Before the armor.
Before the glowing sword.
Before anyone saw two green eyes looking down through the clouds…
Catzilla was a cat.
A golden British Shorthair with round cheeks, thick paws, and absolutely no interest in saving Vancouver.
He lived in a small family-run sign shop in Port Coquitlam.
He slept on rolls of vinyl.
Occupied unfinished orders.
And watched the cutting machines with the quiet suspicion of someone who understood that moving objects should usually be caught.
The workshop belonged to the humans.
Everything inside it belonged to him.
Especially the warm printer.
The fish arrived on a Thursday.
An elderly customer brought in an old aquarium with a broken illuminated sign above the glass.
The lettering needed restoring.
The light needed fixing.
Inside swam a small, round fish.
“A fugu,” the customer said.
He explained that it had come from Japan many years earlier. Its pale body carried unusual golden markings, and one dark patch above its eye made it look permanently annoyed.
The cat approved of this expression.
The customer called it the Golden Fugu.
He said there were stories about fish like this in a coastal village where his grandfather had lived.
Stories about green light beneath black water.
About fishing boats finding their way home through storms after every lamp aboard had failed.
He smiled when he said it.
Then he left the aquarium at the workshop.
The cat spent the afternoon watching it.
The fish watched him back.
Neither seemed impressed.
That evening, a storm moved inland.
Rain hammered the roof.
The lights flickered twice.
Then the workshop went dark.
Somewhere outside, a transformer cracked with a sound like a rifle shot.
The cat jumped.
A loose shelf fell against the aquarium.
Glass split.
Water spilled across the workbench, carrying the little fish toward the edge.
The cat caught it between his front paws.
For one silent second, hunter and prey stared at each other.
Then the fish inflated.
The cat had never seen dinner do that before.
He leaned forward.
Sniffed.
And gave it one cautious lick.
Green light filled the workshop.
For an instant, every sign on the wall lit up.
Even the ones that were unplugged.
The cat let go.
The fish dropped into the shallow water remaining at the bottom of the broken aquarium.
By the time the humans reached the workshop, the light had vanished.
They found a flooded bench.
A cracked tank.
A very angry fish.
And a golden British Shorthair sitting beneath the printer, licking his paw with exaggerated calm.
The fish was moved into a bucket.
The cat refused to discuss the incident.
The first change came that night.
He could see something moving inside the walls.
Thin green threads ran behind the plaster, climbed toward the ceiling, and disappeared into machines.
He followed one to the printer.
Pressed his nose against its dark control panel.
The screen switched on.
The humans blamed moisture.
The next morning, he heard the delivery truck before it turned onto their street.
He heard a failing power supply three buildings away.
And when he looked at the aquarium’s replacement lamp, he could see its light even with his eyes closed.
He stopped sleeping beside the printer.
It was too loud now.
The fish recovered.
A new aquarium was found.
The old sign above it was repaired.
Sometimes, late at night, the golden markings along the fish’s body glowed faintly green.
The cat would sit in front of the glass.
Watching.
Waiting.
Once, he raised a paw.
The fish inflated.
He lowered it again.
They had reached an understanding.
Years passed.
The city changed.
The Fires came.
Then the corporate wars.
Then the long failures, when entire neighbourhoods went dark and nobody could say when the power would return.
The family kept the workshop open for as long as they could.
They repaired signs.
Charged batteries.
Made directions to shelters.
When customers stopped coming, neighbours came instead.
There was always something that needed fixing.
And there was still a golden cat asleep somewhere he should not have been.
He seemed to grow older very slowly.
Nobody liked to mention it.
The first time he became enormous, he was frightened.
There was no sword.
No armor.
No rooftop waiting for a hero.
There was only a shelter door that would not open.
A damaged support beam had fallen across the entrance of the old workshop. People were trapped below. Outside, the street was flooding.
The cat could hear them.
He pushed his head against the door.
Scratched at the gap.
Behind the walls, the green threads brightened.
Every surviving light along the street flickered.
His paws spread across the concrete.
His shoulders rose.
Steel groaned above him.
By the time the door came free, he was taller than the workshop.
He stood in the rain, trembling, with the broken beam caught beneath one enormous paw.
The people came out slowly.
Someone said his name.
He lowered his head.
A familiar hand touched his nose.
By morning, he was small again.
Exhausted.
Ravenous.
And deeply offended by the size of his breakfast.
The family fed him everything they could find.
He slept for three days.
After that, they began building things for him.
Protective plates.
Adjustable fittings.
A harness that failed immediately.
The first pieces of armor were cut in the same workshop where he had once slept on unfinished signs.
Some still carried fragments of old lettering.
He tolerated the measurements badly.
But he returned each time they called.
Much later, the Dragon came hunting above Port Coquitlam.
As its shadow crossed the rooftops, the workshop lights began to fade.
The cat woke.
For years, he had heard the city’s electricity moving through cables, batteries, and broken machines.
Now he could hear something taking it away.
He climbed down from his sleeping place.
Walked past the workbench.
And stopped beside the aquarium.
The little fish hovered behind the glass, its golden markings shining green.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the cat turned toward the open door.
People would argue about him for years.
A secret weapon.
An ancient guardian.
Something built by forgotten engineers.
Nobody thought to ask about a broken aquarium.
And the only creature that knew the whole story still lived in the workshop.
Round.
Bad-tempered.
Entirely unimpressed by the legend.
Catzilla still visited its tank.
He kept his tongue to himself.