The Brownsville/South Padre Island International Airport had a problem.
The problem was a giant lava-coated monster with the wingspan of six airplanes hopping around on the runway.
Two pilots watched from inside a terminal as Rodan bent forward to inspect an airplane. “Think anyone’s called Monarch?” one asked.
The other shrugged. “Least he hasn’t done any damage yet.”
And then, as they watched, Rodan planted one foot on a United plane, locked his beak around the vertical stabilizer sticking up in the back, and ripped it off.
Godzilla was startled out of a nap by a chunk of flat blue metal dropping in front of his snout. “What—?”
He looked up. Rodan was perched proudly on a nearby hill. “You like blue?”
”What is this?”
”I killed a bird for you!” Rodan said. “One of the new metal ones. I brought you its tail.”
Godzilla considered this. “What was its wingspan?”
”Oh…” Rodan held his claws slightly farther apart than the width of his chest.
”What? Is blue no good?” Rodan asked. “Want yellow?”
”It’s not very big,” Godzilla said. “Not for only one kill.”
”Oh! I killed like fifty of them.” Rodan paused. “Blue and yellow.”
Now that number got Godzilla’s attention. “Yeah? Where are their tails?” He looked around.
”I can’t carry fifty tails at once! I left them at home,” Rodan said. (At that moment, the residents of Isla de Mara were wondering when the best spot on the beach had been claimed by a pile of scrapped plane parts.) “You’ll just have to come back to my volcano if you wanna see the rest.”
Godzilla gave Rodan a sharp look. Rodan gave him a winning smile.
Godzilla huffed. “Okay, you win. Let’s go.”
Rodan did a victory loop as he set off flying for home, Godzilla swimming behind him.