Giant Stuffing

The evening mist rolled off the Atlantic, settling over the Maine woods like a damp, grey blanket. In the center of McCoppin’s Scrap and Salvage, a silhouette towered over the rusted mountains of discarded Americana. The Iron Giant sat cross-legged, his massive knees reaching higher than the roof of Hogarth’s small clubhouse.

Usually, the Giant was a portrait of gentle curiosity, his optics glowing a soft, inquisitive blue as he watched the owls or practiced his "Superman" pose. Tonight, however, the lights in his eyes were a dim, flickering amber. He let out a sound that didn't belong in the woods—a deep, metallic groan that vibrated the ground and caused a stack of old washing machines to slide precariously to the left.

Hogarth Hughes climbed the ladder to the observation deck Dean had built, clutching a flashlight. He looked up at his friend’s face, which seemed unusually slumped.

"Hey, big guy," Hogarth called out, his voice echoing in the quiet junkyard. "You okay? You’ve been sitting there for three hours. Dean’s starting to get worried you’re turning back into a statue."

The Giant turned his head slowly. The gears in his neck ground together with a sluggish, rhythmic *clunk-clunk-clunk*.

"Hogarth," the Giant rumbled. The word was lower than usual, vibrating in Hogarth’s chest. "Stomach... heavy."

Hogarth frowned, stepping closer to the edge of the railing. "Heavy? What do you mean? Did you eat something weird?"

The Giant gestured vaguely toward the back corner of the lot, near the old railroad tracks. He didn't speak, but his massive metal hand did a slow, rolling motion over his torso.

Dean McCoppin emerged from the workshop, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that was more oil than fabric. He squinted up at the Giant, then back at the trail of empty space where a particularly large pile of scrap used to be.

"Kid, I think I know what the problem is," Dean said, leaning against a rusted Buick. "You remember that shipment of industrial girders I got from the shipyard? The high-density carbon steel?"

Hogarth looked at the empty patch of dirt. "The ones that were supposed to be for your 'Modernist Despair' sculpture?"

"Yeah. Those. And the two steam engine boilers. And, if I’m not mistaken, about half of a 1948 freight car," Dean sighed, though there was no real anger in it. "He didn't just snack today, Hogarth. He went to an all-you-can-eat buffet and stayed for three rounds."

The Giant emitted a low, resonant chime, like a church bell muffled by a thick quilt. His head drooped, and his chin came to rest on his chest.

"Too... much... iron," the Giant whispered.

"No kidding," Dean said, walking over to the Giant’s foot, which was the size of a small boat. He kicked the heel of the metal boot gently. "You’re sagging, pal. Your hydraulics are probably screaming under all that extra weight. You’re refined for flight and agility, not for carrying a whole locomotive in your gut."

Hogarth climbed down from the deck and ran over to the Giant’s leg, patting the cold metal. "We have to do something. Can he... you know... get rid of it?"

Dean scratched his beard, looking thoughtful. "He’s a self-repairing, autonomous celestial machine, Hogarth. I don't think he 'gets rid of it' the way we do. He absorbs it. But that takes energy. A lot of it. Right now, he’s like a human who ate four Thanksgiving dinners back-to-back. He’s in a food coma."

The Giant’s optics flickered, then shut entirely. A rhythmic, hissing sound began to emanate from his chest plates—the sound of cooling steam and venting pressure.

"He’s sleeping?" Hogarth asked.

"He’s processing," Dean corrected. "But the problem is the weight. If he stays sitting like that, he’s going to sink into the mud. We had a lot of rain last night, and he’s currently weighing about forty tons more than he did this morning."

As if on cue, a soft *squelch* echoed through the yard. The Giant’s backside sank another three inches into the soft Maine soil.

"We have to get him up!" Hogarth cried, panic flaring in his voice. "If he sinks too deep, he’ll get stuck. Like a fossil!"

"Hey, hey, easy," Dean said, grabbing Hogarth’s shoulder. "We just need to wake him up and get him to move to the concrete pad near the hangar. It’s reinforced. But we can’t just poke him. We need a catalyst."

Hogarth looked around the yard, his mind racing. He thought about what always got the Giant excited. "The Red Menace! No, he hates that. Superman? No, he’s too tired to fly."

His eyes landed on the old power lines running along the edge of the property. "Dean, what about electricity? Remember when he first arrived? He was eating the power lines. Maybe he needs a jumpstart to help his systems process the metal faster."

Dean looked at the lines, then at the Giant, then at the massive industrial transformer he’d been tinkering with in the shed. "It’s risky. I don't want to fry his circuits. But... he is a giant battery, in a way."

"Please, Dean. Look at him."

The Giant let out another groan, this one sounding more like a grinding transmission. A small puff of grey smoke escaped a joint in his shoulder. He looked miserable, his massive frame slumped over like a wilted flower made of steel.

"Alright," Dean said, snapping into action. "Hogarth, go to the shed. Get the heavy-duty jumper cables—the ones I made from the copper busbars. And get the welding mask. This is gonna get bright."

For the next twenty minutes, the junkyard was a whirlwind of activity. Dean used his crane to hoist the massive cables toward the Giant’s upper torso, while Hogarth directed him from the ground with a flashlight. They found two primary intake ports near the Giant’s collarbone—circular indentations that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light.

"Okay, kid, stand back," Dean shouted, perched atop the crane’s cabin. "Way back!"

Dean flipped the switch on the transformer.

A hum began, low and guttural, building into a high-pitched whine that made Hogarth’s teeth ache. Suddenly, a brilliant arc of blue electricity leaped from the cables to the Giant’s chest. The air smelled of ozone and scorched earth.

The Giant’s eyes snapped open, glowing a fierce, electric violet. His entire body jerked, his limbs locking into a rigid t-pose.

"Uuuuurrrggghhh!" the Giant bellowed. It wasn't a cry of pain, but of sudden, overwhelming sensation.

The metal plates across his chest began to glow a dull cherry red. The sound of a thousand tiny hammers echoed from within his torso as his internal forge accelerated, breaking down the massive intake of steel at an impossible rate.

"It’s working!" Hogarth yelled over the roar of the electricity. "He’s melting it down!"

"Or he’s gonna blow a fuse and take out the whole county!" Dean yelled back, shielding his eyes.

After a tense minute, the Giant’s body relaxed. The violet glow in his eyes faded back to a steady, healthy blue. He exhaled a massive cloud of white steam that smelled faintly of toasted marshmallows and burnt oil.

Dean cut the power. The silence that followed was deafening.

The Giant sat up straight, his movements fluid and silent once more. He looked down at his hands, opening and closing them. He looked down at Hogarth and Dean, a sheepish expression crossing his metal features.

"Better," the Giant said. His voice was clear, the gravelly vibration gone.

"Better?" Dean climbed down from the crane, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Pal, you almost turned into a very expensive puddle of slag. What were you thinking eating that whole freight car? I told you that was for the 'Industrial Revolution' piece!"

The Giant looked at the ground, his head tilting to the side. "It... looked... crunchy."

Hogarth couldn't help it; he started to laugh. "Crunchy? It was a train, you big lug!"

The Giant reached down, carefully picking up Hogarth and lifting him until they were eye-to-eye. "Sorry, Hogarth. No more... trains."

"Good," Hogarth said, hugging the Giant’s massive thumb. "Stick to the old cars. They’re easier on your stomach."

"And no more shipyard steel!" Dean added, though he was smiling now. "That stuff is high-grade. It’s like eating nothing but rich fruitcake. It'll sit in your gut for a month."

The Giant stood up, his height dwarfing the trees once again. He looked toward the horizon, where the last sliver of the moon was rising. He felt light, energized, and incredibly grateful for the small humans at his feet.

"Hogarth?" the Giant asked.

"Yeah, big guy?"

"Can we... go... 'Superman'?"

Hogarth looked at Dean, who sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "Go ahead. Just don't do any loops. I don't want to see what happens if you get motion sickness after a meal like that."

Hogarth scrambled up onto the Giant’s shoulder, gripping the familiar metal ridge. "You heard him! Let's go!"

The Giant’s feet transformed, the thrusters igniting with a roar that flattened the grass for fifty yards in every direction. With a sudden burst of speed, they shot into the night sky, leaving the junkyard behind.

As they soared above the clouds, the wind whipping past Hogarth’s goggles, the Giant let out a booming, metallic laugh. The weight was gone, the "food" was processed, and the sky was endless.

Below them, Maine was a patchwork of twinkling lights and dark forests. The Giant looked down at the small boy on his shoulder, then forward into the stars. He felt strong, he felt full, but most importantly, he felt home.

"Superman," the Giant whispered to the wind, his optics glowing bright and steady in the dark.

And for the rest of the night, he made sure to stay far away from the railroad tracks.