Inheritance of Giants

Simple Man

"Forget your lust for the rich man's gold.

All that you need is in your soul.

And you can do this, oh, baby, if you try.

All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied!"

- Simple Man, Lynyrd Skynyrd

~

The MP3 player sat in a lead-lined containment tray at the far end of the diagnostics wing. Kyotoku hadn't moved since setting it there. His back rested against the far wall, arms folded, eyes half-lidded, as if daring the shadows to inch closer.

The lights buzzed faintly overhead — half-burnt fluorescents and the hum of containment systems meant for worse things than a music player.

Kyotoku leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles. "I'm not gonna lie," he said to no one, "this isn't the dumbest thing I've done."

The silence didn't disagree.

He could still feel the phantom warmth of his daughter's hand, the memory of Mika's concerned voice outside the door.

He didn't let them in. He couldn't.

Because what if he was still contaminated? What if he'd already dosed them just by breathing in the same air? It was already a risk of letting them get that close, why would he possibly make it worse? No matter how fuckin' much he wanted to?

No. He'd learned from the best.

From the Sanctuary.

From the moth that sang peace into the bones of monsters.

That thing could stop a stampede with a whisper. Turn rage into stillness. Even the worst Kaiju — ones whose names weren't spoken outside command towers — even they hesitated when she began to hum.

It wasn't fear.

It was reverence.

He remembered standing on that platform — sand in his boots, wind like silk, the air thick with ozone and pollen. Watching a creature the size of a cathedral tilt her wings to the sun and pulse through frequencies humanity hadn't invented words for.

Everyone around him had flinched.

Kyotoku had wept.

Because it wasn't beautiful.

It was honest.

"I think I get it now," he muttered, eyes on the MP3 player across the room. "You're not a curse. You're not a weapon. You're just a—"

His voice cracked slightly.

"You're just a goddamn choir. A broken one. Screaming in a language we forgot."

He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his face with both hands, tired down to the marrow. "Izuku heard you, didn't he? That's why he collapsed. It wasn't decay. It was volume."

He chuckled once. Hollow. "I mean, hell, even a moth could kill with her lullabies. But she never meant to. You didn't either, did you?"

The player didn't glow. Didn't twitch. Just sat there. As still and silent as a tombstone.

But Kyotoku swore...

In the walls, in the wiring, in the tremor just behind his teeth...

He could hear a chord still ringing.

"Ha! If the want to keep my family safe makes me a simple man..." He let his words drop. Let the silence take them. Let the room hold them like breath.

"I'm sorry, Kyoka, that this is the last time you'll-"