Titans and Jaegers

AN: Grant me your power stones!

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[Arizona, September 14, 2014]

While the world tensed over the Kaiju attacks, with the United Nations gathering for what would be their final meeting to decide whether to surrender or fight, Simon was sitting comfortably.

In recent months, school had become a parade of yawns. Everything felt slow, obvious, unnecessary. Exams were a waste of time, and the teachers talked as if he couldn't do arithmetic on the back of his handwriting notebook.

The only real exception had been Snow. His friendship with her—if it could even be called that—had grown stronger. He'd even visited her house a couple of times. He had eaten some slightly burned cookies made by her mother—bland, if he was honest—but her mother made up for the lack of sugar with an extraordinary view.

And no, he wasn't talking about the balcony.

Snow's mother was different in the comfort of her own home. She had a warm smile, long legs that were hard to ignore in her short shorts, and a habit of wearing light clothes when it was hot. Simon, who could solve an encryption algorithm in five minutes but didn't quite understand what he felt when he saw her, had reached a simple conclusion: he was in love. Secretly, of course.

And anyone would think that he went to that house to strengthen his friendship with Snow...

But no.

The truth was that he loved every second when the lady opened the door with her hair tied up and an old T-shirt on.

So if anyone asked why he had already visited that house six times in less than two weeks, he had two possible answers: "to strengthen his friendship with Snow," or "to watch her mother bend down to take a tray out of the oven."

What was curious was that, up until now, he hadn't seen Snow's father. So he assumed—clinging to a hope that bordered on fantasy—that maybe they were separated. Or divorced. Or exiled to another dimension, it didn't matter. The point was: he wasn't around, and that left room to dream about an improbable love story between a scatterbrained woman and a seven-year-old boy with the soul of a NASA engineer and the heart of a telenovela.

The ironic part was that he was the illegal one in this situation.

That afternoon, while drinking warm juice in Snow's backyard—because the kind lady had forgotten the ice—Simon started a small conversation to get something off his chest.

"It'd be cool to build a friend."

Snow looked at him immediately. Not surprised. Curious. As if she were expecting something more.

Simon shrugged.

"I saw The Iron Giant," he said with fake indifference as he sipped his juice. "You know… a friend who doesn't talk much, but listens well."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, like me."

Simon looked at her blankly.

"What?" Snow replied, sounding offended. "You talk little, but think too much." She shrugged again and drank her juice like it didn't matter. But he saw her smile behind the rim of her glass.

Snow was smarter than she let on with her calm, quiet demeanor.

And even though Simon had said the "friend" thing as a joke, he wouldn't be surprised if she had picked up on something deeper.

And that, far from bothering him, made him happy.

Snow was different.

She finished her juice, and Simon, without saying anything else, did the same. There was a brief, comfortable silence.

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[A few minutes later]

Simon was in the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch with his legs dangling. He was rolling a bolt between his fingers like it was some sort of talisman. From the kitchen came the sound of soft footsteps. Snow's mother appeared in the doorway, drying her hands with a flowery towel.

Her hair was long, loose, and so black it seemed to swallow light. Her eyes were amber, so bright they looked like the sky at sunset. She had a figure so sensual it hardly seemed fit for a lawyer. But nothing about her seemed to be trying to attract attention. She just was. At home, she looked softer, kinder, with a warmth that contrasted with the cold, strict appearance she had outside. Still, even in her most maternal mode, there was something undeniably alluring in the way she moved, in the soft tone of her voice.

"You know, Simon, you've never asked me what my name is," she said with a discreet smile, sitting down on the couch across from him.

Simon blinked. That was typical of him—even Snow had experienced it; he'd called her by a nickname in his mind long before learning her real name.

"That's true… I don't know it."

"Selina," she said, and the name seemed to float in the air like a melody.

"Ah," he replied, etching it into his memory with mental bold, italics, and ALL CAPS.

Selina set the towel on the back of the couch and noticed something on his shoulder.

"And that dragon? You always bring it."

Simon looked at his loyal stuffed companion, resting with dignity on his shoulder.

"It was a gift from my mom," he said. "She gave it to me the day I was born. Or so they told me."

She nodded with tenderness.

"Then it must be important."

"It is," Simon replied, with uncertainty.

Is it? Does he miss his family?—He didn't have time to get lost in thought because after a short silence, she asked again:

"And what's my daughter like out there?" Selina asked, crossing her legs and letting out a soft laugh.

Simon thought for a second—he wasn't going to say anything reckless.

"Like any other girl. Though a bit weirder. In a good way."

"Yeah," she sighed. "Sometimes I think she doesn't quite fit in. That she's… difficult. She has certain tendencies that could bother other kids."

"Like what?" Of course, he knew—but he wasn't going to say. He was a good guy.

Selina looked at him and smiled, as if to say, You already know.

"She's a kleptomaniac, to a problematic degree. I take her to therapy, but the specialist says it's more of a preference than a condition."

Simon let out a light laugh.

"Well… being her friend is never boring."

He watched her discreetly, trying not to be obvious. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way her lips curved when she talked about her daughter… There was something hypnotic about it all. A magnetism unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"And your husband?" he dared to ask, curious.

"We're separated," she replied calmly. "He lives in Russia. That's where he was born. He stayed there when things started getting bad here."

"How are your brothers, Simon?" she suddenly asked, her tone softening, as if she sensed the answer.

Simon lowered his gaze, his smile fading—more from doubt than from sadness.

"Missing. Since the first Kaiju attack. Same as my parents. I haven't heard anything since."

Silence fell like a thick blanket.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she whispered warmly. "This absurd war… we're all broken in some way, we just hide it differently."

Simon nodded. He didn't say anything else. He didn't want to ruin the moment with more questions.

Selina leaned forward, wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him tightly, as if she could fix something just by holding him hard enough. And Simon—already completely enchanted—closed his eyes, letting himself be wrapped in that hug and resting his face on her chest, as if the universe made sense for a few seconds. No monsters, no albino gods, and no need to worry about a Kaiju biting his butt. With his head nestled between her breasts, he thought that if heaven existed in this strange new universe, it probably looked a lot like this.

"I've been hearing things," she murmured, almost like talking to herself—because honestly, she didn't know why she was telling him specifically. "Some of my friends say the U.N. meetings are getting more tense by the day. Today's the final one. They're going to broadcast it live. Supposedly, they're presenting some projects... solutions, they say. But it sounds more like desperation."

Simon didn't answer. He just breathed in the warm scent of her neck, storing away every word.

"I'm thinking of moving further inland," she added with a sigh. "Arizona isn't exactly coastal, but... lately, even that doesn't feel safe. There's something in the air. Something... imminent."

Simon raised his gaze just enough to see her expression. There was concern, yes—but also that same sweetness that never seemed to go away.

"Thanks again for spending time with Nadya," she said, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "I know she can be difficult. And not just because of her habits... She's a complicated girl. But you're good for her."

"No problem," he answered, barely audible. "It's... nice to have friends you can trust."

She hugged him again, and he wished—deeply—that he could just be another ignorant child in this world.

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The sunset was starting to take on a soft red hue. Simon stood up, brushing off his shorts slightly, his plush dragon still perched on one shoulder.

"Well, I think it's time for me to go," he said, addressing Selina and Snow, who were sitting on the edge of the couch, sharing the last crumbs of cookies.

Selina smiled and stood up as well.

"Want me to drive you?" she asked, tying her hair into a loose ponytail.

Simon quickly shook his head, tucking his bike helmet under his arm.

"Thanks, but… I need to stop and buy something before I get home. Besides, I live close by," he replied, forcing a casual smile.

Selina raised an eyebrow, but didn't insist.

"All right, sweetheart. Be very careful. I'll call your grandmother to check if you've arrived," she said, stepping closer to give him a gentle pat on the head. The brief contact left a warm feeling, like a spark running down his spine.

From the couch, Snow raised her hand in a lazy wave.

"See you, cookie thief."

Simon laughed and waved back, pushing his bike toward the street.

The breeze hit his face the moment he stepped outside. It was a cool evening—not cold. Perfect for riding.

He got on his bike, slipped his feet into the pedals, and started down the empty neighborhood streets, where the lights flickered like tired fireflies. He had barely gone two blocks when his phone, secured in his back pocket, vibrated insistently.

He slowed down a bit and pulled it out. The screen showed "Grandma" in large, blinking letters.

He answered right away.

"Hello?"

"Where are you, Simon?" his grandmother's voice came through, sweet but laced with that constant worry that never quite left her.

Simon smiled, knowing it was impossible to lie to her.

"I'm just leaving Snow's house," he replied naturally. "But I'm going to stop and pick up something before I get home."

There was a brief silence on the other end, like she was weighing the risk behind that simple sentence.

"All right, sweetheart. But don't stay out too late, okay? You're still a child," she said with a mix of tenderness and firmness.

Simon nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Yeah, Grandma. Just for a little bit. I'll let you know when I'm almost home."

"All right, honey. I love you."

"I love you too, Grandma."

He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket, sighing. It was curious: in a world falling apart from Kaiju attacks, where his family was still missing somewhere in the chaos, his grandmother still found room to worry about things like whether the sun was setting too fast.

As he pedaled at a steady pace, his mind wandered back to the device he had just put away. It was a second-hand iPhone 6 that his grandmother had given him—a relic compared to the phones of his time.

"I definitely need to do something about this…" he thought, frowning slightly.

He had always preferred foldable phones—those new Samsung models that looked like something out of the future. Phones that could close like a notebook and fit in any pocket without the risk of cracking the screen in half.

"It can't be that hard… I'd just have to make a new case… maybe split the screen in two, simulate a hinge… I'll figure something out."

He smiled to himself, amused by his own stubbornness. Even if the iPhone could survive a Kaiju attack, Simon wanted it to at least look cooler.

The wind tousled his hair as he quickly pulled his headphones from the front pocket of his backpack. He put them on without stopping. With one hand, he fumbled through his playlist and selected his go-to music.

The heavy guitar of a rock classic rang in his ears, shaking the loneliness from the street. The deep bass seemed to match the world's heartbeat as Simon pedaled harder, like the asphalt itself was pushing him forward.

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Simon kept pedaling, moving away from the streets and into the outskirts of town, where weeds had begun to swallow old lampposts and the roads grew narrower and more uneven.

The store was just an excuse. It always had been.

What he was really looking for lay much farther away: the old Willow Creek Sanatorium, a forgotten relic from the 1950s, built outside the city to "isolate" those deemed dangerous or beyond repair. A massive building, with peeling walls and broken rooftops, surrounded by twisted trees and vines thick as snakes.

He'd heard rumors—whispers in school hallways, half-told stories around nighttime campfires. Tales of doctors performing inhuman therapies, of basements so deep it felt like the building itself was trying to bury its shame underground. Most kids didn't even dare approach the rusted gate.

But Simon wasn't like most kids.

To him, that basement meant something else: a secluded, spacious place, hidden enough to try something that would raise too many questions anywhere else.

Something like summoning a giant robot.

Simon got off the bike, pushing it through a gap in the collapsed fence. His breathing was calm, but in his chest, he felt the electricity of anticipation.

With his dragon still strapped on like a silent sentinel—or a lucky charm—he crossed the weed-infested yard. Every step on the gravel echoed loudly.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, pushing aside a bush that seemed intent on swallowing his backpack. "All of Arizona is drier than an old man drinking sand… and right here looks like they planted the Amazon jungle."

He laughed to himself, shaking his head.

"Maybe we should just abandon the whole state," he joked, raising his voice as if speaking to some ghost among the trees. "Then we'd have forests again."

A dry chuckle escaped him as he kept moving forward. It was a good distraction from the strange rustle he'd just heard in the undergrowth.

"All right, haunted jungle," he said, lifting his bike over a thick root. "Wish me luck."

Then, he crossed the threshold of the old building.

Inside, the air was thick, heavy with dust and the scent of dampness.

Simon turned on a small flashlight from his pocket. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating flaking walls, yellowed papers scattered across the floor, and rusty gurneys abandoned to their fate.

He didn't stop.

He knew exactly where he was going: the basement.

Down there, in the dampness, he might find enough space to test whether his robot could materialize without being seen by anyone.

He descended the stairs behind the door at the end of the hallway, following the spiral path into the sanatorium's gut, each heartbeat pounding louder in the shadows.

He was close. Very close.

The flashlight trembled in his hand, casting beams of light that flickered like frantic heartbeats on the moisture-stained walls.

As he descended, he couldn't stop thinking about the UN transmission—the meeting about the proposals against the Kaiju.

He had to get home. He had to see that meeting. It would be foolish to rely only on his meta-information.

"It's not like I know that much…"

But then, a screech—a rusted groan—cut through his thoughts like a knife.

Without warning, the staircase gave way.

The world tilted into an abyss of rubble and darkness.

The flashlight flew from his hand, spinning in a slow, cruel fall.

Simon's stomach lurched.

He was going to crash.

He was going to die.

A thought screamed inside him.

IT WAS NOW.

Something opened in his mind—like a door.

A symbol lit up on his hand: a circle of interlocked gears, turning and overlapping, pulsing with life.

God, this is going to sound stupidly cliché…

But I can't think of anything else…

Without fully understanding, Simon stretched his arm toward the void and screamed from the depths of his soul:

"ACTIVATE!!!"

The air in front of him exploded in lines of light, like threads of energy tearing through the fabric of reality.

At first, it was only outlines—glowing arcs, blue and white vectors weaving through the void, sketching the shape of an invisible giant. Then came the details: armor plates appearing like digital fragments, pieces assembling at impossible speed, crackling and vibrating.

It was like watching a building being born in seconds.

A metallic torso emerged in a flash; giant arms formed like stalactites of light hardening into steel.

The machine's face—neutral—assembled layer by layer, like a mechanical god answering its summoner.

Just as Simon was about to crash, the robot's cockpit—still forming—absorbed him in a burst of glowing particles.

He felt his body merge into the central core, as if the entire structure had been designed to receive and protect him.

An electric chill ran down his skin; the machine's sensors synced with his breathing, his heartbeat, his thoughts.

The basement trembled, and the final sparks of digital construction faded into the air.

Suspended inside the colossus, Simon squeezed his eyes shut.

"Pilot confirmed. Synchronization complete."

A hum filled the air. The helmet lights flared on like awakened eyes.

And Simon opened his.