, I suppose mysteries aren't really her thing. Sword and sorcery, perhaps, but that was a long time ago. Not sure what her reading tastes are like nowadays."

"Oh, that's right, you and the captain are close friends."

"We were childhood friends," he corrected.

Okonogi pursed her lips, and her next words were much quieter. "I never quite understood the way you always say 'were.' Did you two have a friend divorce or something?"

He gave a soft, uncomfortable laugh. "Nothing of the sort! Just… you know, when you don't spend a lot of time together, you start drifting apart."

"I get that bit, but… well, you two are in the same division now."

Kafka knew what she was trying to insinuate: he and Mina had had months to catch up, so why were they still in 'were friends' basis instead of 'are friends?'

He had to admit, when he'd decided to try joining the defense force again, he'd envisioned an incredibly different scenario if he were to actually get accepted. For some strange reason — be it childish hopefulness or complete naivety — he'd thought that he and Mina would pick up where they had left off almost a decade ago. That maybe they'd start cracking the same jokes, discussing the same games, nerding out about the same kaiju fun facts. That they'd click back into place like two puzzle pieces whose shapes had never changed.

But they had changed, both of them. Mina was his captain; she had her duties and responsibilities. She couldn't treat him differently than the others. And almost ten years of facing relentless violence would harden anybody.

Meanwhile Kafka was… well, he was a kaiju.

"All done!" Okonogi announced with a clap. "Nothing too serious from what I can see. Mild hypoglycemia. Maybe you should have that hamburger today instead of waiting for your day-off. I'll also send a note to your nutritionist to adjust your diet. You need more carbs."

Okonogi helped detach the wires from his body. As he made his way out between the glass panels, she called back to him.

"I can't remember if it was you or one of the other rookies, but I remember someone saying they really enjoy macchiatos."

"Ah, that might be me! I used to have two cups whenever I had early morning shifts."

"There's a cafe not far from here that cuts their coffee prices at 3pm everyday. Most are half off. It's called After My Coffee, if you want to drop by when you're free."

"Thanks, Okonogi. I'll check it out."

Kafka only had the opportunity to visit After My Coffee three days later. The counters had sleek black tops reminiscent of reception desks at high-end companies. The chairs and tables too looked like they were filched from the meeting rooms of posh businesses. But the walls were plastered with large comic bubbles, sporting English quotes like, 'I'll finish the paperwork after my coffee,' 'I'll file my taxes after my coffee,' 'I'll do the groceries after my coffee,' and a cheeky one that made Kafka smile, 'I'll name my baby after my coffee.'

And just like Okonogi mentioned, there was a large sign near the cashier announcing that all caffeinated drinks were half off after 3pm. It was just a quarter past now.

Kafka approached the counter, peering through the glass stand beside it that displayed a wide variety of breads and pastries. His nutritionist calculated his caloric intake quite strictly, but if he skipped the bowl of rice that came with his dinner, he could maybe treat himself to a cheese tart or a butter cookie.

"I have a medium dark roast," a server called from behind the counter. "For Mina Ashiro."

Kafka straightened, whipping around, and locked eyes with his captain who was approaching the counter. She looked as surprised to see him there.

"Officer," she said, clearing her throat, and she schooled her demeanour into one of non-chalance.

"Captain," he returned, giving a soft salute. He glanced at the cashier, unsure of how to act in such a casual environment with the captain of the Third Division, but the young woman simply gave him a small smile.

"Ready to order, sir?"

"Oh um, sure. Can I get a small caramel macchiato? And a butter tart, please." Screw the calories. He'll tell his nutritionist he felt faint and needed a quick boost.

It was dawning on him exactly why Okonogi had recommended this particular cafe at this particular time. Damn, she was sharp. Probably as sharp as the vice-captain. Or maybe more, but that was a scary thought.

"That will be 550," the cashier said.

Kafka pulled his wallet out from his pocket.

"Actually, he's with me," Mina said, her soft but authoritative tone cutting through the space between them.

The cashier appraised him from head to toe, brows drawing close in surprised befuddlement as if wondering how someone like him could be with Mina Ashiro.

Kafka waved the offer away with a smile. "It's all right, you don't have to pay for me. Even I can afford this."

"I'm not paying," Mina replied.

He blinked. The cashier reluctantly pushed the brown paper bag with his butter tart towards him.

"Your macchiato will be right up, sir," she said, gesturing to the other side of the counter where orders were picked up. She didn't ask for cash or card.

Oh, now he understood what Mina had meant. She wasn't paying, because the cafe was footing anything she ordered. Probably a captain's prerogative. Or a celebrity. Or a hero. Or all three.

"You in a rush?" Mina asked as Kafka retrieved his caramel macchiato. "I have a seat over there." She nodded towards a two-seater corner table. A handbag and a light jacket hung over the back of one of the chairs.

"No, I… I suppose I can stay," Kafka answered. He had no excuse that wouldn't make him look like he was deliberately avoiding her. But his pulse had already quickened, readying him for an uneasy interaction. What had Okonogi wanted out of this?

"I haven't seen you come here before." Mina took her seat, and Kafka squeezed through the other tables to get to the opposite chair.

"Okonogi recently recommended this place to me. I figure I try it out."

"Are you feeling better?"

"Better?" From what? The coma? The fight with No. 9? Caffeine deprivation?

"I heard you fainted on the new tracks a few days ago."

Oh gee, someone please kill him. Of course, she would have heard about it.

"Ah that! Y-yeah, absolutely. It wasn't a big deal, and I'm fine now." He laughed, rubbing the back of his head.

Mina nodded and didn't say anything for a good long while. She took her time drinking her own coffee, blowing lightly across its surface before taking a dainty sip. Dainty; that's one word Kafka never thought he'd use again to describe her. He didn't know how she did it. Be a force of nature one moment, then a classy lady the next. No wonder she had so many admirers.

Kafka pulled out the tart from the paper bag, an odd sense of deja vu enveloping him. Despite the cozy ambience of the cafe and the quiet beat of jpop music emanating from the speakers, he felt like he was back on the rooftop in the First Division's base. There was the same sticky awkwardness seeping into their shared silence.

Part of the reason he'd never sought out to reconnect with Mina privately was because he knew he'd just miss the way things had been between them. There had been none of this hesitance, this doubt, back when they were kids. They'd been thick as thieves, finishing each other's sentences even, despite their five year gap. Now everything was so stilted and unfamiliar, and the disappointment of it hurt, not least of all because he knew it had mostly been his fault.

"Hibino," Mina started, still staring at her coffee. Then she shook her head and finally looked up at him. "Kafka, I want to apologize."

The shock punched the breath from his lungs. "Apologize?"

"I've been meaning to for a long time," she admitted. "I just… I didn't know how to do it. But I'm sorry. For not keeping up with you all these years. I know it was easier for me to do it than it was for you. Between the security checks on our comms and the hectic schedule, it would have been nearly impossible for you to get ahold of me."

"I-it's okay, Mina," Kafka found himself saying, though he was still too stunned to understand why she was the one apologizing all of a sudden.

"I just don't want you to think that maybe I thought I was… I don't know, too good for you."

"Well, you sort of are…" he mumbled, but she quickly overrode him.

"I don't feel that way." She gripped the sides of her cup. "And I always thought about reaching out, I really did, but I just never knew what to say. All of a sudden, the defense force was my entire life, and every time I was about to text you or email you or call you, all I could think to talk about was the force. The weapons, the kaijus, the squads, the other officers. And I knew all of that talk would just hurt you."

"Mina…"

"Don't deny it."

Kafka sighed, knowing she was right. It would have hurt. And it had hurt all those times he'd heard from his mom, who'd heard from her mom, every little thing that Mina had been up to in the defense force. All her achievements, all the kaiju she'd defeated, all the records she'd broken, getting promoted to captain not even a year after becoming an officer. All the while, he'd been toiling away at Monster Sweepers.

Back then, her silence had made sense. It had been easy to believe that she wasn't interested in his sorry, mundane life.

"Yes, it would be painful," he relented. "But I don't want you to think this was entirely your fault. I bear a lot of responsibility in it too. I should have never let that fear stop me from reaching out to you, even if the comms blocked me, or even if you were too busy. I'm sorry I didn't even try."

It was just like that time with Ichikawa, after Kafka had been apprehended and his device confiscated. He had a terrible penchant of assuming everyone would just think the worst of him. And that wasn't fair to them.

"Just so you know," he added, waiting until she raised her eyes up to his. "Even though it did hurt sometimes, I was always, always proud of you anyway."

"Really?"

"Always."

An almost imperceptible smile lifted the corners of her lips. "I'd hear about you from my mom, you know. She'd tell me of all these fun activities you were up to, like going hiking or camping with your friends. I heard you even went on solo trips abroad a couple of times. I really thought you'd forgotten about me."

Every word that left her mouth kept knocking him off balance. All those day trips and travelling he'd done had never been about going to somewhere fun, but about running away from something dreary. He never imagined that there was something about his life that was worth envying.

But maybe they truly had been fun, and he'd just been so dampened by his own misery that he hadn't appreciated them much. Damn, he could be such an idiot.

Kafka focused on Mina again. "It would be impossible to forget you. There's a huge billboard of your face right outside my bedroom window. For many years, you were literally the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing before I slept."

The shrill sound of a phone ringing pierced through their conversation. Kafka suddenly became aware that they'd leaned steadily towards each other across the table. He pulled away, and the bustle of the cafe came back to him like a bubble bursting.

Mina dug around in her handbag and pulled out her phone. "I'm sorry, I have to take this."

"Go ahead," he said with a smile. Somehow, he felt lighter now than when he'd come in.

Mina stood up and walked into the ladies' washroom, phone raised to her ear. Kafka's gaze landed on his butter tart, still untouched.

"Oh no, even my macchiato's not hot anymore," he grumbled.

He took slow, appreciative bites of the tart and downed them with sips of his coffee. A rushing customer passed by Mina's chair and accidentally knocked her coat and handbag over.

"Pardon me," he said, leaning down to fetch her things.

"It's all right, I got them." Kafka crouched and picked up the coat, hanging it back over the chair's backrest. Some of her things had spilled from the bag, and he snatched them up one by one before stuffing them back inside.

That was when he noticed the spine of a book tucked in her bag. 'The Jagged Carapace,' it read. That was the first book of The Secret Kaiju Dossiers. Funny, Okonogi had mentioned that Mina hadn't been interested in the series. Why would she be reading it now?

Kafka shrugged and placed the handbag on the chair. Not a moment later, Mina emerged from the washroom.

"I'm sorry, I have to leave. That was my condo's duct contractors. They need to do an inspection."

"Don't worry," Kafka beamed at her. "We had a good chat."

Mina smiled, and though it was not the toothy grin he remembered from their childhood, it was still bigger than any he'd seen on her this past year. "Kafka, I was wondering…" She put on her coat and slung her bag over her shoulders. "Remember that action movie we watched years ago? Kaijupocalypse? A sequel is finally coming out after fifteen years."

"I heard! The boys were talking about the trailer yesterday."

"Do… do you maybe want to see it?"

"Absolutely!" Kafka crumpled up the paper bag and picked up his drink. "I bet Ichikawa would—"

"Actually, I was thinking maybe it could be just us."

He pulled up short. Her face was serious, but her eyes held a shade of hopeful uncertainty.

"It could be just like back then," she added in a small voice.

Just like back then. Wasn't this what he'd always wanted? Had she wanted it too all this time? Had she felt the same stinging frustration that he had? And yet, here she was, once again being the braver of the two of them.

"Then I'll sneak in the bag of chocolates like I did that time," he promised her.

Her smile widened. "And I'll sneak in the drinks."

The reality of going to the movies with the Captain Ashiro did not hit Kafka until a few hours after he'd agreed to go. Suddenly the doubt began to seep through to his bones. She was his captain. Was he even allowed to hang out with her? And then there were her fanboys. They wouldn't kill him, would they? Not literally anyway. Though they'd probably destroy him on social media if they caught a picture.

Although it wasn't a date — they were going as friends, like they'd been back then after all— it wasn't the first time that Kafka wished he'd been a little bit more blessed in the physical department. He remembered a night back when Mina was seventeen, he twenty-two; he'd been walking her home after a long extracurricular activity had kept her late at school. Some punk on a bike took one look at them and shouted, "Look, it's beauty and the beast!" as he'd shot by.

Kafka had laughed it off. Mina had been embarrassed by it, but he'd teased her instead, said he hoped she wasn't offended at being called a beast. That got her to lighten up a bit.

But he knew what that passerby had been trying to say. At that time, it had worried Kafka more that Mina was virtually getting catcalled, but the barb in his direction had still stung. He didn't view himself as beastly, per se, but it was hardly a vote of confidence either.

And now that he had a kaiju inside of him, perhaps that punk had the last laugh after all.

In any case, he didn't end up telling Ichikawa or Furuhashi, let alone Shinomiya, about his plans with Mina. Shinomiya would certainly tear his ears off if she learned of it. She wouldn't see it as proper at all.

So Kafka remained vague about his plans for the next day off he had that matched with the captain's. And seeing that nobody else brought it up, he assumed that Mina kept mum about it too. He was okay with that. At least there were no questions from anyone in the force, no comments that would remind him she was Captain Ashiro and he was Kaiju no. 8. Then at least, in the dark of the movie theatre, they really could just be Mina and Kafka.

They met up inside the theatre, Mina having arrived there first and texting him her seat number. They had chosen an 11am showing, thereby avoiding all the teens who would be crowding in after school. As promised, he smuggled in two bags of chocolate-covered nuts. He found her with a large bucket of popcorn and her handbag that was evidently weighed down with drinks.

"I got us bubble tea," she said, a playful smile emerging on her face. She had done away with the white hair clips she usually wore near her temples. Instead, her bangs were pushed back from her forehead by a wide, pink band. The rest of her long, silky hair was loose around her shoulders and back. A baggy sweatshirt and barrel-legged jeans added to her transformation, and it would have been very hard to nail her as the captain of The Third unless one stared for a really long time.

"Hope you still like taro slush," she continued.

"Still my fave." Kafka tried to keep his laugh quiet. "But I'm gonna get in so much trouble with my nutritionist."

"Ichikawa's not too upset that you're not seeing the movie with him, is he?"

"Nah, I managed to convince the boys to watch it ahead of me, so long as they don't spoil it."

The movie was almost three hours long. The first Kaijupocalypse film was about humanity's last stand against an onslaught of Kaiju intent on destroying the world. It wasn't the most original concept, but it had a fun teenaged protagonist that pulled in a lot of youths among its audience; then there were the edge-of-your-seat action scenes, PG-13 romance, and the producers had a blockbuster hit on their hands.

This time around, the plot revolved around scientists discovering once and for all how to stop kaiju emergence altogether. A geologist had spouted off a dozen jargon in an attempt to explain the lynchpin of their plan, although according to their risk analyst, the chances of success was less than 1%.

Mina leaned close to his ear. "That explanation is a bit unbelievable, don't you think?"

At some point during the film, Mina had raised the armrest in between their seats. The bucket of popcorn, still half full, settled precariously half on her thigh and half on his.

"It wouldn't be very fun if it was realistic," he whispered back, and she chuckled.

After the film, they spilled out into the adjoining mall, too full of popcorn and chocolate to grab a late lunch, but too restless to go back home just yet. They ambled in companiable silence, browsing through store displays and pop-up stands and kiosks.

Amidst the low hubbub of the mall-goers, Mina sidled up to him and asked in a low voice.

"Kafka, what's it like to… you know, be the other version of you, so to speak?"

His steps slowed, his mind rifling through his memories of the past year. Any time someone had discovered his peculiar ability to transform into a kaiju, very few had been curious enough to ask him how it felt. Mostly, fear had reigned their responses.

"I really still feel like me," he answered after a while. "It feels like me, but more… expansive. Like I have more parts to my body, more organs. And wider, stronger senses too. You probably know I can sense other kaiju."

Mina nodded.

"Ironically, I think my sense of taste dulls a bit, despite the longer tongue and everything." He laughed uncomfortably. "I once ate a raw pigeon accidentally — I know, long story — and I thought it would taste disgusting, but it didn't really taste like anything? Oh gee, tell me if this is TMI for you."

There was a half-smile on her lips that resembled a cringe, but she waved his words away with a shake of her head. "No, I want to know these things."

"Oh, um, what else? Well, a lot of my experience as a kaiju is coloured by how other people react. I can say I'm still me inside, but it's like I'm moving in an alternate reality where everybody's afraid and repulsed by me." He gave her a wistful smile. "I know their reaction is reasonable — and I'd rather people be wary of me than to become desentisized to kaijus. But I've always been a nondescript man, so it's just a little unsettling to be feared."

Mina cast her eyes down, nodding. She didn't respond, and Kafka felt compelled to fill in her silence.

"I've seen the way people cheer for you and the vice-captain. And even Narumi when I was in the First. I know it might seem a little selfish, but sometimes I wish I got the same reception."

"It's not selfish," Mina countered. "And I have a hunch that someday that might change."

They circled a fountain where young kids and toddlers were splashing their hands and parents watched anxiously lest they fall into the water. Someone brushed past them and did a double take at Mina, lips parting as if readying a question.

Mina looped her arms around Kafka's elbow and maneouvred them away from the fountain. She didn't look back at the young man who'd been staring as she pushed them towards the escalator.

"I know I can never understand what you're going through," she said. She was so close he could hear her so well even though her voice was low. He tried not to think about the press of her chest against his arm, and instead concentrated on what she was telling him. "I can't transform like you do. But I know a bit about becoming a different person when you're wielding a lot of power.

"Nobody I know in the force is a hundred percent the same person off the field as they are on it. And even fewer are the same person as they were when they've never been on the field at all. Some parts of you are the same; but for most people, something else takes over — not a full-species transformation like yours — but something more subtle. And some people find it hard to remember to switch back, because they don't know where one version ends and the other begins anymore."

Kafka almost tripped at the top of the escalator, so rapt he was by Mina's words. Sure, he knew people changed when they entered the force. But he thought it made them more heroic and admirable, and that everyone would simply love themselves more afterwards. He'd never considered that people could struggle with whom they'd become. Everyone carried themselves with such an air of ease and belonging and triumph.

Though Mina had spoken in general brushstrokes, Kafka got the sense that she was speaking from a deeply personal place.

He placed a comforting hand over hers. "Well, if you ever need a reminder, you know where to find me."

One evening after dinner with the other rookies, Kafka set out to a barber shop that Furuhashi had recommended to him. It was a forty-minute subway ride from the base, but apparently, they had the best stylists and Furuhashi didn't trust any other barber shop to form his complicated unified bangs correctly.

Kafka shook his own bangs out of his eyes. He hadn't meant to let it stay so long for weeks, but somehow, he'd always found himself too occupied to get it cut. It was only after he'd video-called his mother that he got an earful about looking like a wannabe delinquent. He was tickled particularly at the phrasing she had used. "Wannabe," as if something about his appearance just made him short of looking like a legitimate delinquent.

There was still quite a bit of crowd roaming the streets at night. It would be an hour yet until people would begin settling down. Everyone was always eager to be out and about when the streets were safe and there were no kaiju attacks. Same with the shops and businesses; many of them often closed down for weeks on end if a kaiju destroyed their property. So the business owners often opened late when times were peaceful.

Almost as if his very thoughts jinxed his luck, his kaiju senses sparked to life, bidden by a distrubance in the energy all around him. Only a moment later, the ground rattled beneath him, shouts exploded like a wave down the street, and the cacophony of crashing cars ruptured the air.

From one end of the street, a writhing mass of what appeared to be a dirty rug the length of a sixteen-wheeler truck undulated across the concrete. It was round, flat, frilly and muddy, trailing a thick, green sludge that emitted a stench reminiscent of rotting meat. A yoju, Kafka noted, of the terrestrial wobbegong variety — or terrawob for short.

People rushed past him, seeking refuge inside stores and restaurants and random strangers' residences.

"Get inside, quick!" he urged them on. "Call the defense force. And cover your noses and your mouths!"

The terrestrial wobbegong kaiju was not violent, nor did it intently harm other living beings. But its sludge produced toxic fumes that could be lethal when inhaled for long periods of time.

Kafka pulled his collar over his nose and ran down the street. "Close your windows!" he yelled at the people in the houses and stores he passed.

"Hey, young man, over here!"

Kafka stopped short, eyes roaming the street for the voice. It was rare these days for someone to call him young, but between the sliding wooden doors of a restaurant, a wrinkled man with white hair and stained apron was waving him over.

"Come inside, we have space!"

Kafka approached the restaurant, and from the narrow opening of the door, he could spot people hunched beneath tables laden with plates and bowls of food.

"Don't worry, I'm part of the defense force," Kafka explained. "Sir, please tell everyone inside to cover their faces. If you can spare some vinegar from the kitchens, have people soak a cloth in it and use that as a mask."

Back when Kafka had worked for Monster Sweepers, that was how they had survived an entire day cleaning up terrawob sludge. The acrid tang of vinegar had given him a migraine that night, but it had also been a cheap way to avoid death by yoju stink.

"All right, stay put then," the old man said. "I'll give you a mask and a bottle of vinegar too. You think your pals from the force will come soon? You don't look too prepared."

Kafka glanced down at his casual clothing. He was in a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans, unwilling to wear anything fancy just to get bits of hair all over himself at the barber shop.

At the back of his mind, he'd been planning to transform into Kaiju no. 8. Part of his insistence to get everybody inside was the hope that nobody would see him do it. But as his gaze swept across the chaotic street, he realized that wouldn't be enough. Fearful, yet curious faces peered through glass windows and panels. One in every two people he could see had their smartphones raised, pointed out onto the street, very likely capturing a video of the yoju. There was even the buzzing of someone's commercial drone as it zipped to and fro across the sky.

No, Kafka couldn't transform here. And yet he couldn't just leave the yoju be. Even if everyone was safe indoors, letting a terrawob roam free would destroy infrastructure, property, and merchandise. And every meter it managed to cover in sludge would become some poor cleaner's torturous hour-long scrubbing task.

But the old man was correct. He was unprepared, very much so. He might have had a chance of neutralizing the yoju if he'd had a gun with ice rounds. Terrawobs are the tamest large-scale yoju around. Even he would be forced to eat his officer badge if he couldn't even handle this.

But without the proper gear, what could he do?

"I'll do what I can," he said, just as much to himself as the old man. There was no other option.

The old man disappeared behind the door, then returned later with a small plastic spray bottle stinking of rice vinegar and a half-soaked kerchief.

"Thank you," Kafka said as he retrieved the items from the man. "Keep the door closed from now on, and if the walls sustain any damages, try to cover it up as much as possible."

The man nodded and did as he asked. Kafka wrapped the kerchief around his face and looked around the street. Tears bubbled at the edges of his eyes from the strength of the vinegar. The yoju was still ambling in his direction, pausing to sniff at a lamplight or a parked car before continuing on with its leisurely, yet damaging, stroll.

Kafka was lucky this was a terrawob. In addition to being non-violent, it also had a really exploitable weakness. Its core was connected to one of the frills trailing out from the sides of its body. If he could pull off that frill, the core would come along with it. The question was, which frill? There were hundreds.

He ran towards the terrawob, the stench of the sludge getting stronger, enough to start filtering through his makeshift mask. Still, he kept his eyes on the weedy lengths sprouting from the creature's body.

Sifting through his memory, Kafka tried to recall everything he knew about this variety of kaiju. It had been in one of the books at the base; he remembered taking notes on it. What had it said about the frills? Was it the curliest one that connected to the core? No, that can't be right. That must have been a vine-based kaiju. The longest? The thickest?

No, it was the brightest. He remembered now. Terrestrial wobbegongs were earthen in colour, often able to camouflage in rain-soaked, mossy earth — except for the frill that was either bright red or bright green.

Kafka's rapid steps took him into sludge territory, and his pace slowed. The fluid was thick enough to reach his ankles, and every time he lifted his feet, it felt like something was pulling them back to the ground.

He scanned the frills along one side of the yoju, trying to find the one that stood out. There were none. Hoping he wasn't misremembering, he began the slow, frustrating trek around the yoju, eyes never leaving the creature's body lest he miss the one frill he was looking for.

There! At the back. This guy's special frill was more amber in colour than either red or green, but that must be it. All the other frills were the shade of pale coffee with crustings of wasabi.

Kafka lunged for it and gave it the mightiest heave he could summon. His back arched, his arm muscles tightened, his heels dug into the slimy road. He tried to find purchase, but he kept slipping along, dragged by the terrawob's steady movement down the street.

He adjusted his grip and heaved again, putting all his weight behind it. Still nothing.

Kafka plopped down onto the pool of sludge, hands still around the bright frill. Gee, what did he think would happen? That he could tear off a body part of a giant monster as a regular human being without any supportive gear? Goodness, the adrenaline was addling his brain.

They passed by a parked pickup tidily tucked away in an adjoining alley, and Kafka perked up. Was that window scaling equipment at the back of the pickup?

As quickly as he could, he disentangled himself from the yoju's frills and made his way to the vehicle. His eyes lit up as he saw large spools of rope — the thick kind that custodians used to repel against buildings — and harnesses, chains, thick padlocks, and a whole array of other tools.

He opened the door of the truck, rummaged around the various compartments, and almost squealed in delight when he saw the key.

Okay, all right, this might actually work.

Wasting no time — apart from his feet's constant battle with the sticky yoju fluid — he hitched a length of rope to the back of the truck, ran down the few feet that the terrawob had traversed while he was distracted, and fastened the other end of the rope to the amber frill.

Jumping into the truck, Kafka took the key, fired up the engine and pulled the truck from the alley, orienting it towards the opposite direction that the yoju was travelling.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, then floored the accelerator.

The wheels spun, green slime splashing back from the truck in a messy spray. "Come on," Kafka gritted and tried again. The engine roared, the tires squealed.

Then finally, there was movement. He gained speed, pushing forward through the sludge, the tires finding enough friction to get by.

He felt the tug when the rope got pulled taut, and the vehicle balked. Kafka stomped down on the pedal again and again, seconds passing by while the truck still refused to budge. He pressed as hard as he could, never letting up, holding his breath as he focused every ounce of energy into his foot on the pedal.

Suddenly the truck hurtled through the street, and in between one blink and the next, Kafka crashed into something hard. The airbag exploded in front of him, crushing him in a pillow-like embrace.

He shook off the disorientation and pushed open the door of the truck. He scrambled down, head whipping behind the vehicle to check if his plan had worked or the rope had been severed.

The yoju lay on the ground unmoving. A bloody trail led from the posterior of its body to a hard, round crystal half covered in veiny membranes that coalesced into a frill. The amber frill.

"Whoo, the core came out!" Kafka yelled, fists pumping in the air. He ran towards it, picking up an iron hook that must have fallen from the back of the pickup. Raising the hook, he slammed down the sharp end onto the core. A crack formed at the top, and he repeated the motion until the core shattered, spilling white minerals all across his feet.

"Yeah! I can't believe that wor—"

"Hi!"

"Aaah!" Kafka jumped from fright as a young boy, perhaps a year or two Ichikawa's junior, materialized right beside him. The drone he'd noticed earlier floated down near the boy's head.

"W-what are you doing out here?" Kafka said. "You should be inside! And you should be wearing a mask!"

"This is gonna make the best vlog," the boy said, his lips widening into a smirk. "You know how many views this is gonna get me?"

"I don't care, and you shouldn't—"

There was another pulse of energy, dark and sinister, that raised Kafka's kaiju senses like hackles. Goosebumps trailed down his arms and crawled all over his neck. His human sight and hearing were not good enough to detect the position or movement of this new kaiju until he and the boy were standing right beneath its shadow.

Towering over them was a dark furred body with twig-like legs that belied the beast's agility, topped by a head with a squashed nose, large, pointed ears, red glowing eyes, and rows of wicked, glistening teeth. A pair of black membranous wings with tips as sharp as the vice-captain's swords landed on the ground, cracking the concrete beneath.

Kafka couldn't see what it looked like from behind, but he was certain its back was covered in an exoskeleton made of the toughest chitin. The only other time he'd ever encountered a kaiju of the batroach variety was when it was already in a hundred different pieces, ready to be entrapped by the jaws of his claw excavator.

"H-hey kid," he whispered, trying not to make any sudden moves that would trigger the kaiju into violence. Because unlike the terrawob, this one definitely had that temperament. "On the count of three, I want you to jump to the left. One —"

"What?"

"Two…"

"My left or your left?"

"Yours. Three!"

Kafka leapt to the right, as far as he could given the sludge. He threw the hook he was still gripping up at the batroach, and it hit it on its nose. That ought to distract it.

"Stay down and don't move," he yelled to the boy, as he rushed down the street, mind blank with panic. How was there a yoju of another variety here? He couldn't sense a honju around. Where did both of these beasts come from?

A deafening shriek echoed all around them, and Kafka slammed his hands over his ears. Damn, this thing was so loud. Ears ringing, he narrowly avoided the needle-like point of one of its wings as it crashed a mere foot beside his running form. By the shifting of the shadows around him and the disturbance in the air, he sensed an oncoming swipe, and he was able to duck just in time.

What to do, what to do? He couldn't fight a monster with a strong bloodlust without any weapons. Maybe he just needed to hide. Wait out for the other defense force officers to come. How long had it been? Surely they're arriving soon.

But batroaches were not known to give up easily. Once they had set their sight on a prey, they focused on it, toyed with it, until bored and hungry. Their prey usually didn't last that long.

Maybe it was time to transform into Kaiju no. 8. His identity mattered less than the safety of these people.

The batroach flapped its wings and shot to the sky, circling the street like a vulture. Kafka skidded to a stop and took the opportunity to catch his breath. He knew that the batroach hadn't given up, although it probably wanted him to think it had. It would work for most people not knowledgeable enough about this particular kaiju.

Kafka's gaze landed back on the terrawob, slumped on the street like a raggedy piece of someone's old carpet.

His breath hitched as the seed of an idea came to him. He may not have any weapons, but he did have a dead wobbegong. The terrawob's uniorgan was a fluid-filled sac in its lower abdomen that helped produce the toxic sludge. This unadultered fluid was particularly hazardous to batroaches, and he knew this because of a disposal mishap a few years back. The sac got piled into the same bin as a batroach's digestive organs, and when the fluid spilled, the whole pile melted. Just… melted, like cheese on top of a pizza in a 400 degree oven.

He rushed to the restaurant, knocking at the wooden sliders, before pushing it aside and closing it back. The customers and workers were still huddled under the tables and along the walls. They stared at him expectantly, perhaps hoping for good news.

"Um, I need some knives!" he said. "There's a second kaiju out there. Please call it in! And make sure to say it's a new one."

He didn't wait for permission as he dove through the crowd towards the back kitchens. Cowering cooks and servers jumped at the sight of him.

"I'm sorry, but I'm gonna need to take that," Kafka said, snatching a butcher knife from the top of a counter. He saw a sashimi knife next and reached for it. "This too. Please bill JAKDF, I don't think I can return them after. And you wouldn't want them back even if I could. Oh, do you have the squeezy thingamajig?"

He perused the utensils along the counter and some of the drawers until he found what he was looking for: a turkey baster. He grabbed it and bolted out of the restaurant.

The batroach had gotten impatient, and the tips of its wings were waiting for him as soon as he got out. Pure instinct and months of honed reflexes saved him from getting skewered, and he rolled away from the batroach's attacks. Thank Hoshina and Narumi for training him. Even as out of shape as he was currently, their moves were still effective.

Another shriek came from the beast, so loud Kafka felt his bones vibrate. He reached the terrawob and dropped the knives and basters on top. Keeping the batroach in his periphery, he hacked away at the outer layers of the dead kaiju until its internal organs were exposed. He used the finer knife to peel away muscle fibres and anterior organs, hands shaking the entire time, all too aware of his impending assailant.

Then two bag-like organs welcomed his sight. Kafka knew one of them was the stomach, the other the uni-organ. The problem? He couldn't remember which was which.

"Ugh, screw it!" He gave one an experimental poke with the knife, and he got his answer. Sour-smelling fluid burst forth from the hole, splashing on his hands and arms. Immediately, he felt a burning sensation, and blisters began forming on his exposed skin.

Well, that was the definitely the stomach, and its acid was now all over him. He should have grabbed oven mittens too.

"Fuck me," he muttered through the searing pain. He took the baster, stabbed it into the other sac and siphoned the liquid inside.

The batroach clambered up the street towards him, the claws of its feet and the tips of its wings gouging jagged chunks out of the concrete. Its crimson eyes speared Kafka with a ravenous gaze, and its jaws widened as it skidded before him, head tilting to capture him in one, hungry bite.

Kafka flung the baster into its mouth and threw himself to the side, leg grazing the batroach's nose. He bumped over the cold terrawob's body and landed in an ungraceful heap onto the sticky, smelly sludge.

The yoju's enormous head swivelled his way. It took one step forward, then paused. Its pupils constricted and a quake shuddered along its body. Staggering, its head thrashed from side to side, and when it opened its mouth again, Kafka thought it would release another ear-piercing shriek. Instead, a wave of bloody bile and dissolved tissue erupted from its throat. It continued to hack, and entire hunks of organs came spilling out, drowning the terrawob in a sickening stew of innards.

Kafka crawled away, then managed to get to his feet. He noticed he'd lost his mask somewhere. No wonder his throat and nostrils felt raw. He was about to cover his face, when he saw that his hands and arms were the colour of fresh beef steak, skin sloughing off in layers, yellowed bumps sprouting like mushrooms.

A rather large, iridescent ball shot out of the batroach, and the creature finally slumped to the ground. The ball rolled a short distance, and Kafka noticed it was not perfectly round. Parts of it were blistered like his hand, melting in spots and gushing out its elements.

"Dude," a voice spoke beside him, and Kafka startled. The boy with the video drone was still in the same spot where he'd left him to deal with the batroach. "D-did you just… kill a kaiju with a turkey baster?"

The boy turned to him, eyes wide with wonder. "That's so… that's really…"

Amidst his exhaustion and rapidly increasing pain, a small hope blossomed in Kafka's chest. Would this young man find him admirable? Cool? Strong?

"That's hilarious!" the boy yelled, doubling over in laughter. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever seen!" Tears sprang from his eyes, and he wiped them away.

Kafka groaned and rolled his eyes. All his work, even now in the defense force, was still so thankless.

His annoyance turned to relief when he heard the sirens signalling the arrival of the defense force. At the mouth of the street, four to five black vehicles skidded to a stop, and one by one, their doors slid back and heavily-geared defense force officers jumped out. Masks covered their faces and their guns were held in the ready position.

Kafka flagged them down. "Over here!"

One of the officers — someone Kafka rarely saw and whose name he could not remember — jogged over to him.

"It's okay, they're both dead now," Kafka explained. "I don't think there are any other kaijus frolicking about."

The man nodded, then leaned close to him. "Did anyone see you transform?"

"Oh, I didn't transform."

The man took a long, careful survey of the kaiju carcasses and lifted an eyebrow. "No? Not even a hand or a finger?"

Kafka held up his injured arms, cringing. "I kinda wish I did."

The officer startled and spoke urgently into the comm in his ears. "I got an off-duty officer here with second and third degree chemical burns. Prepare first aid right away."

A medic waved at them from one of the trucks, and Kafka trudged up the sticky, slimy street with shaking knees. The adrenaline must be wearing off. It had been a long fight. He didn't even manage to get his haircut.

Ironically enough, it had not been a long fight at all. Apparently, it had only taken thirteen minutes from when the terrestrial wobbegong had appeared to when the life signal of the batroach had vanished. Kafka could have sworn he'd been fighting for his life for at least an hour.

From what he gathered among the surrounding chatter on their way back to the base, his assessment that there had been no honju nearby was correct. Their analysts believed that the two yoju were residuals from attacks a few months back, and both of them had hibernated in the flood tunnels. For some unknown reason, they'd woken up almost simultaenously.

Kafka spent the next two days in intensive care. He needed a skin graft for the patches on his hands and arms that sustained third degree burns. Fortunately, the force's advanced medical technology was more than capable of restoring him to full health in due time, and the doctors promised him he would have full function of his hands and arms again in about a week. Until then, they were coated in an ointment and wrapped in bandages, and he was taken off duty until the doctors approved his return.

And so, Kafka was left to vegetate in his dorm, restless in bed, but unable to do anything. His hands were perpetually mitten-shaped; he could barely move his thumbs either, not with the way the nurses bandaged them. He couldn't play games, he couldn't scroll on his phone with the bandages, he could barely even feed himself. Chopsticks were ruled out, and he only had Ichikawa to thank for buying him sandwiches.

"You know, you brought this on yourself," Shinomiya said as she scattered a pile of magazines on his lap, the only remedy she could find for his boredom. He'd tried reading a book, but his hands couldn't flip the fine pages very well. "Taking on two yojus by yourself, honestly! You could have led the people to safety and taken refuge yourself."

"Aw, Shinomiya, please don't be mad anymore!" he whined. This was her third time scolding him. "You would have done the same thing in my shoes."

She arced a blonde eyebrow. "No, in fact, I would not have popped a terrawob's stomach."

Kafka pawed through the magazines glumly. 20-Minutes Meals, Home DIY (Kaiju-Proof Edition), Wealth Matters. Not the most exciting selections, but it would stave off death by idleness. He wondered where Shinomiya got them from.

He sighed. "You can let it go, honestly. I'm probably getting roasted enough online as it is. That's enough punishment, don't you think?"

"What roasting?" She fetched her phone from her pocket. "Where did you see this? Did you see their name? How about their IP address? I can probably locate them using that."

"Oh, I don't know. There was some vlogger on the scene. He probably had a smart remark or two."

"Are you talking about KaijuStalker1081?" Shinomiya typed furiously on her phone. "Because I watched that video, and he was too pompous about capturing everything on camera to say anything about you. Which is just rich, considering it's gotten five millions views already. The comments section, on the other hand…"

"Oh no, not the comments section. Please, dont tell me!" Kafka grabbed a pillow and covered his ears.

Shinomiya cleared her throat, forcing the most deadpan expression on her face. Despite the pillow, he could still hear her clearly. "Let me see. Top comments: 'Who's this officer? Is he single?' 'Is this the dude I heard who has 1% combat power? I can see why they accepted him,' 'Halp! The real killer is his smile @8:42,' 'Please tell me he's single,' 'Now I know why JAKDF increased the maximum age limit,' 'He can shove his turkey baster in me any day.'

"And it just goes on and on like that," Shinomiya said, a light dusting of pink colouring her cheeks. "I've scrolled through dozens of pages. I haven't found anyone roasting you, Hibino. Did someone here say something to you directly?"

Kafka lowered the pillow, a bit dazed at everything she'd said. "Um, no… I just thought… well, it wasn't exactly an impressive neutralization, was it?"

Shinomiya snorted and crossed her arms. "Honestly, Hibino! It's like you never learn. It's really not cute to always assume other people think poorly of you, you know." She shook her head, then leaned on Ichikawa's desk, which was closer to their bunk beds than his.

"Although to be fair, some of that habit is probably on us," she said, pouting a bit, probably galled that she was admitting to this at all. "Look, I know we make fun of you a lot. But we only do it because we think highly of you."

Kafka sent her a disbelieving stare. "Is that so?"

"All right, fine." She rolled her eyes and rubbed her forehead as if the very idea of relenting to him was giving her a headache. "I can't promise that we'll tease you less, but whenever you do a good job, I swear we'll also tell it to you straight."

Shinomiya pushed herself off of the desk and made for the door. She turned back for a moment. "I guess I have to set the example, huh? Like I always do. Awesome work, Hibino. That was pretty cool."

Kafka grinned. "Was that so hard?"

"Don't push it." But she was smiling as she left.

The morning tumbled into noon, and soon, not even Wealth Matters' coverage on the busting of a fraud ring could keep Kafka occupied. He was tempted to browse through 20 Minute Meals, but he knew that would make him more hungry, and his stomach had already been grumbling for a while. Maybe Ichikawa got rapt up in the cafeteria with the others and forgot to bring him his lunch.

A knock came on the door, and Kafka was excited for a second, before realizing Ichikawa would never knock on his own room.

The door opened, and Mina came in.

"C-captain!" Kafka threw the magazines from his lap and stood up with a salute.

"Captain?" Mina asked cryptically. She made a show of looking for something behind her, then turned back to him, closing the door. "I don't see a captain. It's me, just Mina today."

That was when Kafka noticed she wasn't in her uniform at all. She was in a black sleeveless top and skinny jeans, her hair pulled back from her face not in her customary ponytail, but a long, low braid. He supposed she was on her day off. He had lost track, not having looked at the schedule since the yojus' attack.

"I told Ichikawa I'll bring you lunch," she said, showing off the large paperbag she held.

"Thank you, Just Mina." Kafka said, settling back into the bed. She chuckled at that and placed the takeout on the bedside table.

"You really growing out your hair now?" she asked, a critical eye roaming over his head.

"Oh this?" Kafka mussed his hair with his bandaged hands. "I was gonna get it trimmed the night the yojus showed up. It's getting to be such a mess. Sometimes it pokes my eyes. Don't know how you can stand having your bangs so long."

"Here, let me." Mina leaned down and ran both her hands from his forehead to his nape. She combed the long strands through her fingers, pulling them away from his face with the motion. Finally securing a stubborn lock behind his ear, she said, "Better now?"

Kafka gulped, throat suddenly dry. Her touch was so unexpected — but also pleasant. "Y-yes, thank you."

She surprised him again by sitting at the edge of his bed, right next to his thighs, instead of grabbing one of the chairs. Mina glanced down and took his hands gently in hers, running her fingers between his, across his palms, and the back of his hands. He was about to ask what she was doing, when she gave an approving nod.

"They did a good job with the bandages. Make sure when they change it, the new ones are just as well-bound."

"Oh, heh. Right, I'll keep that in mind," Kafka said with a bit of a rasp in his voice. Gee, Kafka. Calm yourself. Just because Shinomiya had told him people generally held him in high regard, he didn't need to go making something out of nothing. Wallowing in self-pity was one thing; imagining that Mina Ashiro had certain intentions was another. For all he knew, she probably did this all the time with her friends. It was only recently that he'd rejoined those ranks.

"I hope you like sushi." Mina began unpacking the takeout bag, unearthing several bento boxes of sushi rolls, dumplings, and tempura.

"Ah, I love sushi, but I can't eat them right now." He held up his hands, disappointed that he couldn't have what she brought after she'd gone through all that trouble.

But she gave him a look that spoke he was being slow on the uptake. "That's why I'm here."

He blinked at her, then her words sunk in. "W-wait, you're not gonna feed me, are you?"

She tore the paper packet of the disposable chopsticks, then split them in two. "Remember that summer day when I came down with the flu? The weather was so warm and beautiful, and all the other boys in our neighbourhood went out to play. But you sat by my bed all day, reading me books and spoonfeeding me porridge, because Mom had to work."

"T-that was different. You were little."

"So were you. Now shh." She waved his protests off. "Try this one."

Kafka's cheeks burned with embarrassment as he opened his mouth and Mina popped in what looked like a salmon teriyaki roll. He tried not to bury his head in his pillow as her eyes trained on his face, assessing what he thought of the food.

"It's good," he said, eyes flicking back and forth between her and his lap. "Salmon isn't dry, and the sauce's sweetness is just right."

That seemed to satisfy her. "I knew you'd like it."

Mina continued to feed him roll after roll, then some of the tempura-covered vegetables, and then the dumplings. She even joined in, sharing the food with him. Soon, Kafka's shyness and shock receded, and he relaxed against his pillows.

"I heard Mr. Saito's sushi place closed down," Mina said, referring to the small restaurant back in their hometown that they used to frequent on the weekends.

"Yes, he's retired now." Last time Kafka had visited his parents' place, he'd seen the old spot gated and locked, its name scrubbed from the glass doors.

"Too bad. He served some of the best beef curry I've ever had." Mina handed him his bowl of miso soup. "Of course, not as good as your mother's, but a very close second."

"Yeah? Did I tell you Mom shared her secret ingredient with me?"

Mina's eyes glinted. "You mean you can make her curry now?"

"Don't look so surprised!" Kafka laughed. "I did live by myself for over ten years. I know how to cook, and that curry was like a warm hug after a long day."

"Well then, you're gonna have to show me."

"Sure, I'll write down the recipe for you. Actually, you might have to write it down. But I'll tell you how to make it."

"No, I mean, show me." Mina took a bite of a dumpling. "Come to my condo and show me there."

"Your condo?" Kafka knew very well where she lived. He passed by that building sometimes, whenever he had an errand that took him to the upscale parts of the city. It was a grand tower, and one of the penthouses up at the very top was hers.

"You should come over."

He could hardly believe his ears. Maybe she was joking. Maybe this was joking time. "What, do you also have those fancy titanium cookware to match your fancy condo?" he teased.

"I'll get them if you want to try them."

"Even if they're thousands of yens?" He whistled. "Mina Ashiro is a rich girl."

Mina lifted her bowl of miso. "Anything to get you to come —" she took a sip, "—over."

"W-wait, you're serious?"

She began packing up the bento boxes, and Kafka realized that they had finished every single bit of food from her takeout. "You know how I am with knives."

The door opened and Ichickawa strolled in. He halted mid-stride when he saw Mina.

"Captain!" He saluted. "Sorry, I didn't know you were in here. Let me come back—"

"No need, I was actually packing up." She threw the empty boxes back into the paper bag and clutched it as she stood up, then turned back to Kafka for a moment. "Think about it."

Three weeks after his fight with the yojus, Kafka stood in front of Mina's door, holding two bags of groceries. He'd dressed in freshly pressed flannels and his most well-fitting pants; he'd also finally gotten his hair trimmed into its old, neat cut a week ago. Yet for some reason, he still felt severely inadequate surrounded by the gleaming tiles, the polished brass, and even the large porcelain pots of ferns dotting the hallway. A resident had eyed him warily back in the elevator, probably wondering what his business was on the highest, most luxurious floor.

But he was here now. 5:30 pm, as he and Mina had discussed. He'd scheduled this strategically so Ichikawa would be visiting his grandmother and would only come back on the next morning's early train. That boy could be so strict, and Kafka knew he'd be interrogated if he hadn't returned to the dorms by dinner time.

Kafka gathered his courage, feeling quite small for his 6-feet height, and knocked on Mina's door.

She opened it with a smile that seemed a bit nervous, but he didn't know what for. She looked very nice as usual, with a simple, cotton blouse, straight-legged pants, and her hair up in her neat ponytail.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked.

"You look great," he said. "Like always. We have to make sure to wear an apron though. Curry sauce might ruin that light top."

Her cheeks reddened. "I mean, my condo."

It was his turn to blush. "Oh! Right, well um, let's see." He turned away from her and was immediately lost in a sea of chic furniture, high-end appliances, expensive artwork, and most of all, the expansive view of the city. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows bordered one edge of Mina's condo, flaunting a breathtaking scene of the sun dipping below the heights of the skyscrapers in the horizon. The sky was a brilliant orange with brushes of pink and purple clouds.

Kafka didn't realize he'd walked to the windows until he was touching the cool glass with his now healed hand.

"Incredible," he breathed. He hefted the groceries in his other hand, then did another 180 on the spot, just to take it all in. "Aunty and Uncle must be so proud of you. Look at you. This place is just… it could be a middle spread in a magazine. And you live here!"

Mina smiled without pretentiousness. "I'm glad you like it. Though I feel like it's lacking a bit of a warm touch."

He grinned. "That's what this curry is for! Let's hope I can change that tonight."

"I'm hoping you can change that too."

A large white creature slunk into the room and padded over to Kafka, who retreated a few steps to give Bakko some space. But the tiger edged closer, bumping him on the hip.

"H-hey, easy there, I got dinner tonight." Bakko had not always been the gentlest to him, and Kafka wondered whether the part-kaiju creature could sense his own kaiju entity and felt threatened.

"Bakko." Mina whistled. "Behave yourself."

The white tiger gave a little whine but settled down on the rug in a heap of fur. Kafka took the opportunity to trek back to the kitchen area. With the apartment's open-floor plan, he could keep a wary eye on Mina's pet while preparing the dish for her.

He unpacked the ingredients and started by washing all of the vegetables. Mina gingerly took out a chopping board and a sharp knife that looked like it had never been used.

"You up for chopping or do you want me to do it?" Kafka asked, placing a potato on the chopping board.

Mina hesitated for a second, but said, "I can try it if you show me how."

"Sure. Just take the knife like this." He demonstrated to her the position he usually took.

She shook her head. "I know this is going to be a bit strange, but you're going to have to guide me like I'm four and with just as much propensity for causing disaster."

Mina slid her hand in between his and the handle of the knife, then squeezed herself in between his body and the counter. Kafka automatically took a step back, but was riveted in his spot when she took his other hand to keep the potato in place. In this new position, it was almost like he was embracing her from behind.

"Y-you're good like this?" he asked, just to make sure.

"I'm ready. What's next?"

Kafka took a calming breath, forcing reason to the forefront of his mind. Mina was just eager to learn a new skill, that's all, and he was lucky she was comfortable enough around him to be a beginner at something. She needed all the support she could get, and he'd be a terrible friend if he allowed things to go awry and end up discouraging her.

So he strengthened his grip around her hand that held the knife, and he rearranged her fingers on the potato so that they were tucked into her palm and her knuckles were turned inward.

"All right, we'll start off just like this." He brought the knife down with just enough pressure to slice the potato in half, then half again. "There we go! See, it's not so hard, right?"

Kafka grabbed a few more potatoes from the colander and quartered them too. Soon, he could feel her relaxing, and they moved on to the carrots, then the garlic, then the onions. "You're doing great. Let's just keep going like this, nice and easy. That's right. There you go. Hey, good girl! We finished!"

He released her hands and stepped away, admiring their handiwork. Honestly, he didn't know what she'd been so afraid of. The slices rarely went off-angle the way they usually did when someone was new at chopping.

Mina poured herself a glass of water and downed it in big gulps. He noticed that her cheeks were flushed and she seemed a bit out of breath.

"It's tough learning something new, right?" he said with a smile. "I should know. I'm forced to learn new things all the time as an officer! But I do wonder, why has Vice-Captain Hoshina never taught you how to use a knife?"

She set the glass down, the colour on her cheeks returning to normal. "Well, he's more than happy to show off, and to be honest, I'm more than happy to let him."

"That sounds just like the two of you. You should have invited him tonight."

"I thought about it." Her eyes flickered to his briefly. "But I'm not really in a sharing mood."

"I get it. Real protective of your knives, huh?"

One corner of her lips lifted in a smirk. "Something like that."

The rest of the curry was easy to prepare. Mina had no qualms with any other parts of the cooking process. As the beef Kafka had bought had already been sliced into strips, the only remaining thing to do was to cook everything together.

When the beef and the potatoes and carrots were simmering in the richly spiced sauce, Kafka produced an orange from the grocery bag. "Mom's secret ingredient."

"Orange? You mean the juice or actual pieces of it?"

"Zest!" He began grating the skin over the pot, inhaling the tangy scent that wafted in the steam.

"Never would have guessed," Mina mused.

"It's a subtle flavour, but it's what gives her curry that signature taste."

They had dinner at the low table by the couch where they could watch a movie while eating. With Bakko contentedly curled up behind Mina, the warm, sharp spices lingering in the air, delicious food filling their bellies, it was the coziest that Kafka had felt in a long, long time. It didn't even matter that they'd chosen a supernatural horror film, something that would have spooked him if he were watching it alone or still living all by himself. Tonight, there was none of that uncanny feeling between his shoulder blades of being watched.

When the movie drew to a close, Kafka stood with a stretch. There was nothing left of the food to save as leftovers; he and Mina had wiped both the pot and the rice cooker clean.

"Are you planning to head out?" Mina asked.

"Not until I've helped you clean up, of course." Kafka pointed a thumb at his chest. "My mom raised a gentleman."

There was a flash of something like disappointment in Mina's face, but it was gone before Kafka could really be certain. Why would she be disappointed? Did she want more curry? Did she want to watch the movie's sequel? Or had he misread her? That was more likely. She was so good at masking her emotions now.

"You're going to have to show me how to load the dishwasher though," Kafka said, intent on cleaning up for her. He picked up the plates, settled their glasses on top, and strode to the kitchen.

After leaving them in the sink, he took a gander at the appliance next to it. He'd never used a dishwasher before. He heard they were a commonplace machine in kitchens in North America and Europe, but most kitchens in Japan were too small to accommodate them. He heard they were gaining a bit more popularity though, but that loading them was always a challenge, a skill to be learned. He gripped the bar and pulled the door open —

— and slammed it back closed when a weight pressed abruptly behind him. Hands pulled him around, and Mina was there, so, so close against him, her hands gripping his wrists against the top of the counter. Her hold was so strong he couldn't move.

"Kafka," she said, and her expression was one of conflicting emotions, each one flitting by so fast, he couldn't decipher them.

"W-what's wrong, Mina? Did you trip?"

"Kafka, can you be honest with me? I promise I'll drop this if it won't go anywhere." There was a slight tremor to her voice, and she bit her lip, brows lowering. This was the most scared he'd seen her since she'd entered the force, and Kafka's heart pounded in his chest, thoughts roiling at what could have disturbed her.

"Mina, what's wrong? You can tell me anything, you know that, right?" Damn, her hold on him was so tight.

She opened her lips a few times as if searching for the right words but finding them inadequate. Then she shook her head. "All this time, have you seen me as just a little sister? Even now? I-I've grown up a lot."

Kafka couldn't stop his brows from rising. A little sister? It had been a long time since he'd thought of her that way. In fact, it had been a long time since he'd thought of himself as someone of close relation to her at all. That was why up until recently he'd always qualified their friendship as something of the past, something he needed to work hard to recover.

"I… I don't see you as a little sister," he answered. And the honest truth. "I see you as someone out of reach."

"I'm here now." Her hands finally released his wrists, and they travelled up his arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. They paused at his neck, her thumbs caressing his jaw. Her eyes were a deep maroon, unguarded and pleading. "Can I kiss you?"

His mind blanked, because even though he'd had an inkling about where this conversation was heading, it was still so unfathomable to him that this was what Mina Ashiro wanted from him. A kiss. Something so wrought with meaning and implications, he could not get his brain to follow the train of thought.

"Kafka, please."

Those words decided for him. Because Mina was precious, and no man should be making her beg. She did not risk her life every day, sacrifice her smiles and her peace of mind, just to be denied one of the few things she set her heart to.

"Yes."

She leaned in, and her lips were soft, but urgent and hungry, hungry as if they hadn't just satiated themselves with a hearty meal. Her fingers combed through his hair, tightening on his scalp, bringing him closer till their teeth were knocking. He had the vague sense that she was guiding him away from the kitchen, and he was proven correct shortly after, when the edge of an armchair bumped the back of his knees.

Kafka fell into the seat, and Mina followed him, straddling his hips, trying to keep their mouths locked.

"You're a heartbreaker, you know that?" she said between kisses. "You made me wait so long. We should have been doing this five years ago."

Kafka was about to respond, about to say he'd had no idea she'd wanted him even then, but her lips and her tongue were on him again, and all he could mutter was a muffled "I'm sorry."

"You better be." She finally pulled away for a breather, but still kept her face close. Her fingers alighted on his face, leaving soft, feathery touches. "It was so unfair seeing you again last year. At the cleanup site. All I wanted to do was hold you."

His eyes grew wide. The cleanup site? "You don't mean when you saved me and Ichikawa, do you?" He'd always assumed that she had turned away from him in disgust then. "I was sure you must have thought I was pathetic."

Mina levelled a flat stare at him. "That day, a four-hundred-year-old kaiju composed of an amalgamation of dead, despairing, vengeful souls saw what you did and decided to possess you. Not Ichikawa. Not me. Not anyone in my division. You. What makes you think you were pathetic?"

It was difficult to argue with that when she had put it so logically. But logic fled his mind as soon as Mina kissed him again, desperate and brimming with passion. Her fingers left his face and crawled down his chest, popping the buttons on his flannels.

Kafka enclosed her hands with his, pausing her actions. "Mina," he breathed. "I want this, but I… it took a lot of practice for me to get my transformations under control. I'm safe in familiar situations, but I haven't… that is, I don't know what might happen if we…"

She kissed his words away. "Then it's a good thing I can handle a 9.8 fortitude." She smiled, releasing her hair from its ponytail, and encasing the both of them in a curtain of black, silky locks.

Kafka returned to the dorms the next morning a few minutes before the boys usually got up, which was a good thing, because he needed to get in the shower before they did. He'd already cleaned up back at Mina's place, but that was the problem. Now he smelled like her soap and her shampoo and her lotion.

He allowed the stream of hot water to wash over both body and mind. He scrubbed his skin with the cheap convenience store soap he bought in bulk whenever it went on sale, hoping it would wear away the orange blossom fragrance, or at least, hide it.

A part of Kafka still couldn't believe what happened last night. Nobody had ever genuinely and passionately desired him that way before. He'd gotten the notion that perhaps Hoshina was the one that had caught Mina's eyes, and he wouldn't have been surprised if that turned out to be true. Even Narumi would have been a more understandable choice. They were both handsome, highly skilled, and closer in age to Mina than he was.

But this was the self-pity speaking again, and Shinomiya would be so disappointed in him. Granted, she might kill him now if she found out that he had slept with their captain, so… perhaps there was no pleasing that girl.

At least he'd managed to control himself the entire night. He didn't accidentally transform into a kaiju, not on their first round, nor the second, and not even the third.

The door to the bathroom opened, and he heard several pairs of feet shuffle in.

"Old man, is that you?" Furuhashi's voice came from outside his stall. "Up early, are we?"

"I couldn't sleep much last night." Kafka regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Why did he say that?

"Hope everything's okay, sir?" Was that Ichikawa? Goodness, that boy must have sprinted from the train station to arrive here so early. Good thing they didn't meet each other at the entrance of the base. That would have been terribly awkward.

"Yeah, I'm doing great, not a thing to worry about."

Kafka turned off the shower and pulled his towel from the hook outside. He dried himself and wrapped the towel around his waist. Before stepping out, he took a deep breath. Just relax, he told himself. Act normal. They wouldn't know a thing.

He drew the curtain aside and greeted everybody with his typical smile and cheerful good mornings. He made for the sink where he'd left his toothbrush and toothpaste. He was in the process of uncapping the tube when the low hum of chatter behind him all but disappeared. The silence, in its stead, was quite deafening.

"Gramps!" Furuhashi barked. "What the hell happened to your back?"

Kafka spun in front of the mirror, and his eyes almost bugged out of his head. Long, red welts ran from his shoulder blades to his lower back. Smaller, but deeper, scratches were visible across his traps. It was evident that someone's nails had raked all over his skin.

Memories of the previous night returned in vivid snapshots, and he was unable to help the tsunami of blood flow to his face. "I-it's not what it looks like!" But damn, it was exactly what it looked like. "I don't— I mean — it's not like — it wasn't — not that I—"

His fierce blush and incoherent blubbering probably gave him away more than the marks on his back.

Furuhashi dissolved into a violent fit of laughter. Izumo joined him and even Kaguragi allowed himself a little smug smile. Ichikawa pinched the bridge of his nose, cheeks turning pink.

"Oh no," Kafka muttered.

But Izumo held up his hands in a placating manner. "It's all right, Hibino. You're a grown man and you can do whatever you want. It's none of our business."

"'None of our business,' my ass!" Furuhashi slung an arm over Kafka's shoulders. "Who was it? Do we know them? Are they cute?"

Kafka's blush deepened even more. "I-I don't know if I should be talking about this with you."

"Don't be so shameless, Iharu," Izumo said. "Leave the man alone."

Ichikawa didn't say anything until everybody had finished washing and getting ready. They were all traversing the hallway leading out of the dorm area, Kafka still feeling unreasonably shy about the whole thing. He knew he didn't really fit the part of a role model, but he'd always wanted to set a good example for the younger men, and he hoped this didn't cast him in a lewd light.

"Sir," Ichikawa said quietly as they walked next to each other. "The person from last night, do they know about your secret?"

"Oh, um…" If Kafka admitted it, that would narrow down the list of possibilities quite dramatically. But he could hardly lie at such a direct question. "Yes."

"Whoever it is, I hope they're not just using you for the novelty of it." Ichikawa stuffed his hands in his pockets. "For your sake, I hope whatever happened last night was deeper than that."

Kafka's heart warmed. "I think I'm in good hands," he said, reflecting on Mina's confession that she'd been harbouring feelings for him for a number of years now. "But thanks, Ichikawa. You're always looking out for me."

"Well, somebody has to." The boy rolled his eyes, but Kafka saw a small smile appear on his face.