The Stonehaven Police Force headquarters stood as a venerable testament to history—its solemn architecture a tribute to the fallen heroes who had sacrificed for a brighter future. The monumental structure radiated a quiet grandeur, a steadfast reminder of its mission: to safeguard the community and prevent the repetition of past tragedies.
"My favorite kind of sleep is non-REM sleep," Haturii muttered to himself, dragging a weary hand down his face. Stationed in the bullpen, he sat amidst a mountain of paperwork—a punishment from his boss, Aomorii.
"This lack of sleep is really catching up to me," he murmured, organizing the documents into neat stacks. "We're severely understaffed... I'm so exhausted—" A massive yawn interrupted him, and he allowed himself a moment to gaze wistfully into the distance. "Once I'm done here, I can finally rest. Finally." A sigh of relief escaped him.
But then—commotion.
Somewhere beyond the bullpen, the quiet hum of the station was disrupted by shouts and hurried movement. Haturii's brow furrowed. He rose to investigate, only for exhaustion to betray him.
"Damn it!" he cursed as the organized stacks slipped from his grasp and scattered across the floor in a chaotic paper avalanche.
Moments later, the doors burst open.
"What the hell is going on out there?!" he barked, storming through the hallway to confront the disturbance. His eyes widened at the sight.
In the waiting room stood Dr. Stane, visibly disheveled, surrounded by officers who struggled to restrain him. It looked less like a security issue and more like a comedy skit gone wrong—officers flailing, tempers rising.
Really? Of all days? Haturii thought, exasperated.
"Aomorii! Where's Aomorii?!" the researcher shouted, desperation cracking his voice. "I should be talking to her. Let me go! You need to let me see her!"
"Whoa, calm down." Haturii stepped in, flashing his security badge. "He's with me. Let him go."
The officers exchanged wary looks but eventually released him.
Haturii eyed the man carefully. "Hey… I know you. You're Ganymede's aide. What brings you all the way here?"
Dr. Stane's eyes were wild. "Aomorii... Where is she? The boy… It's not his fault. It's not…"
Haturii's eyes narrowed. "What boy?"
"The boy," the researcher gasped. "The sedation pipes—there was a leak. I didn't mean for this to happen. It's not his fault—please believe me!"
"Sedation pipes?" Haturii repeated, and suddenly the memory hit him like a freight train.
The Doom Bringer. One of the most dangerous anomalies they'd ever encountered. Ganymede had mentioned it in passing, speaking of sedation as the last line of defense.
Of course.
Haturii's voice hardened. "Only someone directly involved with the system would know there was a leak. The only reason you'd know is if you caused it. You broke the creature out."
Dr. Stane flinched.
Far away, in the containment facility, alarms screamed to life.
The Kaiju's vitals spiked—heart rate, neural activity, brain function all off the charts. The sedation tubes were severed. The boy was waking up.
Even after years of confinement and physical damage, his regeneration kicked in at terrifying speed. His body restored, his power surged.
Inside the chamber, the monster stirred. Alarms blared. Red lights bathed the room in pulses of warning. Surveillance feeds caught every moment as the Kaiju rose—slow, deliberate, cracking each joint as if savoring the movement.
His mind was a furnace of rage and cold precision.
He wasn't just strong—he was clever. A predator. A student of suffering.
And now, he was awake.
A slow, malevolent grin spread across his face. His eyes ignited with a crimson gleam.
---
WhydoIfeellikeI'mwalkingdowndeathrow?
Far from containment, the boy sat in the back of a classroom, the world around him muted and surreal.
He was on the run. A fugitive. Far from the sterile halls of the Foundation, far from Home. And yet… strangely free.
But what path should he take? Escape? Hide? Blend in?
The lecture droned on, Orenji's voice carrying something about Rollerball. The Kaiju didn't care. His gaze flickered to the chains on his wrists—steel reminders of his captivity. The weight crushed more than just flesh. It suffocated spirit, mind, and identity.
Since that night—the grotesque humans, the pain, the confusion—something in him had died. His ambitions. His sense of self. His clarity.
"Hey. Earth to new guy," Orenji's voice cut through the fog.
He blinked, startled. A drop of sweat ran down his temple.
Huh?Oh, uh...yeah.
Orenji squinted, not buying it. He followed the boy's line of sight—toward the officers in the hallway.
"You see something interesting?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "I was asking if you wanted to join us for a game of Rollerball."
The boy didn't answer.
"You okay?" Orenji reached toward him, but the boy flinched.
"Yeah. I'm okay," he replied flatly.
"You sure?" Orenji pushed gently.
The Kaiju signed slowly, "It'snothing," hiding behind the fluid motion of his hands.
Lies, he knew.
But Orenji kept watching. Waiting.
"It'snothingimportant," the Kaiju added, though his tone betrayed him.
Still, the officers in the hallway lingered.
One of them looked at him—not past him, but into him.
His pulse quickened.
"Okay, let'sgo," he signed suddenly, grabbing Orenji by the arm and steering him toward the field. Toward the game. Toward the crowd.
"Wait, what? We're going to play?" Orenji asked, confused.
"Yeah. Sure. Whateveryousay," the Kaiju replied, heart pounding.
---
Rollerball.
Abattlefielddisguisedasa game.
Itwasbrutal, beautifulchaos—whereathleticismmetaggressioninaritualofpainandglory.
The Kaiju took in the scene. The track was massive—a full mile of screaming teens, clattering shoes, and raw adrenaline.
"Yikes," he mused.
Orenji chuckled. "Yeah. It's a full mile."
The teams lined up on opposite sides, buzzing with energy. Tension crackled in the air.
Photonball wasn't just a sport—it was a societal pressure valve. A space where violence became spectacle. Where pain became performance. Where teenagers could feel invincible—just for a moment.
A hybrid of roller skating and high-flying dunk shots, played with vert ramps and roller shoes. Strategy met chaos. Precision met collisions.
The Kaiju watched, unmoved by the rules. He wasn't thinking of the game.
He was watching the crowd. The officers. The horizon.
Had someone recognized him? Was he still safe?
Maybe… maybeitwasnothing…
But even as the game began, the question refused to leave him:
Was this freedom?
Or just a new kind of prison?