Miles distant, on the open ocean, ferries, launches, barges and work vessels are keeping vigil. There is an unnatural silence. Even the noisy gulls seem to have sensed some kind of danger and are patrolling elsewhere.
There is only a slight chop in the ocean, where large swells were migrating just days ago. The sky is clear, but not entirely cloudless. It could be a beautiful West Pacific day, but everyone is securely shut up behind thick barriers as if expecting an assault.
And then the assault comes. With unbridled fury, six hundred demon voices scream like outraged volcanic vents as gases heated to incandescence erupt from their maniacal throats.
On the horizon, the flash is visible long before the noise arrives, causing people to wonder if something has gone terribly wrong. Then the fire rises, like Poseidon’s wrath, out of a molten sea.
Steam clouds circle and roil in its wake as it rises, and the thunder shakes the air. Such fury cannot be contained, or constrained, and yet it rises, climbing like a demented soul out of the depths of Hell.
Atomic fury, ill contained. A genie, shaken into a terrible rage, with his bottle upended, blasts out of the opening at hypersonic velocity. Hundreds and hundreds of times repeated. It is indescribable.
The immovable object of three linked massive habitats is balanced on an inverted volcanic plume gone into full afterburner. The watery surface, the Pacific Ocean, and planet Earth itself are rejected, pushed aside, shoved away like a spurned suitor as the violence continues.
It rises. Impossibly, it rises.
They that Native Islanders now claim was the "Day the Gods roared". They have been VERY nice to each other ever since having taken said "roar" as a warning.