Bikini Kaiju - Ch 11

Steel Ruth squatted low in the ruins of San Francisco with her elbows on her knees, catching her breath. She was too old for this, she told herself, but no. Not too old, just too lazy. Tired. Age was the least problem: seven decades since the mad incident that had changed all their lives – and the world – she wasn’t physically much worse off than before, save a few creaks, creases and scars, but she had long since stopped pushing herself as far as exercise went. It could have got her killed here, she supposed, moving a little too slow, a little too weak to fight the Luprime Kaiju. Or had that just been complacency too? If her heart wasn’t really in it, and she wasn’t really giving it her all, that was more a hindrance than the difference between doing a hundred weekly crunches and a thousand.

But hey, his heart certainly wasn’t in it anymore. She smirked, almost tempted to say that out loud, except it wouldn’t make sense without more context than she could be bothered to provide. She stared at the dead kaiju, eyes narrowing at its wound, not sure what she was supposed to think about it. Sheerwolf had always been one of their worst foes. The thing was a hulking freak of a werewolf that had been taking on the three of them as ably as ever before Sweet fucking Sloane flew in there with a punch that caved in his damn chest. Her fist had ripped through a rib cage Ruth knew well enough was tough as damn stone. It would’ve been hard to believe if Ruth hadn’t seen it with her own eyes – was still seeing it, the monster laid out across half of downtown, most definitely dead.

Ruth didn’t mind looking weak here, or old or whatever, crouched and ignored as the others squawked their opinions and celebrations. Don’t mind her, just needed to chill out a minute. While she gathered her thoughts. Washington was drawing attention for now, taking this a bit too well, bruised and bloody as she was – her pearly teeth shone as she laughed at the little white girl who’d killed the big bad wolf.

“I don’t know where this kid came from, but she’s alright by me!” She gestured broadly, announcing it to the city below. Tiny people were slowly emerging from the rubble, starting to get back into relief-effort mode, but first having to get over the whole deep fear and trauma stage.

The ground shook as Ramona Dynamite paced about, eyeing Sloane and the dead wolf with rather more suspicion, but smiling all the same, clicking her tongue and starting to say something, but not quite. She shook her head instead, in disbelief, and muttered a curse or two in Spanish. While she made up her mind how to react, moving to use up that fighting energy, her giant striding was making the locals too nervous to approach.

Then there was Sloane herself, the bikini-clad model warrior, bare skin painted in blood, one hand wet up the forearm, hair sweaty and out of place, but smiling happily, lapping up the attention. She was quiet too, like she couldn’t quite process what she’d done. Wouldn’t be for long, though, Ruth guessed.

There was a movement down at the ground level, between Ruth’s spread knees, as the remnants of the fallen building below her shifted, signs of life buried underneath. A person, trying to crawl free. Ruth watched him, mostly trapped under a slab of wall, like a struggling insect. He managed it, though, pulling himself out then sitting back on his haunches. Coughing on the dust. He was caked in it, a tiny guy in a shirt and slacks grey from a layer of filth. Gritty. Ruth could taste it already, saliva building. But she looked up at the sound of Sloane’s voice.

“Yeah, I caught me this one? What’s your name there, little thing? Ash? Ain’t that cute. You see it? I apologise for the method, little Ash, but hey I guess we got a bit more intimate than first base right there? Shoot we oughta practically be dating now.”

Sloane laughed lightly and Washington gave a snigger, unable to resist and ignoring Ruth’s scowl. There it was, sure enough: the new girl ready to put on a show. Drones were circling above, getting closer for aerial footage of this triumph, and Sloane cocked her hip, the clean hand up and spread with a woman sitting dazed in her palm. Her woman, Ruth realised. That brat, how had she ended up with Ash?

“What do we think, he got weakened after a few years soaking down deep?” Ramona suggested, prodding Sheerwolf’s body with the toe of her big combat boot. “That pressure, being put on ice, guess it’s gonna make you more brittle?”

“Or is Dixie here just really, really strong?” Washington suggested.

“My momma always said I don’t know my own strength.” Sloane shrugged, and Ruth could imagine news anchors laughing over that in studios. Pure performance. But whatever, they were distracted.

Ruth looked down again to the little survivors – there were more now, the shirt guy having doubled back to help a few others clear, but they were slowing, backing up nervously as they’d realised she was looming hugely over them. Shirt-guy was standing rapt, eyes wide, and he gave a tiny wave in greeting. She narrowed her eyes at his dirty little skin. It was wrong, she knew it, but you developed urges. Maybe it came from trauma, conditioned in terrible circumstances, but there was just something that much more enticing about catching humans in trouble. The sweat, the fear, the added texture – she didn’t care that she might be crunching bits of masonry or that rags of clothing got caught in her teeth. It felt good.

He was whispering to his companions, not-so-subtly pushing the woman next to him, urging them away. Must’ve noticed the way Ruth was staring. She glanced up at Sloane again, the giantess making some other inane comment, half-turned away. Ruth reached down and the survivors bolted, falling over each other and the rubble to scurry around her foot. Nowhere near quick enough. She plucked up Shirt-guy by the waist and watched his little arms and legs windmilling, throat too dry and worn out to make much sound. Ruth considered him for just a moment, with a weary exhale. It had been a long damn journey to get here and she’d taken a few licks from that massive dog. She deserved this. She pushed the struggling man into her mouth and savoured his panicked struggles, the feel of his flapping arms and legs sliding over her tongue, hitting her teeth. She rolled her jaw, caught him between her teeth and pressed down. Enough to hold him there, starting to apply some pressure. Then she scooped him back into the middle with her tongue, so he slid still, cowering. Swallowed.

Ruth closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the tiny guy sliding down her throat, and his brief swimming in her stomach. Always a fun little flutter. Then it was over for him. She scanned the ground again, reached aside and caught one of the women trying to climb a fallen wall. She gave a little squeal as Ruth tossed her into her mouth, chewed a little and swallowed. That was the good stuff.

Breathing deeply with satisfaction, Ruth kicked up to standing and interrupted whatever the hell the others were saying by demanding, “So how’d you bring him back?”

The trio of giantesses before her went quiet, Washington caught in half a smile, Ramona frowning suspiciously and Sloane halfway between them, pretending to look bemused. Definitely pretending. The dead kaiju lay beneath them, a centrepiece to their celebrations.

“Excuse me?” Sloane said at last.

“How the hell did you bring this bastard back?” Ruth reiterated, gesturing at Sheerwolf. “We lost half of Los Angeles taking him down, to bury him under a kilometre of ocean, and here he is prancing back into daylight the same time you show up. So, do I need to say it one more time? How. Did you. Bring him back?”

Sloane’s face had slackened, unable to keep up her good humour against Ruth’s stern tone. Washington wasn’t smiling anymore either, finally seeming to remember what was going on. She regarded the Luprime again, then gave Sloane a questioning look.

Ramona put her fists on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “Ah shit. This one of those Soviet Chicken scenarios? Is that even the real Sheerwolf?”

She was referring to the endemic of giant chickens that had emerged in the late ’70s, biologically engineered destruction birds that it ultimately transpired had been designed by the Soviets specifically to target Western Bloc cities. Why chickens was a question that raged through the history books, though Ruth happened to know it was simply because the mad scientist responsible was, for some reason, obsessed with poultry. You got used to the whims of mad scientists in this business. After all, Raponov, with his chicken fascination, wasn’t all that much less stable than Professor Cracknal himself.

Was that what they were looking at here? Someone who’d cracked the code to grow Sloane giant, and at the same time engineered some weakened versions of their old opponents for her to kill. They all looked down at the mighty beast with its open chest, the gore real enough. It’d felt real enough when his teeth and claws raked Ruth’s skin. Stank enough like a wet dog. And they had tried to take this monster down. Only Sloane managed to break through.

“I dunno what to say,” Sloane came in with a nervous laugh. “I’m kinda insulted. Thought we might be getting along kinda like a team for a minute there. You guys were holding him for me – I couldn’t have done that alone.”

“She was getting her ass licked well enough before you showed,” Washington pointed out and Sloane nodded. Indeed, the girl did have her fair share of cuts and raw skin. A nasty set of gashes across her impressively toned stomach.

Sloane laughed more heartily then. “Sure but I was holding out, wasn’t I?”

“Making it look good for the cameras,” Ramona said, and Ruth loved her for it, so she didn’t have to say it herself.

“We’re all feeling it right now, I guess,” Sloane replied, spreading her arms for peace, making the tiny woman in her palm sway erratically. “Gotta be tired and hurting – let’s not say things we might regret.”

“You think we’re worried about regret,” Ruth huffed, “you clearly don’t know us at all.”

“Yeah, alright, she’s got a point, though,” Washington sighed loudly, rolling her neck. Dammit, Ruth wanted to snarl at her, this was no time to get diplomatic. “No need to get on each other’s backs right now. We’ve got wounds to tend. Survivors to dig out and all that crap. Let’s take a step back, what do you say guys?” She shot Ruth then Ramona a look, not giving them a chance to say no, then locked on Sloane, “And all peaceful like, you can explain it to us, Sloane. No pressure, no danger.”

Sloane held her gaze, face twisting in uncertainty, like she wanted to smile and thank her, but suspected she’d just been tricked. Ruth smiled inwardly. Should’ve trusted the Fury – she could act, too.

“Come on now, among friends?” Washington said. “You know how Sheerwolf got here, don’t you?”

Sloane was quiet. Weighing up her options. Ruth knew well enough what it looked like when someone was thinking about fighting. She might be fast and strong, and young, but she had to be aware there were three of them and one of her. She settled on another smile, though, and chirpily replied, “I won’t lie to y’all. My guys will know something. But I couldn’t say what that is myself. I’m just the muscle. If you’d let us have a proper get-together, well I know we can help each other out.”

“Who are your guys?” Ramona asked, but Sloane winked, falling back into her affable charm, now she’d decided how she wanted to play this.

“Gotta meet them for yourself, don’t ya? But like Ms Washington Fury here says, ain’t it time we started helping clear up this mess? The good people of San Freesco still need our help.”

She let that hang, so they’d have to choose, with this surely being broadcast across the global news. Ramona looked to Ruth. Washington’s eyes went her way too, the pricks putting the responsibility on her. Just like old times.

“Whatever,” Ruth huffed. “I’m not in a hurry.”