AN: Grant me your power stones!
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The air in the abandoned basement stirred as a ripple shook the once quiet surroundings. Dust in suspension danced in pale beams of light filtering through rusty grates, partially illuminating the massive silhouette that dominated the space. Despite its size, the metallic figure seemed to hold its breath, as if awaiting a command.
The Gundam was there, kneeling, one knee driven into the cracked concrete, its head barely brushing the corroded ceiling beams. It couldn't stand upright—not without destroying everything around it.
Its white armor gleamed with a cold glow under the diffused light, adorned with bold blue panels, red and gold accents. Resting on its back were the hilts of what seemed to be swords, still sheathed—like a predator in slumber. The colossus's eyes, ochre and bright, remained unlit… until now.
[Insert Image]
The entire room seemed to hold its breath, as if even the decayed walls of the sanatorium recognized that something momentous had just awakened in its dark belly.
Suddenly, a faint electric hum rose from the robot's chest—a digital whisper that grew louder with strength. The joints let out a deep crack. Then, the system spoke in a clear, neutral voice, echoing through the underground:
"Pilot confirmed. Synchronization complete."
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Simon blinked, dazed by the flash that had surrounded him seconds earlier. His breathing echoed loudly inside the helmet now covering his head, and he felt the firm pressure of a harness fastened to his back, holding him as if he were part of the fuselage. Beneath his feet, a metal platform shifted subtly, balancing him inside a spherical cockpit that rotated gently, like he was inside a living gyroscope. No matter how much he leaned—the system kept him upright.
The cockpit's inner walls were smooth, black, etched with fine glowing lines that spread like lit circuits. In front of him, floating touch panels appeared like holograms in a wide arc, displaying unfamiliar yet intuitive readings. It was as if the machine already knew what he needed before he even thought of it.
—"What...?"—he muttered, catching his reflection, noticing how he was trembling slightly—but not from fear. From awe.
Moments later, he felt the vertigo of the giant body as if it were his own. Every micro-adjustment, every faint tremor of the servomotors translated into sensations along his muscles. At first, he thought it was the gyroscope or the harness adjusting, but no—his mind was connected to the robot's. He wasn't piloting it with controls; he could feel it. Like an extension of his own body.
He watched as each of his movements inside the cockpit was immediately mirrored by the massive metal colossus around him. He rotated a shoulder, and the robot did the same. Slightly bent a leg—and the ground trembled beneath the titan. There were no buttons, no levers, no joysticks. Just him, a magnetic harness holding him like he was hanging from an exoskeleton, and a gyroscopic platform compensating for any sharp motion from the mecha.
—"Okay… mental note: don't move a finger or I'll take out half the basement"—he muttered, swallowing hard as even the faintest twitch of his shoulder triggered a series of motor vibrations throughout the cockpit.
He glanced down at his body. The tight armor covering him from neck to ankles looked like a cross between a spacesuit and tactical training mesh. Black, with glowing blue lines slowly pulsing along his arms and sides.
—"Not to be rude... but what is this? Emo-mode pilot suit?"—he grumbled, scrunching his face—"Doesn't even look cool. I look like the secondary villain that dies in Act One."
As if someone—or something—had heard him, the suit shimmered with a liquid vibration. One moment, it was black and subtle… the next, it was gleaming red.
Simon's jaw dropped. The armor looked like it was made of some kind of smart liquid metal, capable of changing at will. He wanted to analyze it—but something else caught his attention.
A holographic screen floated just inches in front of his eyes. On it, a 3D model of his suit slowly rotated. It wrapped around him like a second skin—blood red, with an asymmetrical silver stripe running across the chest like a restrained lightning bolt. From a certain angle, it looked like the number 1. The helmet had a dark visor that gave it a silent predator vibe, and hanging from the belt were two pistols—minimalist in design but clearly deadly. The gloves and boots retained some white accents, contrasting against the vibrant red. Everything about the suit looked crafted for elegant warfare—where the pilot was both weapon and symbol.
[Insert Image]
Simon looked down at himself.
—"Okay, yeah… I definitely look like part of the S.P.D. But like, the version with a dark Netflix budget."
A laugh escaped him without permission, a pressure release. But as soon as he calmed down, a thought struck him. He knew—as anyone with internet access and movie knowledge did—that Jaegers, those war titans that fought Kaijus, needed two pilots due to the neural load of managing so much mass and systems at once. Two minds, synchronized, sharing the burden.
—"Of course, if you're super lucky or full of faith, maybe you can pilot one alone"—he joked—"Or if you're chosen, or the screenwriter really likes you."
But his laughter cut short, replaced by scientific curiosity.
—"Let's see… in theory, a single pilot could handle a Jaeger if it were… what? Sixteen meters tall, maybe a bit more?"—he slowly turned the mecha's head toward the ceiling, which groaned under the giant's weight—"So then… why the hell can I move this monster that must be, like... thirty meters tall standing up?"
A new thought hit him: he needed to study the system. Understand the tech. Maybe there was a hidden AI or some secret neural adaptation. Maybe the suit's liquid metal was part of the control system. Could it be replicated? Where had it come from?
He was so absorbed in his theories—neural interface hypotheses, hidden commands, fuel sources—that he didn't notice the sound at first. A soft alarm, like a gentle but insistent buzz, began to ring in the cockpit. Not urgent… but persistent. Like a reminder.
And then the memory hit him like a freight train.
"It won't last long… at least, not the first time."
The god's words pierced his mind like an arrow. Simon rolled his eyes.
—"Would've preferred a damn countdown, you cursed albino"—he grumbled, just as everything around him began to dissolve.
A strange sensation swept through the harness and the gyroscope. The entire environment started to vanish like digital dust. The massive titan he'd started calling Gundam—because, well, they had called it that, so why not go with it?—turned into light, and then… into nothing.
Simon barely had time to blink before he felt the support vanish beneath his feet.
And with its disappearance came the fall.
—"Oh no. Not again…"
He fell.
This time—no robot, no cockpit, no floor under him. Just gravity… and a healthy dose of regret.
—"Well, this is how I die. Crushed by my own clumsiness and lack of a dimensional lease contract"—he thought as he descended—"What a completely unepic way to go."
He squeezed his eyes shut as the ground came closer.
"Shiiiiiiiiiit…" he shouted, throwing his arms over his head.
But there was no pain. Just a gentle pressure, a soft, almost affectionate push. The red suit absorbed the entire impact, releasing waves of energy upon contact with the ground, completely cushioning the fall.
And after a few bounces, Simon lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for divine clarification.
—"Confirmed: either I have the best luck in the world… or that god wants to keep me entertained before actually killing me"—he whispered, groaning as he sat up.
Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
He turned, disbelieving—and there it was: the little stuffed animal was still hooked to his shoulder, clinging as if it had never moved.
—"What…?"—he murmured, carefully picking it up.
He had completely forgotten about it. With everything that had happened—the suit activation, the Gundam, the fall—the plushie had vanished from his mental radar. And yet, there it was. Somehow, it had stayed with him. How? No idea. He didn't even remember seeing it inside the Gundam. It was as if it had just… been there. Safe.
—"Okay. You're definitely bringing me luck"—he told the plushie, giving it a gentle pat—"Or you're possessed. We'll find out soon."
That's when he noticed the suit was still there. It hadn't vanished like the robot. On the contrary—it was glowing faintly.
With just a thought—not even a command, just a wish—the suit began to dissipate.
Not like it was breaking. It was elegant. As if thousands of liquid particles withdrew in a spiral, absorbing into his skin, evaporating in a silent, dazzling display.
Simon watched, fascinated.
—"Does this come in other colors? Because honestly… I loved it."
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The street was nearly empty. Only the distant murmur of a TV left on and the lone song of a cricket accompanied the soft rattle of the bicycle on the uneven asphalt.
Simon pedaled with the ease of someone who'd spent years escaping strict schedules. The wheels groaned at every turn, but he barely noticed anymore.
"Almost seven years now, riding through the streets alone like some night-shift delivery guy," he muttered. "Throw in a helmet and I could pass for a very irresponsible adult."
He glanced at his phone. It wasn't late. It was way too late. But the upside of having a grandma who falls asleep before the sun does is that, with a little luck, she'd believe he got back early too.
"Bless deep sleep and boring soap operas," he grinned. "I'll slip in without making a sound, heat up the food grandma left me, and head straight to the TV."
The thought tightened his chest for a moment. The meeting.
The meeting would be broadcast in a few hours. Basically the middle of the night for him, but broad daylight in Seoul. The UN, the presidents, the experts. All gathered to talk about the kaijus in the ocean.
"Who the heck decided to hold it in Seoul?" he grumbled, turning a corner. "Probably someone who doesn't care about children's sleep."
He sped up.
He didn't want to miss a thing. If someone was going to say something important about the rift, about what was coming out of the sea... he needed to hear it. Needed to know just how real the information he remembered was. Preferably on a full stomach, sure, but focused.
In the distance, his grandmother's house peeked through the shadows. Dark. Asleep. Quiet, as it should be.
Simon smiled again. Because no matter how strange the day had been, no matter how chaotic his life felt right now... at least one thing still worked the same: grandma still believed he always came home early.
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[Seoul, September 15th, 2014]
The car slid down the nearly empty avenue, the lights of Seoul glowing in the distance like a swarm of artificial stars. Jasper Schoenfeld sat in the back seat, his forehead resting lightly against the window. The driver said nothing. He knew the doctor wasn't a man of conversation when he was lost in thought.
Jasper wasn't looking at the cityscape. He was looking backward, into the past. Back to his living room, the TV still on, and the broken voice of a reporter struggling to describe the hell unfolding in Sydney during the fourth kaiju attack.
Scissure.
Humans and their obsession with naming everything.
A creature the size of a government building, with two lateral jaws that opened like industrial shears and a slow but unstoppable gait. It took three full days to contain it, and in the end, the only option was to lure it into an uninhabited testing zone… and drop a nuclear warhead on it.
"A tactical success," analysts said. Jasper had only seen the mushroom cloud — and thought of the children who no longer had homes.
He remembered sitting on his couch that night, the TV still flickering. His wife was asleep. He couldn't sleep. They kept showing footage of the crater, the dust, the remains of Sydney. The city looked like it had been scraped from the earth with a hot spatula.
Then his eyes turned to his son.
The boy was playing on the carpet with a green, one-eyed monster that growled while punching a red-and-blue plastic robot. Both were the same size. Both were fearless.
And that was it. Right there. As if a door had opened.
"They were saying the world's best scientists would gather in Seoul to share ideas," he murmured now, almost to himself, not noticing the driver listening. "And I couldn't stop staring at that robot. Something about that image... that fight between equals... it all clicked."
He adjusted in his seat and took a deep breath.
"Our armies were built to fight other armies. Other human minds — with rules, with strategy. But kaijus aren't armies. They're walking instinct. They don't reason, they don't negotiate. They just destroy."
And still, we fought them like they were terrorists. Missiles, tanks, bombs… as if that could ever be enough.
"The first kaiju was brought down without nuclear arms, yes… but it took too long. And we lost too many."
Schoenfeld clenched his fingers against his leg.
"We couldn't keep relying on weapons built for human wars. We needed something else. Another kinetic force. One that could strike with the power of a nuclear bomb, but without leaving a city lifeless after every victory. A solution… human."
He looked forward.
The car was approaching the perimeter of the conference center. Soon he would be standing before the most powerful people on Earth. Some skeptical. Others afraid. All of them desperate.
And he was arriving with a proposal that still sounded like science fiction.
Robots the size of buildings. Able to go toe-to-toe with a beast weighing thousands of tons. Piloted by humans. Thinking like humans. Moving like humans. Protecting like humans.
The car came to a stop.
Jasper moved without hesitation.
He glanced at his hands for a moment. And once again, he thought of his son, lifting the robot above the monster, making triumphant sounds with his mouth.
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"—Now, let's not have them think I'm crazy—"
In a rush, briefcase in one hand, jacket still half-buttoned. He had walked the final stretch lost in thought. Now, the revelation needed a stage. And that stage was seconds away from lowering the curtain.
He pushed through the double doors of the auditorium, nearly stumbling into a security aide, and entered just as the lights dimmed slightly. The voice of Marshal Stacker Pentecost filled the room — projected with the kind of power that doesn't just demand attention, but obedience. Schoenfeld dropped into the first empty seat he found, not paying much attention to who sat beside him, just catching the tail end of the speech:
"...And that is why we're here today," Pentecost said, his voice rising with every word. "There's only one question that truly matters..."
A pause. The auditorium screens flashed images of cities turned to rubble, fire, and scorched bodies. Tokyo. San Francisco. Sydney.
"What does it take... to grab these monsters by the throat and drag them back to hell?!"
The marshal's fist slammed against the podium. Schoenfeld felt it in his chest. Not from the blow — but from the conviction. He had assumed Pentecost was just a symbolic advisor, a military figurehead to give the event some gravitas. But there he was, in the flesh, immovable, uniform pristine, with that gaze as hard as steel… and suddenly, Schoenfeld understood why they had made him the face of this crusade.
He wasn't just any strategist. He was a leader.
But there were no cheers. Only the muffled sound of held breaths.
And then the thing the doctor feared most happened.
Nothing.
No one spoke.
No one stood up.
Not a single scientist, politician, or advisor dared to say "I have an idea."
Schoenfeld swallowed hard. His hand was slick with sweat on the handle of his briefcase. The weight of the silence was crushing. But in that pressure... he found his momentum.
"What if no one says it?" he whispered to himself. "What if this dies right here?"
He looked at Pentecost's figure — still firm, defiant, standing before the projected devastation behind him and the eyes of the world in front. His voice still echoed in the chamber. But he couldn't be the only voice.
Schoenfeld glanced down at his case — the simulations, the analyses — one last time. He hesitated. Maybe it was madness. Maybe they'd send him home, labeled a dreamer.
But if he didn't speak now, maybe he never would. Maybe no one ever would.
He stood up and raised his hand, awkwardly, like a student in class. Cleared his throat and said, with more determination than he felt:
"I have a proposal."
Every head turned.
Dozens of faces swiveled toward him.
The eyes of half of humanity — present in that room or watching from their homes and shelters — landed on him.
"Not a final solution… but an alternative. Something different. A way to match the kaijus' strength… without condemning our cities to nuclear fire. Something that… something that could work."
He paused, gripping the handle of his briefcase tightly, eyes locked on Stacker Pentecost.
"I'd like to present the Jaeger Project."
The auditorium fell into absolute silence.
Pentecost looked at him.
Not with skepticism. Not with scorn. But with the calm tension of a soldier who has stared death in the face… and kept walking.
And as if time itself held its breath for a single reply, his voice rang out — firm, resolute, leaving no room for doubt:
"Then get on that stage… and present the idea that will save humanity."