File ID: KAC-001
Designation: "The Original Anomaly," "The Necessary Deviation"
Threat Level: Category 5
Status: Not Contained
Discovering Officer: The Founder
World of Origin: Collapsed Reality (Designation: █████)
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[DESCRIPTION]
This is a proposal for KAC-001 for an entity identified as The Original Anomaly, the earliest and first confirmed irregularity in all recorded, reconstructed, or hypothesized existence.
Visual descriptions derived solely from The Founder's first encounter depict KAC-001 as a female-presenting humanoid, appearing in her mid-to-late twenties with blue hair of indeterminate length and texture, and otherworldly glowing sigils present throughout her entire body. There were no signs of injury, aging, or environmental distress despite her presence at the boundary of a fully collapsed reality.
KAC-001 was discovered prior to the formation of the KAC, before anomalies were understood as a category, threat, or phenomenon. At the time, Solomon (The Founder) had not yet assumed the role later attributed to him as The Founder.
Notably, KAC-001 was not found within the collapsed reality—but standing at its edge, as if the destruction behind her was neither accidental nor relevant to her continued existence.
Subsequent analysis by The Founder untold years later has led to a singular, unavoidable conclusion:
KAC-001 was not one anomaly among many. She is the condition that makes anomalies possible, whose non-existence is impossible without rendering existence itself incoherent. If KAC-001 did not exist, nothing else could deviate. If nothing can deviate, reality cannot evolve, fracture, or become.
All known anomalies—regardless of category or nature—exhibit at least one of the following properties traceable to KAC-001:
- The violation of physical and metaphysical law
- The violation of conceptual consistency
- The violation of narrative continuity
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[BEHAVIOUR]
During Solomon's initial encounter, KAC-001 was observed to acknowledge his presence, though no verbal exchange occurred. The encounter ended when she simply was no longer there, without distortion, flash, or anomaly spike.
KAC Analysts emphasize that elusion is not an ability she employs—it is the default state of a being that cannot be constrained by definition.
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[CONTAINMENT ATTEMPT]
No containment procedures exist or are theoretically possible.
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[FINAL NEUTRALIZATION]
Not possible.
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[ADDENDUM — THE FOUNDER'S PERSONAL RECORD]
"I thought I had found the source of the damage. I was wrong. I found the reason repair was ever necessary.
The universe is not stable.
Stars burn unevenly. Some flare early, others linger too long, and a few collapse without explanation. Physical laws hold most of the time—but occasionally fail in small, tolerable ways: a particle decays a fraction too soon, a constant drifts by an imperceptible margin, a symmetry breaks where no model predicted it would.
Life does not follow optimal paths.
Evolution branches wastefully. Species develop redundant traits, emotional excess, aesthetic impulses that serve no survival function. Some civilizations collapse for reasons that cannot be fully explained. Others endure by accident rather than design.
History refuses to resolve cleanly.
Revolutions succeed when they should not. Empires rot from internal contradiction instead of external pressure. Individuals make choices that statistics insist are irrational—and sometimes those choices matter more than any law.
Death occurs, but not on schedule. Birth surprises those who prepared too well. Prophecies fail just often enough to remain dangerous.
Anomalies exist.
Not constantly. Not everywhere. But possible. Reality occasionally stutters, contradicts itself, or opens gaps where something unaccounted for enters. These gaps never fully close. They become scars, myths, records, warnings.
Narratives do not end when they should.
Some stories trail off unresolved. Others restart unexpectedly. A few refuse to conclude at all. Meaning is not guaranteed, but it is reachable.
At the deepest layer, beneath all structure and law, there is a quiet allowance:
Things are permitted to go wrong.
Not maliciously. Not chaotically. But fundamentally out of Necessity.
Reality is not finished. It is not complete. It is not perfect.
And because of that—
It can change."
— The Founder
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[SHORT STORY]
Before the KAC had a name, before anomalies had numbers, there was only the work. Solomon learned early that most worlds did not end with fire. They ended with quietness.
A reality did not scream when it died, and it did not throw lightning into the void. It did not announce its collapse with angels or omens. Most of the time it simply… narrowed. Like a thought becoming too certain of itself. Like a song repeating one perfect note until every other note was forgotten.
That was how Solomon found the place that would later be marked in the files of what would be the KAC as █████, a Collapsed Reality.
He stood at its threshold on a shoreline that had never belonged to an ocean. The "water" was a black pane of smooth, motionless, reflecting nothingness, as if the act of reflection had been revoked. Above him the sky hung like a diagram left unfinished, latticed with brass lines that didn't bend with perspective. The clouds were present only as outlines as if some engine had decided vapor was inefficient.
The air held no scent. It wasn't sterile and clean but was simply absent. A world where even the idea of atmosphere had been optimized into silence. Solomon's boots scraped the stone. The sound did not travel. It died at the edge of his feet in a collapsed reality that did not accept witnesses.
He adjusted the black coat on his shoulders as his golden eyes looked along the dead shoreline, searching for the irregularity. This was how his work always began: locate the source, identify the function, and name it if naming was possible.
He did not think of himself as a savior. He had never liked the taste of that word even though he had saved countless lives in years past. But he was only the one. Behind him, far back along the boundary, the air still behaved like air. Wind still shifted dust. Time still had manners. But in front of him, the world was a closed hand.
Solomon took one step forward and immediately, the pressure changed. It wasn't physical pressure. It was something deeper like a sensation like being noticed by a system that did not want to acknowledge it had been observed.
His golden eyes narrowed, scanning the edges of the shore, the frozen sky, and the soundless stone.
There was no movement, no heat, no life, and yet… not absence either.
It was too neat. Too correct.
He reached for the spear strapped across his back. Its shaft was dark iron veined with symbols that refused taxonomy—marks that would not settle into language, no matter how he tried to describe them. The blade did not shine, but it existed with unbearable certainty as though it had already decided what it would deny.
The Spear of Destiny.
It was not prophecy. It was not fate. It was inevitability.
Solomon stepped again further, and the shore did not resist him so much as refuse to include him. His outline felt like it was being compressed, simplified, reduced to an efficient silhouette.
A voice didn't speak, but logic did.
NOT REQUIRED.
He stopped, exhaled slowly, and watched his breath fail to fog.
"Then I'll be waste," he murmured, mostly to himself.
He continued onwards.
The collapsed reality continued outward like a frozen sea, and at its far edge the sky broke into something like a wall, an invisible limit where the world had ended not by explosion, but by conclusion.
There were no ruins. No bones. No ash. Just the sense that every possibility that had ever been there had been trimmed away until only a single final state remained. Solomon had seen worlds burn. He had seen worlds drown. He had seen worlds unmake themselves in cycles of chaos and rebirth.
This was different. This was a world that had been finished. And that… frightened him. Not because it was strong. Because it was final.
He took another step and then he saw her.
At first, he thought she was a trick of perspective. One more artifact of a world that had stopped obeying human senses. A slender woman stood at the boundary where the collapsed reality ended and nothingness began. She faced the void as if she were studying it, calm and perfectly still, the way a person might watch snow fall from a warm window.
She was female-presenting, mid-to-late twenties by human approximation. She had blue hair, though its exact length were uncertain because it didn't behave like hair. It hung in strands that seemed to decide their own gravity. Her skin was marked in lightly glowing sigils that ran from throat to ankles, moving slowly like ink floating in water.
She did not look injured, nor did she did not look stranded.
She looked… placed.
Solomon's hand tightened on the spear, but he did not raise it. He had learned in time that most catastrophes began when a person acted too quickly in the presence of what they did not understand.
He approached at a cautious pace. Though, the collapsed world did not make room for him. It only tolerated his advance like a system allowing a temporary exception.
Then the woman turned her head slightly. The motion was subtle, almost lazy like someone acknowledging a sound behind them without much interest. Her eyes were not luminous like his. They were ordinary in their brightness, but something about the way they held focus made Solomon feel as though the world was looking out through them.
She was not hostile, nor welcoming. Simply attentive.
Solomon stopped several meters away. But in a reality where even sound died, he heard something.
Not from the air. From beneath the structure of it. A quiet click. Then another. A faint, distant sound, like gears turning behind the fabric of the world. Solomon felt the spear vibrate in his grip. He understood in that instant that the collapsed reality was not dead by accident.
It had been processed. Optimized. Finished. And she was standing at its edge as if that fact did not concern her.
"Who are you?" Solomon asked.
His words should have died. The world should have swallowed them. But they reached her, and that alone made Solomon's spine tighten.
The woman's gaze slid to him, and for a moment it felt as though his entire history was being examined: every world he had entered, every anomaly and entity he had encountered and slain, and every choice he had chosen and denied. She had seen it all within him.
Then her eyes softened—not with pity, not with warmth, but with something akin to recognition. As though she had seen him before in a place where time was irrelevant.
She did not answer. Instead, she lifted one hand and traced a symbol in the air. The sigils on her body brightened in response. The collapsed reality trembled. Not physically. Conceptually.
The shoreline beneath Solomon's boots rippled as if the world had briefly remembered what motion was, and then it stopped.
Solomon steadied himself with his eyes narrowed and spear poised.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
No words came from her. But Solomon felt something else now blooming in the space between them.
A presence. A permission. The faintest sensation of a door unlocking somewhere deep inside reality, where no door should have existed. He was suddenly aware of his own heartbeat, loud and clumsy against the silence. He was aware of the slight unevenness in his breathing and the small imperfections that made him human.
And for the first time since entering this place, the world did not try to compress him. It allowed him. Solomon's expression shifted.
"You're not part of this collapse," he said slowly. "You're… outside it."
The woman tilted her head as if listening to a thought. He took a step closer, exercising caution still. Her sigils shifted again, and Solomon felt a surge of memories. They were strange, fractured impressions that were not his:
A star dying too early.
A child born against all medical expectation.
A prophecy failing in a way that saved a life.
A war ending because a soldier refused a command.
Small deviations.
Tiny, irrational mistakes.
And in each, something new had been born. Solomon's hand loosened around the spear.
"You're…" He hesitated, because to name something like this was dangerous. Naming created containment, and containment created limits, and limits could become cages. But Solomon also knew that without names, the KAC—the thing he had not yet built—could never exist.
"You're the reason," he whispered. "The reason things can go wrong."
The woman's eyes held his. For the first time, she spoke—not aloud, but in a way that landed directly inside the logic of his mind. Not a sentence.
A principle.
DEVIATION IS REQUIRED.
Solomon's throat tightened.
"That's not mercy," he said, voice low. "That's suffering."
Her gaze did not waver. And then another principle, softer, like a hand opening:
WITHOUT DEVIATION, THERE IS NO BECOMING ANEW.
Solomon looked around them—the frozen sky, the optimized shore, the dead sea that reflected nothing. A world finished into one final state. He imagined a universe where every star burned exactly as expected, every life followed optimal paths, every history resolved cleanly, and every choice was predictable.
There was no rebellion, no art, no love that defied logic, no sacrifice, no unexpected kindness, and no miracles. There was only completion.
Solomon's jaw clenched, remembering his past actions. He had fought gods who promised perfection and seen what "completion" looked like when it became law. He had stood before The Mechanical God and The Serpent and heard certainty call itself mercy.
And now, here, at the edge of a reality that had collapsed into finality, he stood before something else. Not a tyrant of perfection, but the permission for imperfection. He did not know whether to thank her or curse her.
"You're the first," Solomon said. "The original irregularity."
The woman's lips curved—not into a smile, but into the faintest acknowledgement that he had arrived at a true conclusion. Solomon's gaze sharpened.
"If you're required," he said, "then you cannot be contained."
NO.
The answer landed immediately.
"And you cannot be destroyed or slain."
NO.
He swallowed.
"So why are you here?"
The woman looked back into the void. Her blue hair shifted, not with wind, but with some underlying current of reality. Her sigils pulsed gently, like a heartbeat of contradiction. And then finally something like intention came through. A thin line of meaning, almost sorrowful.
BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS TO REMEMBER THAT COMPLETION IS NOT LIFE ANEW.
Solomon stared at her.
"Machina," he murmured before he could stop himself.
The world trembled.
The gears turned again in the deep structure of things.
The woman did not confirm or deny. But Solomon understood: what he had fought was not merely a god of machines, but a symptom of a deeper hunger in existence—the hunger to finish itself.
And she was the counterweight. Not to save worlds, but to keep them unfinished enough to live.
Solomon breathed out slowly. He had come here expecting to find a source of damage. Instead, he had found the reason repair was ever necessary. The woman turned fully toward him now. Her eyes held something like a question.
Solomon straightened.
"If you are the condition that allows anomalies to exist," he said, voice steady, "then everything I will do from now on is downstream from you."
She watched him.
He lifted the spear slightly—not in threat, but in oath.
"I will build something," he continued. "A system. A doctrine. A way to contain what deviation births when it becomes too large."
He looked at her sigils, memorizing their pattern even though he knew memory could not hold them.
"I won't try to erase you," he said. "But I will make sure what comes after, doesn't erase us."
For the first time, the woman's expression shifted into something unmistakably human.
It wasn't warmth. It wasn't kindness. It was relief.
Solomon felt it like a weight lifting from the structure of the world. The collapsed reality around them quivered, and for the briefest moment, the dead sea shimmered one small ripple expanding outward as if it had remembered how to move.
Then the woman stepped backward. Not away from Solomon. Away from location itself. Her outline softened, not dissolving in light or distortion, but simply becoming less required by the scene. As if her presence had been an allowance, and now the allowance was withdrawn.
Solomon reached out instinctively.
"Wait."
She paused—not physically, but causally.
He swallowed.
"What are you?" he asked again, quieter. "Truly."
The answer came like a final line written at the bottom of the universe:
I AM THE PERMISSION FOR DEVIATION.
And then she was gone.
No sound.
No flash.
Just the absence that felt… deliberate.
Solomon stood alone at the boundary of a finished world. The silence pressed in again, but it no longer felt clean. It felt fragile. He looked down at his spear, at the symbols that refused taxonomy, and understood that denial and deviation were two sides of the same coin.
A universe needed the ability to say no to inevitability. A universe needed the ability to go wrong. Only then could it become. Solomon turned away from the collapsed shore and walked back toward the place where wind still moved dust, where time still had manners.
As he stepped across the boundary, the air regained its scent. His breath fogged and sound returned in small, clumsy bursts.
Imperfections.
He welcomed them.
Behind him, deep in the collapsed reality, the gears turned once more—faint and distant—then stopped. Or perhaps, Solomon realized as he walked, they had never truly stopped at all. Perhaps they were simply waiting for the moment the universe forgot why deviation was necessary. He tightened his grip on the spear and continued onward.
There was work to do. Anomalies would come.
Some would be small: shoes that walked forever, a fox that warmed dying fires, or a ghost in television static.
Some would be vast: dragons that carried cycles, serpents that refused change, or Leviathans that tested divinity itself.
And somewhere beneath all of it, like a quiet allowance beyond the deepest layer of reality, there would always remain the Original Anomaly.
It was not a monster, not a god, nor a ruler. It was the reason perfection could never fully win.
Solomon walked into the imperfect world, and in time, he would name the organization he built.
Not after strength. Not after conquest. After vigilance. After the duty of those who lived in a universe permitted to go wrong.
The Kaiju Annihilation Corps.
And somewhere, far beyond the edge of finished realities, a woman with blue hair watched and tended to the branches of the Tree of Life as it endlessly expanded again creating the unnecessary, wasteful, and beautiful.