In the center sat a bed that looked like it belonged to a mythological goddess or a forest titan. It was constructed from an exceptionally fine, heavy-grain oak, reinforced with thick steel brackets to support the multi-ton weight of her immense frame. The wood was varnished in a rich, tannish-brown that shimmered like liquid bronze under the morning sun. The headboard was a masterpiece of local craftsmanship, decorated with hand-carved wooden leaves that intertwined around a gold-leaf top—a tribute to her amazing form of heroism. Beside it stood a matching dresser, at least twenty feet tall, with a massive mirror bolted down so securely with industrial rivets that it wouldn't rattle when she moved. It was a clear sign that the town no longer saw her as a monster, but as a queen. Even her "toiletries" were upscaled; a modified fire hydrant stood nearby, connected to a tank of rose-scented water so she could wash her face without draining the town's reservoir.
I knocked on the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet hallway. Dr. Rose opened it, his face a map of absolute exhaustion. His hair was a mess of brown curls, and his blue eyes—so strikingly similar to his daughter's—were bloodshot from another all-nighter in the lab. He was dressed in his usual blue and white checkered button-up and tan shorts, but he looked like he’d aged five years in a single week. He stood there for a moment, blinking against the harsh sunlight, clutching a mug of coffee as if it were a holy relic.
“I hope there are no more visitors or reporters,” he sighed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “I’ve been dealing with high-level officials and the press all night, answering the same repetitive questions about her appetite and her safety. I barely got an hour of shut-eye before the phone started ringing again. They want to know if she's a weapon, Richard. They don't see her as a daughter.”
“It’s me,” I said, trying to offer a sympathetic smile. We spoke briefly about the DGX machine, though he admitted he was still miles away from understanding its full potential or how to reverse the "Double Growth" effect. He pointed me toward the backyard with a tired wave of his hand, retreating back into the shadows of the house.
Amelia was awake, sitting on the edge of her bed, which sat fifteen feet off the ground. Her long, wavy black hair flowed over her shoulders like a dark, silken curtain, caught in the morning breeze. “It’s fine now, Richard,” she said, her voice a gentle, vibrating thunder that I felt in my marrow. “I have a real bed instead of sleeping on forest rocks. The town writes my homework for me, and they don't try to kill me every day. But honestly? I want my normal life back. I want to go on bike rides with you, or play miniature golf without crushing the course into splinters. I wish I could just shrink down to be normal with you, then grow huge only when the town needs a shield. But I guess this is just my life now.” She touched her face, her bright blue eyes clouding with a gaping sadness that seemed to pull at the very air around her.
“I know,” I replied, looking up at her from the grass. “My life is uncanny too. Zack and his friends at school keep asking questions about what you eat, how you sleep... I hate the spotlight. I miss when we were just two kids building things in the garage.”
“See? I ruined both our lives,” she whispered, her voice cracking like a tectonic shift that sent a flock of crows into the sky.
“You didn’t,” I corrected her firmly. “You made mine better. I’m being homeschooled now, which means no more bullies, and I’ll always be close to you. That’s a great trade-off in my book, Amelia. We're kindred spirits, remember? We've stood by each other since the start, and I'm not going anywhere.”
Our conversation was cut short by a low, rhythmic thudding that made the birdbath overflow and the windows of the Rose house rattle in their frames. We looked toward the horizon and saw it: an Exceptionally Large Scorpion, three times Amelia’s size, cresting the ridge of the valley. Its exoskeleton was a bruised, dark purple, shimmering with an oily iridescence, and its eyes glowed like twin red flares. It moved with a terrifying, skittering grace, its towering claws snapping century-old trees as if they were dry twigs. The sound was like a thousand dry bones breaking at once.
“I’ll be right back,” Amelia said, her voice dropping into a deep, combat register.
She bolted, leaping over her dad’s roof in a single, earth-shaking bound. She snatched a rusted, dirty lamp post from the street as she ran, the metal groaning as her fifty-foot strength bent the pole into a makeshift spear. She vaulted onto the scorpion’s back, her bright red sneakers finding purchase on the jagged purple chitin. The monster shrieked—a sound like metal grinding on metal—as she hammered the lamp post into its spine. She danced across its back, dodging the massive, venom-filled tail that whipped overhead with a high-pitched whistle that broke the sound barrier. With a roar of effort that echoed for miles, she grabbed the base of the stinger, planted her feet, and twisted.
SNAP. She tore the tail clean out of the socket.
A geyser of lime-green venom spewed everywhere, coating the backyard and her tattered blue jeans in a slick, oily fluid that smelled like burnt rubber and sulfur. Amelia slipped, falling onto the "juicy" insides of the creature as it thrashed in its death throes, the purple legs kicking frantically. She scrambled back up, her black shirt soaked in green ichor, and delivered a final, crushing blow to the scorpion’s heart. The beast shuddered, its red eyes dimmed, and it died with a final, rattling breath.
The town’s reaction was immediate—they didn't panic; they planned a feast. By dusk, the "Southwest Festival" was in full swing in the town square. A light-blue wooden sign welcomed us, and the smell of grilled meat—remarkably like buttered lobster—filled the air as chefs used flamethrowers to cook the towering scorpion legs. I found Amelia sitting on a bolted-down iron stage, framed by a red curtain and three brilliant spotlights. She was eating from a giant gold-painted ceramic plate the size of a wading pool, using a massive forged metal fork.
“Richard!” she called out happily, her sapphire eyes sparkling under the stage lights. “Come up here! Join the hero's table!”
I joined her, sitting on a specially constructed platform near her shoulder, eating savory, garlic-rubbed scorpion meat that tasted better than any steak I’d ever had. We laughed as she told me about her "giant workout routine," though she admitted she’d accidentally eaten a moose while napping in the woods earlier that week. I suggested we head to the drive-in theater—where she could sit behind the back row—to celebrate a night without monsters.
We didn't see Zack Roberts watching from the shadows of the treeline, his eyes fixed on our every move through high-powered binoculars. “Enjoy the show,” he hissed into the collar of his coat, his voice cold and devoid of humanity. “It’s about to become very real.”