The Kaiju Grows Orchids Where It Bleeds

The mech stank of disinfectant and lonely men. The kind of smell that pretends to be clean but just layers itself over despair. Mx. Lio adjusted the neural visor and tried not to think about fungi. Fungi grew in places like this. Fungi didn’t care about war or protocol.

“Target acquired,” said the AI. Deadpan. Emotionally unavailable. The kind of voice that probably ghosted all its dating sims.

“I can see it,” Lio said. The kaiju was dragging three city blocks behind it like a wedding veil. Its ribcage steamed, glistening. And there—where the artillery had nicked its side—was a bloom.

An orchid. Their orchid.

Not a metaphor.

Not, like, “a strange flower that reminded Lio of the Arcturus Dusk Orchid.” No. The actual thing. White petals tinged with the kind of violet that doesn’t show up on surveillance cameras. Genetically impossible on this planet.

“This makes zero sense,” Lio whispered.

“Do you require recalibration?” the AI asked.

“I require you to shut up.”

The orchid glistened on the kaiju’s wound.

Flashback. Dirty greenhouse, third moon of the Atra system, air full of carbon and too many promises.

Jae.

Always barefoot. Said they didn’t believe in “sole/soil separation.” Said their gender was “soil-curious.” Said a lot of things while holding Lio’s wrist and teaching them how to breathe carbon-rich air without coughing.

Jae died in a terraforming accident. Emphasis on died. As in: burnt. Gone. They were trying to resuscitate a planet, and instead the planet made mulch of them. Lio hadn’t returned to botany since.

Until now.

Until a monster three stories high bled Jae’s orchids.

†

“Fire now,” the AI insisted.

Lio didn’t move. The mech’s arms hung at its sides like the limbs of a child who’s just been told to punch their grandma.

“Why does it grow?” Lio asked aloud.

“Define parameters.”

“No.”

The kaiju turned. It didn’t roar. It huffed. A massive chest full of damp lungs and second chances. Steam curled from its gills. It was made of wet stone and bad posture. Its eyes were—no, that couldn’t be.

Brown?

Jae’s eyes were brown. Which had always annoyed Lio. You build entire galaxies, terraform comets, rewrite genetics like playlists—but your soulmate shows up with plain brown eyes. Lio had teased them about it. Jae would roll their eyes and say, “Brown’s a color too, bitch.”

†

Now, those same eyes blinked from the kaiju’s face.

“Is this trauma?” Lio asked, to no one.

“Please clarify input.”

“I said shut up, you overly literal scrapheap.”

†

There were rules for this kind of thing. Engagement protocol. Combat ethics. Psychological screenings. There were whole paragraphs about pilot dissociation and monster empathy. And somewhere in a locked database, someone would be watching Lio hesitate and labeling it compromise.

They wouldn’t be wrong.

†

More orchids now. Like the kaiju was…seeding itself. Like its pain was fertile. The mech’s sensors pinged wildly. Pollen. Spores. DNA markers.

Lio stared at the diagnostic stream. The orchids’ genome wasn’t just similar to the ones from Atra. It matched.

Not 97%.

Not 99.9%.

One hundred percent.

This plant hadn’t evolved here. It hadn’t drifted.

It had been brought.

“Jae?” Lio said.

The kaiju didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t. It just stood there leaking orchids. One bloomed on its jaw. Another curled like a brooch at its elbow. It was bleeding and growing.

No teeth-baring. No threat displays. Just breath and bloom.

Lio thought of how Jae used to sleep—sprawled, limbs at weird angles, one leg always off the mattress like they couldn’t commit to rest. They had once said: “I want to be something that fixes things by accident.”

Lio hadn’t known what that meant.

Now they were standing in a 20-meter mech with a plasma cannon that could end an entire biome, and the only thing stopping them from pulling the trigger was the possibility that monsters remember love.

†

“Lio,” came the AI again, calm as a gravestone. “Please confirm lethal intent.”

“I don’t have it,” they said.

Silence.

A pause.

Protocol wheels spinning in the AI’s head.

Then, quieter: “Then what are you doing here?”

They didn’t answer. Instead, they disengaged the cannon. The mech twitched, confused—almost offended. Lio forced its arms to lower. Then, slowly, they walked the mech forward.

The kaiju didn’t move.

The street crunched under steel feet. Orchid pollen flitted in the air like pink dust.

Ten steps away. Five. One.

Lio opened the cockpit hatch. Popped it like a soda tab. Wind slapped their face.

They looked down.

The kaiju looked up.

Brown eyes. Soft huff.

Lio unstrapped, stood, leaned halfway out of the mech. “If this is some kind of metaphysical prank,” they said, “I swear to every dumb god of dirt I will be so—”

The kaiju blinked.

Lio reached down.

Touch was impossible. The kaiju was too far.

But orchids drifted up, caught in some draft, and one landed in their hand. Still warm. Still wet. Still impossible.

†

Later, when the review board asked why they didn’t fire, Lio said:

“It wasn’t the enemy.”

They were demoted, naturally. Sent back to botanical archives. Which, honestly, was a relief. No more mech-bunk stink.

†

Sometimes, walking through the now-abandoned city, Lio sees it. The kaiju. Still limping through alleyways. Still bleeding orchids.

They nod at each other. No battle. No war. Just two things growing in the wrong places.

And every once in a while, Lio finds a bloom on their doorstep.

Always the same color.

Always warm.

Always late.

Like love.

Like regret.

Like Jae.

© 2026 Sabyasachi Roy

Sabyasachi Roy is an academic writer, poet, artist, and photographer. His poetry has appeared in Viridine Literary, The Broken Spine, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Potomac, and more. He contributes craft essays to Authors Publish and has a cover image in Sanctuary Asia. His oil paintings have been published in The Hooghly Review.