He's My Copilot

== Revised text ==
Date/Timing: 3 January 2019
Setting: The Shed; Vaucluse, NSW, Australia
Note: >Text like this will be hovertext<
.
""AGNIS, Frost Snow Prism isn't here!"" shouts Chantell 'Screw the titles' Nguyen.
Max barks. 
Chuck leans over the bench of his table in the Rec, scratches Max's ears.
""Hey, Woffles,"" says one of the Shed's leading gossips. 
""Good dog,"" coos the other primary rumour miller. 
Max woofs. 
Chuck frowns.
""—would you think to find Officer Vos in here?"" replies AGNIS. ""He's teaching a class in the gym. Shame on you, Officer, you should know your staff's schedules better than this.""
""Not 'Vos', /Frost. Officer Sarah Frost, Medical division. Locate, please.""
""Didya hear about the new fightmaster?""
""What's his name again?""
Chuck sighs as they set up shop directly behind him.
So much for his crossword.
""You need to cue me with your comm badge, Officer.""
""We don't—for heaven's sake, beep beep. Computer, please locate Officer Frost, please.""
""Haas?""
""No, it's, uh—""
AGNIS drawls, ""Locating Officer Vos—""
""/Not 'Vos'. /Frost.""
""/Vos! /That's the guy. Anyway, he laid out Jumper and Tank—""
No hard feelings for Jackson 'the Klingons are from Uranus, not the Vulcans, asswipe' Jones and /Triton's right half is a douchebag.
""—made Psycho cry—""
'bout time someone smacked Logan and his stupid, scarred-up face down a peg or eight.
""Why didn't you just say so in the first place? Officer Frost is currently overseeing vaccinations at the daycare.""
""That's on the other side of the 'Dome!""
""—and nearly broke Sir's arm when she wouldn't yield.""
Which is exactly why /she should be /Triton's right.
""And that was just this morning. Yesterday he pinned the Flyboy even though the bastard hit him with a low shot that had him limping.""
""If you leave now, walk fast, and stop behaving like an ill-tempered child, you'll be able to make your deadline.""
""Jesus fuck—""
""The Sergeant?""
""Only one to beat him, but it was a near thing. They went to five and I'm pretty sure Sarge only got him by sneaking up from behind.""
""Language, Officer.""
""Minion-ducking 'artificial intelligence', my derriere, they should be calling you 'artificial sass'.""
Chuck snorts.
""You think you could take this guy, Junior?""
"I was thinking how right 'artificial sass' is, but sure." Chuck pushes to his feet. "Let's go."
""I appreciate the compliment, Officers.""
.
'This guy' lounges against the wall of the gym, watching a mixed group of troopers and techs spar with a smile on his face.
Mid-match, he separates himself from his perch and demonstrates how to break a wrist hold.
The tech beams in gratitude.
The new guy bobs his head—blond curls bouncing—pats the tech on the shoulder, and retreats to his post.
Time to remove that smug look.
Chuck swaggers straight into his space.
Curly looks down at Chuck and raises an eyebrow.
Chuck scowls. "Best of five falls?"
Curly cocks his head, then nods and straightens.
The crowd parts in front of Chuck and every head in the room turns as the whispering kicks in. 
Money changes hands around the margins.
Curly steps to the center of the mats and bows.
Chuck nods and charges him.
Curly sidesteps, grabs Chuck's trailing wrist, and flips him to the ground.
Chuck rolls and snakes out a leg, catches Curly's ankle with his foot, and pulls him off-balance.
Curly falls to one knee and Chuck feints for his center of mass. He alters course, seizes Curly's arm, yanks it into a lock behind his back, and presses his face to the mat. "On three?"
Curly doesn't reply.
"One ... two ... three." Chuck hops off of Curly's back and takes a position a few steps away.
After a beat, Curly reclaims his feet and relaxes into a ready stance.
As Chuck circles, Curly waves his hands about. >::Your dad's one of the red-haired Rangers, right?::<
"That supposed to be intimidating, Curly? Fairy magic doesn't work on me, mate."
More waving. >::You don't know I'm signing, do you?::<
"Still not working~!"
Curly rolls his eyes and huffs as Chuck edges closer.
.
"You're good," Chuck admits after his third fall.
Curly, still smiling—the prick—pulls him to his feet. More gestures. >::Thanks. You, too.::<
A voice from the back of the room yells, ""Hey, Chuckles!""
Chuck's jaw clenches. "What, Jackson," he spits.
""I think you and Vos might be Compatible.""
Chuck stills at the capital letter. He narrows his eyes and examines Curly.
""It's either that or he's gotta really weird concept of foreplay,"" hollers Scarface.
Chuck grinds his teeth.
Curly cocks his head and his hands flutter. >::Why are you looking at me like that?::<
"What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren't you saying anything? Are you /trying to piss me off?"
Curly telegraphs he's no threat, be calm, and pats his pockets.
""It's not 'fairy magic', Chuckles!"" calls Klingon. ""He's trying to talk to you!""
Curly gives up on his pockets, scans the room, hands going again. >::Anyone sign? Or have a pencil and paper?::<
"And you can't talk like a /normal person?" growls Chuck.
Curly rolls his eyes.
""He's deaf as a post, asswipe!""
"Fuck you, Jackson!"
Curly shrugs.
""Good luck with yer new boyfriend,"" cackles Scarface.
Chuck seethes but can't take his eyes off Curly. 
"You. Me. Kwoon. Now."
Curly says something, stifles what might be a laugh, and tilts his head 'lead the way'. >::Not even dinner first?:: <
.
The Marshal's waiting for them at Kwoon—
Chantell's glued to his elbow looking worried.
—all proper and at attention in the observer's position. "You know the rules, gentlemen," he says. "Four strikes marks a win, but you're here to establish Compatibility, not dominance. So, Cadet Hansen, please try to avoid breaking Officer Vos' nose."
The large—and growing—audience snickers.
Chuck grumbles, "The idiot should've ducked."
Vos raises at eyebrow at Chuck.
He scowls.
The Marshal sighs, fights off an eye roll. "Please begin, gentlemen."
Chuck takes his place at the edge of the mat.
Vos flashes a quick smile. He bows and strolls onto the mat, swinging the hanbo held loosely in his left hand.
Chuck steps forward, hanbo against his shoulder. "Do you even know what we're doing, mate? That's not a cane."
Vos tucks the hanbo under his arm, signs. >::It's not a pool cue, either.::<
"If you've got time to talk, you've got time to fight."
Vos beckons with his empty hand.
"Stop stallin', Curly! Make a move before we're /both old!"
"Cadet, this is not the time or place for trash talk," chides the Marshal.
Chuck's expression turns murderous.
Vos smirks.
Chuck growls and squares his feet.
Vos silently does the same.
They nod.
Chuck flies across the mat slightly faster than Vos raises his guard. His late block barely saves him a bruised shoulder.
One-zero.
An immediate wild swing for Vos' other shoulder lands Chuck hard on his face, as Vos evades and yanks Chuck's feet from under him.
One-one.
Vos dodges and parries for two full circuits of the Kwoon before dropping to his knees and poking the end of his hanbo into Chuck's sternum.
One-two.
"I could've taken your head off, ye fruit loop."
Vos smiles indulgently as he hops back to his feet.
The hanbo stops an inch from the center of Vos' forehead, Chuck having battered through his guard, using the full width of the Kwoon to do so.
Two-two.
"What're you so smug about?"
Chuck feints twice before ducking under Vos' arm and thumping him in the lower back with his hanbo.
Three-two.
Vos turns and waggles a finger at Chuck.
A flurry of blows knocks the hanbo from Chuck's grip and the final strike barely brushes his jugular.
Three-three.
"Oh, now you're worked up enough to actually fight!"
Vos only shrugs.
Chuck grins.
After minutes of circling and exchanging blows and parries, a lightning-fast low sweep drops Vos on his ass.
Four-three.
He grins up at a beaming Chuck, lets his hanbo roll away, signs. >::You're a sneaky little fucker when you want to be.::<
"I've got no clue what ye just said."
Vos replies. >::I know.::<
Chuck rolls his eyes, offers a hand, and pulls Vos to his feet.
"Four points to three in favor of Cadet Hansen," announces the Marshal.
"He's my copilot," Chuck declares, stepping up to stand toe-to-toe with him.
Chantell meeps behind her tablet.
The Marshal's lips twitch. "The two of you certainly seem Compatible, but we'll have to try you in the simulator to be sure. Officer Vos will need to agree as well."
Vos raises an eyebrow, queries. >::Sorry, sir, what do I need to agree to?::<
"Does anyone here sign?" the Marshal calls.
An arm sticks up near the wall. ""I can!""
"Then why are you back there? Translate for Officer Vos, please."
A maroon-haired tech in Team Vulcan Specter grey skids up.
"Thank you, Officer Davega." The Marshal inclines his head. "If you would."
Davega nods to him, signs to Vos.
Vos beams, hugs Davega—
Davega startles, then squishes back.
—separates, and repeats his statement.
"What do you need my agreement to do?" says Davega.
"I would like to know if you're willing to test your Drift Compatibility with Cadet Hansen. If the two of you are Compatible, we'd start training you as a Ranger to serve as Cadet Hansen's copilot for the Mark V Jaeger we're building."
Chuck's head snaps around to watch Vos' reaction.
Vos' eyes widen.
"Train as a Ranger, sir?" says Davega.
The Marshal nods. "We can discuss any possible changes to your contract at a convenient time if a Drift test is successful."
Vos thinks for a moment, replies. 
"Yes, sir, I'm willing."
"Even though you'll be working with Cadet Hansen?"
"Of course, sir. What's wrong with Cadet Hansen?"
The crowd explodes in laughter, the Jones brothers loudest of all.
Chuck goes tomato-red and clenches his fists at his sides, whirls on the assholes with violence in his eyes.
Vos turns with him.
Klingon instantly sobers, shoves Scarface—grumbling—behind him, signals surrender.
Chuck smirks and glances over at his copilot.
Vos grins right back.
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