There's a part of Abe that desperately wants to run topside and see the battle for himself. To see a live kaiju, to see the way its muscles move beneath its skin and eyes flare with life, to see it before its blood is spilled instead of after. It must be beautiful, the way a hurricane is beautiful.

But then there's the part that remembers men like Dr. Connors, and his ambitions are quickly squashed. He looks upward, still huddling. "How long do these usually take?"