Sons of god, Biblical super humans, Giants who fell from the skies and walked the Earth, cleansing the world with their righteous fire. Dwarfing skyscrapers and spouting beams of infernal judgment, they marched forth on their crusade. Hell-bent, ironically enough, on the global genocide of man. They were unwavering. They were invincible. They were unstoppable.
Were.
KRAKA-DOOOOOOOOM
The Earth beneath us quakes under the magnitude of the Jaeger cannon. The collective destructive power of a hydrogen bomb, focused into a concussive beam of energy that spanned a kilometer wide and 15 km long before it reached the eldritch Goliath. The brilliant flash of light lasted 5 whole seconds and could be seen for miles around. The water in the air boiled, ground beneath them tore asunder, patches where communities or villages took refuge were puddles of fire. Where the behemoth stood, there was only smoke and the toxic stench of its molten flesh. Where live had been scavenging and stuggling, there was ash. Whatever ruins of a bygone civilization remaining had been nigh-vaporized.
"Direct hit, Captain." A young man boldly announced over the loudspeaker. "Nephilim neutralized."
The room erupted in cheers. Aboard the Wolverine, to slay a Giant was cause for festivities that'd make Caligula blush. One could already hear a keg being popped open in the distance. The man who delivered the good news had leaned back in his swivel chair with pride in his heart. He wasn't one to celebrate. The thrill of the hunt was it's own reward.
"David, m'boy. You do an old man proud."
David spun around. Even at 78 years of age, The Captain stood with as much life and bravado as any soldier on board. The old man had to have limped from his command post, through 50 meters of partying technicians and pilots, just to personally thank the Israeli lad at the desk labeled "Prime Asskicker" in crude sharpie. David stood at attention.
"Thank you sir. At 15 kliks it was point-blank range, sir."
"Spare me the modesty Richardson. You've gone above and beyond the call of duty since ol' Chuck passed away. Your daddy would be proud."
"Thank you, sir."
"I've been putting some thought into it and.... I think a promotion is in order."
Promoted to what? At just 22 years of age, David Richardson had already already achieved the title of Minister of Defense (AKA "prime Asskicker"), after having developed the method of tailing and sneak-attacking the Nephilim over the course of days rather than taking them head on. It was he who optimized the Jaeger cannon for maximum range. The rank came with having full control of every gun, missile and cannon aboard the gargantuan tank, the ARK-27 that doubled as a mobile city. They called this rolling sanctuary the Wolverine. Alas, David hadn't the faintest clue what that is a reference to, other than what Captain Noah described as 'fierce little fuckers that eat bears.'. Not sure what a Bear is either, but it must be impressive for Captain Noah to make note of it.
*snap*
"Still there, Richardson?"
David zoned out again. "Umm, *cough* yes. Sorry sir. Been at the wheel for 12 hours now. Sir."
"Well, for fuck's sake, son. Get a drink. Stretch your legs. Then see me in the watchtower at 2000 hours. And try not to work yourself to death." He says with a nudge on the shoulder. He turns and walks off, doing god knows what. For all his leadership qualities, the man had little respect for structure and military order.
David slumps back in his chair and returns to his desk. His, like many others in the hundreds of feet of now abandoned hardware, is a large touch-screen desk with limited holographic capabilities and a coffee mug always on the bottom left corner. Daddy's little helper. He checks his watch: 1430 right now. 'Yellow Submarine' by The Beatles plays in the background, and three dozen youthes caterwaul with a reverence seen only in the Vatican.
