yet another monsterfucker thing

This is a version of an idea I've been iterating on for many years; essentially an alternate world war 2 era story about soldiers genetically enhanced into giant monsters. It's long enough (close to 5k words) that I've attached the whole thing as a PDF file. To give an idea of it, though, the beginning is also posted here:

———

The hulking beast was clearly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting jacket and already-fraying pants. A hood covered his head, leaving only a pair of blue eyes visible in the darkness.

Somehow, the man across the table from him seemed even more uneasy. The spring air was irritating his allergies, but a runny nose was the least of his concerns at the moment.

“You understand that this was the risk you ran by withdrawing from the draft,” the liaison officer, who was the least uncomfortable of the three men, said plainly.

He was not sitting, but standing on the steps of the gazebo, as if keeping watch.

“Well I didn’t think my name would actually be pulled. The odds of that were a million to one. It’s just simple statistics.”

“And yet the odds of someone’s name being pulled were one hundred percent. And you were that someone.”

The phenomenally unlucky man muttered something to himself about probability, but put his hands on the table.

“I’m a teacher, sir. I don’t have time to be any creature’s new best buddy,” he turned towards the giant monster. “Er, no offense, sir. Thank you for your service.”

“Best buddy,” the liaison officer said, his tone slow and deliberate.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Best. Buddy.”

“You okay, sir?”

“Mister, ah, Cecil Nevarra, you do know what ‘mate’ means, right?”

“Of course,” said Cecil, who did not teach English or for that matter biology, “Friend, pal, uh, amigo, take your pick.”

The liaison officer had had conversations very similar to this before, with increasing regularity.

“That’s what ‘mate’ means, isn’t it? Am I missing something?” Cecil continued, tone wavering.

Almost invariably, the prospective mate would attempt to wriggle out of their civic duty by claiming they had misunderstood, or that “mate” had been too ambiguous, or English was a weak language for them.

“Don’t leave me hanging, here. What are you talking about?”

This was different, though. Because he could tell from Cecil’s desperate confusion that the poor man was telling the truth.

It genuinely hadn’t occurred to this man that in this context ‘mate’ might not be a synonym for ‘friend.’

“When you withdrew from the draft you signed a waiver stating you understood what being a veteran’s mate meant.” The liaison officer continued. “It was meant to ensure you were making an informed decision.”

“I thought I was!” said Cecil. “What am I missing here? What are you not telling me?”

“It means…” Cecil’s assigned veteran, who had not yet spoken, said, “that I get to fuck you.”