Author: Cody Taylor | Banner: Cody Taylor
March 30, 1980
Osaka, Japan
Ten days ago, the light of the world grew a lot dimmer. The howl that had caused evil to tremble in fear and think twice fell silent. The sky was no longer graced by a spinning form, jets of fire twirling in a dance that always left joy and smiling children in its wake. Earth had lost one of its dearest protectors.
When the Zanon approached the Earth, weaponising kaiju against her people with the intention to subjugate and murder, there was no one else to look towards. The Ultras had not been to Earth in five years, Godzilla and his cohort were slowly being cast off to a new monster haven, and the Zone family was all but gone in the wind.
Gamera fought alone. The terrapin had always been supported at his back by likeminded heroes, stopping invasion one after the other and disposing of monsters with ease. But not this time. And after it all, after fighting with every speck of energy wrenched from his soul to defeat his returning foes of years past, the defeat of Zanon demanded the ultimate sacrifice.
Gamera did not die because he was too weak to hold on. He died because he was strong enough to let go.
In the streets, not just here in Osaka but over the globe, children stood shoulder to shoulder, gloomy faces looking to the clouded sky as if there was even the slimmest chance that Gamera would part the sky and return to them, victorious. The loss of their very own guardian, the ‘Friend to All Children’, struck them particularly hard. He was their hero no more.
In solidarity they wore turtle shells, makeshift, from cardboard, paper, plastic, awkwardly strapped around their torsos with string. Some, especially the younger ones, held tightly to their Gamera action figures, placing it to their hearts in an offering that will go unheard. The children wept, they’d been doing so for days. The hope it was all a dream quickly faded, and the reality that Gamera really was dead set in faster than anyone could have wanted.
Osaka’s mourning was a little more personal than most locales. Ten years ago, Gamera had made Expo 70 uniquely exciting by doing battle with the ancient monster Jiger. The city touted itself as somewhat of a home for Gamera, however legitimate that tourism ploy was. An effigy in his image was taken around for him, and the whole city turned out for the procession. Even those that once cried his name in fear had sullen faces.
Funeral dirges played for Gamera, his March of ‘Ganbare Gamera!’ now a soulful reflection on his deeds and selflessness. A monster was born, lived for millions of years as nothing more, feared and despised by the world around him, and yet in his last years and in death, chose to be a hero. It was clear that the legacy he left behind would cast a shadow for decades to come, and the void he left was not so easily filled.
One man trailed the river of grief, amiss without a candle in hand, nor an exactly agonised expression. The man was dressed in a simple beige suit jacket, riding over a white button-up with a mop of silky black hair flowing from his head. He wasn’t from around here . It was his first time in Japan – Earth , actually.
Coming up with a name took some time, but he settled on Takeshi Yamato. Yamato sounded regal, powerful, something that could inspire hope . 80 knew mankind needed some of that right about now.
He had heard incredible things about Earth from his colleagues, but the circumstances under which he had been assigned his job were distressing, enough so that it weighed heavily on his mind. There was a terrible truth that plagued Takeshi, a fact he would inevitably have to grapple with and suppress with all his might if he were to be Ultraman 80.
The terrible truth was that the ‘Age of the Hero’ was in its twilight. An unspoken consensus. Tongues silenced themselves before any dared to say it, but in the hearts of men, women, and children, the paradigm had already shifted far from where it had been, say, in 1973.
Minus Energy, the intangible cosmic virus spawned by the anger and sorrow of sentient beings, had finally swelled to detectable levels on Earth for the first time in history. Takeshi pondered on this, for reading on humanity’s development informed him of countless wars of religion, resource, and race. They were young, foolish, but that’s all they ever knew.
Tasting true light, uniting as a species with hope for the future, that fleeting beauty gave them a gift. Godzilla helped them see, Ultraman guided their hands, and Gamera found their smiles. For such an incredibly brief moment, there was genuine happiness, peace. Then in a flash, it all returned to nothing. Despair became king of the grey world.
Where did it all change?
That was the question Takeshi kept asking himself. His brown eyes flickered ahead of him, landing on the valiant image of Gamera carried by men. The paper-mache turtle looked just as he had in life, head recoiled towards the sky bearing teeth and tusk as if letting loose one final guttural screech, letting the world know from beyond the mortal veil that he was fine wherever his spirit lay.
Sentiments like that did nothing to quell Minus Energy, so where was it all coming from?
There were rumours, popular in the early 70s around the stagnating urban hellscapes of concrete and smog, that a vigilante stalked the streets. He struck at a fascist terror cell, battling troopers and kaijin in a struggle to reclaim the humanity they stole from him. The Kamen Rider.
Shocker was real, Takeshi was certain of that, but its downfall being a result of not one but two grasshopper-themed cyborgs was not something he so readily took as fact. Nevertheless, Kamen Rider the icon, an image of liberty and gritty righteousness, was real to these people of Earth. And they loved him.
After the Shocker-Geldam alliance withered away, so too did sightings of the Riders. Some say they rode off into the sunset on their motorcycles, driving away to some other land where their war had not yet ended. No one would ever truly know, for the men who fought in the margins asked for no thanks. Their work was self-evident in the hearts and minds of those they fought for, and their absence bore the beginning of a hole that would only widen.
Zone Fighter was yet another loss, passing by public attention in complete silence. Takeshi knew this story better, hearing snippets from the Space Garrison academy. The Garoga were acutely aware of their situation, ultimately deciding to flee the Earth in the fall of ‘73 in lieu of an increasing M78 presence about Earth – it was Taro’s tour of duty, and team-ups with his brothers were common.
Rather than deal with the Zone Fighter, Godzilla, the JSDF, ZAT, and the Space Garrison, they simply left. No one knew why, but without warning, the Meteor Man and his family took to space as well. Perhaps to chase the Garoga to exact a sort of revenge, to finish them off before another planet would fall under the wrath of the Terror-Beasts. And then… never heard from again.
Hikaru Sakimori and his family were among the bravest of Earth’s heroes. It was regrettable that their disappearance occurred at the grand apex of the Age of the Hero, as humanity only realised it far removed from the event. To the Land of Light, and to Takeshi Yamato, it was a kindred star fizzling out into obscurity. He didn’t have to go.
Takeshi’s brow sunk, lips crumpling together as a shock of heat rolled through his body. Damn it. Every tiny life surrounding him, precious humanity, it was all just so fragile. The Black Directive executing MAC with the Saucer-Beast Silverbloome was an obvious source of Minus Energy. These brave men and women put their lives on the line, fighting alongside the invincible when they themselves could be killed by a mere touch.
The image of the happy-go-lucky Defence Team was shattered, a false-assumption that was paid for in innocent blood. Doing good had a price now. Over one hundred were killed by Silverbloome. A certain, formerly innate trust was broken. Takeshi lamented each and every soul as he marched, but the death of this larger-than-life hero brought to mind another far closer to his heart. MAC’s Captain went down with his crew. He didn’t have to go.
January 10, 1975. That was the day Ultraseven died.
Remembering it well would be an understatement. The very instant the Ultra Sign came from Earth, transmitted by a grief-stricken Leo, it felt like the shimmering utopia around him flickered. Ken, Marie, and Zoffy said not a single word. Ultraman, Jack and Ace cried tears of guilty anger. Taro became a recluse, refusing to leave his quarters, for the death of his cousin broke him. The entire planet was forced to step back and sigh.
Takeshi said nothing, not before it had happened or after. Certain words came to mind, words Mr. Yamato wished he was still able to say to his face. Selfish. Arrogant. That’s who Seven was. Did he not know his brothers loved him? Didn’t he care?
His final weeks were tumultuous, forced to hide within a crippled disguise, on a planet that was not his own. No one blamed the humans – all the anger went to the man that chose to forsake his own home, his own people, all for some idyllic sense of righteousness.
A rift was torn the day Seven pointed a planet-killing bomb at the Land of Light. Billions of lives were terrifyingly close to being snuffed out by one of their own greatest heroes. The Babarue alien’s plot was foiled just in time, and both planets avoided catastrophe, but a line was crossed. Seven must have known this too, and he solidified his choice.
The shock of the moment was so intense. His brothers did not want to see him, they couldn’t bear the sight of him. If only they’d known… maybe they would have.
Just a week later, Silverbloome attacked the MAC Space Station. He could have escaped, easily. Teleported, flown, hell, he could have summoned a Travel Sphere. He could have done any number of things. But he chose to die with his subordinates. With a clear mind, Takeshi knew it was the admirable thing to do, but the worst of him burned a raging fire in his chest. Spurned him for it. How dare he? Why? Why, Seven? Why did you throw it all away!?
Truthfully, it hurt. It hurt so bad. None of it mattered anymore. The hatred felt towards Ultraseven meant nothing, did nothing, only served as a reminder to those who hated him that it was all too late. A chilly tear bubbled up in Takeshi’s eye, rolling down a stoic face.
The Land of Light pushed him away, and now their brother was dead.
It was never the same after Seven’s passing, Takeshi felt a dissonance echoing throughout every chamber and colosseum on his planet. Once Leo and Astra had finished their mission on Earth, the human homeworld was rarely spoken of. It wasn’t ignorance, the affairs were kept track of, but rather remorse. The Ultra Brothers did not want to go back, simply. They deemed themselves unworthy of protecting the Earth anymore.
Takeshi saw the consequences of that belief with his own eyes. Leo could not forgive the men who shunned his Captain unto death, as they could not forgive themselves. Leo fought with the Ultra Brothers still as a sign of respect, though his priorities were firmly with his mute twin and the innocents of the universe. That distrust materialised as a distance, quiet and stony.
In place of outright cynicism, the youthful and optimistic Taro stood by his older brothers. He tried his best to comfort them, to little avail. The littlest of the Legendary Six had to pick up the pieces of men utterly crushed. It was ultimately decided upon that, unless the situation absolutely called for it, Earth was no longer a concern for the Space Garrison. It was in ‘capable hands’. The Father of Ultra must have felt it too.
And so gone were the Ultra Brothers. Humanity’s beacon of light, the way forward, the bolt of justice, the torch of truth and liberty, was suddenly extinguished. Part of the collective consciousness died with Ultraseven, and the depression set in like a flood. Knowing that never again the knights of silver and red would fly across the sky gutted the hopeful future humanity was promised.
This was the world at its most fragile. With the Kyodai Hero all but an extinct breed on Earth, safety of the public was left in the hands of incompetent militaries and unreliable monsters. Good-natured, but unreliable. It was a world of glass, teetering on the edge of a great fall. All it needed was a push, and hope would smash and forever perish. It might have been untenable, but some still grasped onto their surety.
Then came Black Saturday.
At 10:42 a.m. on March 15th, 1975, one hundred and twenty metre tall waves breached Tokyo Bay. Waterfront Yokohama, Chiba, Kawasaki, and much of the inner Tokyo Metropolis were decimated in minutes. A warbling cackle echoed across the deluge, followed by a towering silhouette, a beast of red warty skin and leathery fins. With every swing of its mighty tail, the behemoth conjured up another tsunami, making its way into the bay proper.
What came to be identified as Titanosaurus made landfall at 10:51 a.m. in Ōta. By that point, if Takeshi remembered the figures right, over 300,000 would have already been dead. A drop in the bucket.
At 10:52 a.m., precisely ten minutes after the attack began, kaleidoscopic rays of rainbow energy tore across Tokyo from the sky, disintegrating matter and leaving streaks of hellish fire carved across the land. Before the smog could even begin to rise, a silver-grey weapon of war touched down in the Shibuya ward. Mechagodzilla had been rebuilt, and it was called to enact the divine retribution of its Simian masters upon the human race.
With laser beams, flamethrowers and missiles of every variety, Mechagodzilla II initiated the largest malevolent attack on civilians in history, with Titanosaurus as a brutish support act. Entire city-blocks were tossed carelessly into the sky by specialised finger-missiles, the skyline was cleared at the mech’s waist-height by a sweep of the Cross-Attack Beam, and the entirety of the JSDF’s effort was annihilated with something so easy as a single-phrase command.
Earth, for the first time, witnessed a full-scale slaughter of her people by an alien race.
The attack was thorough, methodical, and calculated. 300 minutes of hell. Mechagodzilla’s feet erupted with flame as it rocketed off to the countryside whilst Titanosaurus followed with frightening speed. What they left behind was a shoreline entirely washed out, with only unrecognisable debris left in the deep grooves the tidal waves made. There were many more bodies, or things recognizable as such, left in the water than where Mechagodzilla had been.
The most grand city on Earth had been torched and burnt down to the ground. Hellscape Tokyo was a sea of blood-red fire that roared and cracked like lightning, illuminating the black sky of smoke with its haze. Charred and twisted remains crawled out from under rubble, the fear and terror on their visages forever etched into the memory of first-responders.
Piles of charcoal were all that remained, hence the name. The official statistic wouldn’t be revealed until weeks after the fact – approximately 21,025,850 had lost their lives in the greater Tokyo Metropolitan Area. There had been no hero that day.
It wasn’t until the next morning that a horrified Godzilla stood tall over the corpse of Tokyo. The same atrocity that broke humanity’s world of glass also seemed to break something in Godzilla. The Monster King clenched his fists and furrowed his brow. His last outing was as an emissary of vengeance. One, last, excruciating fight.
Godzilla waded back into the sea, innards blasted to strips by missile detonations, a shoulder disintegrated and a back seared to the bone. What he left behind were fields painted with the blood of an innocent monster and metal confetti of the Simian war machines. One would imagine how a soul might feel if he had been too late to save over 20 million of those who he’d sworn to protect. After that day, the King retreated to his Kingdom, where he still ruled over his subjects in perturbed isolation.
And there Takeshi stood, once again shyly gazing at the model of Gamera. Entrusted on his own to a world that no longer had the courage to look to the sky, Gamera still fought for them. In a world where his friends were all dead men or had not the stomach to fight any longer, Gamera still fought with their resolution. Gamera gave his life with no qualms. To the very end, he was a vanguard against the darkness, Earth’s last and finest.
For that, Gamera would know eternity. His work in this existence was done, Gamera could rest from his labors. Blessed are the dead.
Breaking rank, Takeshi weaved between the grieving, hitting a side street and slinking away. His mission was clear, though it seemed the Ultra’s work was really cut out for him. Minus Energy had the potential to give life to monsters and demons, his training at the academy ensured that’d be easy enough to deal with. But how was all the strength in the universe supposed to repair the broken heart?
Ultraman 80 could only try. To bring back that light of yesteryear… salvage it, if he could. Takeshi was due to begin work at Sakuragaoka Middle School. There, he’d be able to reach the vulnerable hearts and minds of angsty youth. That was a start.
***
It wouldn’t work. That wasn’t an expression of doubt, the forces in heaven knew it to be so. In an existence where time and space were fickle things, the alpha watched intently. He was the oldest and greatest giant of light, the silent observer, a dove with the might of God, seated upon his throne that shone like a galaxy of emeralds. His ethereal form oozed across a hidden galaxy, and its muscle-bound container was olympian.
Noa watched a man leave Earth in melancholy, unsuccessful in restoring the faith to where it had once been. He saw nearly two decades pass in stillness before another trickle of fate spilled over the curious planet. The turn of the millennium rubbed salt in the wound. The great dragon descended one final time, and in his insatiable wrath, snatched away that which Godzilla cared about more than anything in the world. The life of his little heir. The golden demon’s defeat would never mend that wound.
Time marched on, and over the fifteen years, a brave new world sprang up. Earth entered a new age of uncertainty, violence, chaos. The next generation of wannabe-heroes took up their titles and banners, hideous monsters arose from every crevice on Earth or in space, humanity armed themselves with invincible beast-killers, and old villains schemed in the shadows, begging for a second try with their plots and pawns. Dominion was in the air.
And yet, in all his power, Noa could not foresee what this future held, not as he should. Only glimpses. He saw raising armies, erratic factions raring to tear the world to shreds in an oncoming, unstoppable march towards armageddon. The earth quaked, the sea thrashed and the sky ripped apart. Gnashing teeth, war, hellfire.
But Noa could sense a change stirring. The supreme Ultra was very perceptive to light, and that is what he saw remerging in certain hearts. Hope reborn where it had once died. How and why, he was not yet sure, but it would certainly make for grand theatre.
It had been thirty-five years since the Hero had been crucified. Now came the resurrection.
