Jaegers that Never Were!AUs

See also: Jaegers that Weren't!AUs

## Cry

The guards release Jackson's arms, tilt their hats, and back from the room.

"Take a seat, Mister Jones," says the Suit behind the desk.

Jackson perches, knuckles white from his grip its arms. "Where are my kids? My wife? Are they alright?"

"Your family is unhurt—"

Jackson exhales, leans back.

"—Mister Jones. We did not leave them unattended."

"So /**I** have seen this movie—"

"And this is the part when we offer you fame, fortune, and riches beyond your wildest dreams."

"Still have a family."

"Safe and sound in our custody, which is why you're here."

"This is about Logan."

The Suit nods—

"You could've called, asked me nicely, /**not** kicked the door in and kidnapped me. Behaved like adults."

"We did, Mister Jones. You weren't terribly receptive to our first offer."

"When was that?"

"Our people called on you last week. You slammed the door in their faces."

"They only people I kicked out were those recruiters ...." Jackson furrows his brow. "You're the Defence Corps? So you want me ...?"

"Because your brother is a remarkable man. Absolutely perfect, in fact," declares the Suit. "We would like to extend him an offer of employment."

"Then you should probably be talking this over with him."

"We did, and we ran into a spot of trouble."

"Which was my brother."

"Your brother's brain, actually. His neural architecture severely limits the number of potential partners for him."

"Can't say I'm surprised. He hasn't gone on a date since middle school."

"We know, but believe you may be Compatible with him."

"'Compatible'?" scoffs Jackson. "We /**are** talking about the same brother, ay? Logan? He doesn't play well with anyone, including me."

"We don't need him to get along with anyone, we only need him to trust someone." Opens a folder. "Someone like you, for instance."

"He trusts me? Why does it matter if he does?"

"Trust is a core element of Drift Compatibility."

"Drift ...." Jackson blinks. "You're talking about Jaegers."

"Your brother would make an excellent Ranger," says the Suit. "Would put his talents to good use, keep him out of trouble. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Why're you asking me?"

"Siblings are the most likely to be Compatible. Logan's fortunate enough to have two of them."

"They don't even like each other—they /**definitely** don't /**trust** each other."

"That can be dealt with. Trust is /**a** core element, Mister Jones, not the /**only** element."

"I can guarantee Derek's not interested and Charlie and I already talked about enlisting; decided against it. Good luck, though."

"How many parenting classes did you and Mrs Darling take?"

"I'm guessing you know the answer."

"We do; I expect you are well-acquainted with Sudden Infant Death Syndrome."

"Well, yea, and we—"

"Took precautions for those causes scientists understand, but you also know that most of them remain a mystery."

Jackson stares at him.

"It is not unheard of, either, for pathologists to misdiagnose SIDS as abuse."

"Your job is to protect people and you expect to believe you'll stoop to /**murder**? To ... /**children**?"

"If that's how you choose to interpret this."

"Yea, 'that's how I'm choosing to interpret this'."

"Very well." The Suit flicks a hand.

The guards pull Jackson to his socked feet, march him from the room, down a maze of corridors, and finally load him into an SUV.

.

Charlie comes out to greet them, arms crossed and mouth tight, and doesn't say anything.

"That was weird," says Jackson, starting up the driveway. "PPDC tried to recruit me again."

"They broke the door down this time," says Charlie. "Repair should be here in an hour."

Jackson winces at the splinters. "They tried to threaten us—you. The beans." Looks over the foyer and exhales, hand on the back of his head. "Where /**are** the beans?"

["Nanny's." Charlie's shoulders remain as straight as steel. "They] were alone and crying when I got home."

"The Suit told me they were watching the house."

Charlie acknowledges, holding herself in her own house as if she's waiting for an attack without the home turf advantage. "I need to call the police. Let them know you're okay."

"I'll do it," says Jackson.

Charlie hands him the officer's card.

"I take it you've vacuumed the hall—should I give it a once-over?"

Charlie shakes her head. "We'll take care of it with the new door and then we'll join the beans."

"Sounds good."

Charlie swallows, carefully reaches out, presses the tips of her fingers to Jackson's shoulder.

He laces her fingers with hers.

She exhales, turns away, (wipes her eyes). "I'll pack you a bag."

"Thanks, Darling."

"Don't do it again."

"Not planning on it."

"You're welcome, Jones."

.

The next morning, Charlie wakes up in her own bed, leans, whispers in her husband's ear, "Captain Jones, today's the day!"

Jackson grumbles, pulls the pillows over his head.

"It's Baby's half birthday!"

Jackson drags his head up, blinks.

"Half birthday. Baby. We need party hats."

"Hats."

"For Book and Wom-wom."

Jackson scrubs his face. "Why...?"

"Baby's special day."

Jackson squints at the clock. "Baby's ...?" A sleepy smile creeps across his face. "It's Baby day." Beams at Charlie. "We've kept another new human happy for six whole months."

Charlie squees quietly.

"We need hats."

"We need hats. They're on top of the closet."

"I can get hats." He gets himself out of bed, stumbles to the closet, fishes about. "Are these hats?"

"Those are hats."

Jackson gets himself tangled in the bag for a moment, but then manages to return it to the closet. "Are we ready?"

Charlie wiggles her mobile.

"We're ready. We have a Book and a Baby and we're actually parents."

Charlie can't answer so she plants a hat on his head and grabs him in a hug.

.

The next morning, Charlie wakes up, leans, whispers, "Tee-minus-twenty to conscious beans, Captain Jones."

He grumbles, pulls the pillow over his head.

"Beans, Jackson." Pokes his ribs. "The beans need you awake."

Jackson groans, drags his head from under the pillow.

Charlie kisses his cheek. "See you downstairs."

He grunts.

Screaming.

Jackson isolates the thought.

Nothing.

Jackson drags an eye around to the clock.

That is definitely screaming.

Charlie's screaming.

Jackson flies down the hall, runs into Charlie as she stumbles backwards from the nursery.

"Charlie—"

She flies down the hall.

What's wrong?

Jackson attends the nursery.

.

Charlie flies to the master bedroom, scrabbles the handset, manages to dial.

""Triple Zero, what's your emergency?""

"My baby-my baby's not—"

The handset clatters to the floor.

Charlie dives after it. "My baby's—"

The line's dead.

Charlie redials.

""Triple Zero, did you just call?""

"My baby—"

""What about your baby, Mx?""

"My baby—"

.

Jackson attends the nursery.

Book in one crib, rubbing tired eyes and glowering.

Baby lying in the other crib.

What's wrong?

Baby's lying in the other crib.

Baby lies in the crib.

What's wrong?

"Baby?" Jackson croaks.

Baby doesn't move.

Baby's still asleep.

Baby's lying in the crib.

What's wrong?

Jackson stands beside the crib.

Jackson touches a tiny cheek.

Baby's skin's cold.

The window's closed.

What's wrong?

Baby's lying in the crib, won't move, skin too cold.

Jackson's knees hurt.

What's wrong?

Baby's lying in the crib, too still.

.

"My baby—"

""Mx, is there someone else I can talk to?""

"No, my baby—"

""Mx, I can send someone to help your baby. May I have your address please?""

Charlie picks up the handset—

It slips between her fingers.

Charlie scoops up the handset, manages to relay their address.

""Help will arrive soon, Mx. I need you to stay on the line, please. Will you take a deep breath, please—""

"My baby isn't breathing!" Charlie covers her mouth, stares at the handset on the floor.

.

Charlie makes four slices of toast, gives them to Jackson to butter, and two pots of tea, lining up cups along the far side of the coffee table.

The parade of people in uniforms and clean suits seem to appreciate it.

And then ....

.

Neither Jackson nor Book nor Charlie can attend the funeral.

Jackson's in Kodiak.

Book's a ward of the PPDC.

Charlie ....

.

"What're you in for?" asks the other occupant.

Charlie sits down on the opposite bed as the door slides closed. "If you believe the papers—"

The other occupant snorts.

"—I abused both my children until my baby d—" Charlie's head falls, her hands crumple her jumpsuit, three cool spots land on her skin.

"You didn't do it?"

Charlie can barely shake her head—a sob breaks free—she hurts so much. She forces herself to sit up, voices her disbelief about Baby—only five months! Baby's so small, she gestures, but she can't and curls in on herself instead.

.

""Hey, Darling,"" greets Jackson.

"Hey, Jones," croaks Charlie, wiping her eyes.

""Treating you okay?""

Charlie nods, but, "I don't think I've stopped crying."

""I—"" Jackson looks down, swallows. Takes a deep breath, says, ""I saw Book yesterday.""

"How's our Booklet?"

""Missing you. Doesn't understand what's going on.""

Charlie leans into her hands, nods behind her fingers.

""Child services runs out of a different building, but daycare and stuff is here, and they say if I'm good I can do my volunteer hours there.""

"Okay." Charlie sits up, musters a smile. "Go kick some Kaiju butt and get this war won."

""But we still have a couple minutes—""

"Yea." Charlie puts her smile back on. "I love you, Jones. Say 'hi' to Book for me."

""Shall do, Firefly. I love you, too.""

Charlie disconnects, cradles the black hole in her stomach, and bows her head against the pain.

.

[Charlie runs.

Charlie runs, braid looped twice around her shoulders, just like any Sunday morning. It's okay, everything's okay, she's just on a run, it's just around the neighbourhood, it's all good, and then there's something against her shin and nothing below her trainers and she hits the pavement.

Fabric rustling and a shadow stands up behind Charlie and an inmate runs by.

Charlie picks herself up, finishes her hour of exercise with only a few bodychecks.

.

Charlie washes her face, her arms, her chest, idly notes it's almost time to feed Ba--

.

"Hey, Charlie!" greets the cellmate. "Breakkie for you, too, ay? This way."

Charlie didn't know about that turn.

"Going straight's the offices--" The cellmate makes a face. "Anyway, I recommend the oatmeal. Then we'll get our assignments," she explains. "Everyone wants the garden 'cause it's only, like, ten minutes of work for two hours, but only the head table ever gets it." Gets the door.

Charlie wanders through.

"Line up for food starts there," says the cellmate, leading them over. "I'm usually stuck sitting in that corner, and the chatterboxes with the view is the head table."

Charlie absently follows.

Cellmate hands her a tray. "They're basically in charge of things. Stay on their good side and they'll make your life easy, otherwise..."

""--lly? I heard it was the brother-in-law--""

A knock to her shoulder and a dirty look.

"Are you listening?"

""But she's here--""

Bowl of oatmeal.

"So what do you use on your hair?"

""--covering for him--""

Plastic cup of juice.

[""--an affair--""

"This is ridiculous," mutters the cellmate. She links their arms and marches them to the head table.

The queen sneers. "It's the liar and the child mur—"

.

The logical side of Charlie reminds her that breastm--

The logical side of Charlie reminds her that not all people with ba--

The logical side of Charlie reminds her that not all people with wombs have milk, so she asks a guard to speak with the warden and asks to express what she has and donate it.

They reassign her an hour of quiet whenever she needs it.

Charlie focuses her thinking on stem cells and cancer-fighting antibodies.

.

Charlie finds out she's assigned to sorting waste.

The other inmates are not in the least bit happy and complain when they aren't retching.

Charlie spent the bulk of two years in the bush with limited water and having to clean up the occasional rotting carcass, but when they whine about how calm she is, she just shrugs.

(Charlie's not calm.)

.

"Awfully quiet," murmurs the cellmate.

Food line.

Cellmate looks around warily.

Bowl of oatmeal.

Cellmate whispers, "I think we're in trouble."

Plastic cup of juice.

Cellmate scurries in Charlie's shadow.

Canteen goes silent as Charlie sits down.

"I don't like this."

Maggots in her oatmeal.

Movement--

From behind Charlie: "Just like you," smiles a duchess.

The canteen snickers.

Charlie sighs, puts down her spoon, starts picking them out.

Highschool all over again.

.

Filth in the bed Charlie's assigned.

"You can sleep here...?" offers the cellmate.

Charlie folds up the bedclothes, stacks them by the door, and camps on the floor.

.

Charlie runs and runs and runs and runs and then she's skidding on the ground and someone stomps on her back /hard.

"Oh, sorry, didn't see you there."

.

Charlie washes her face, her arms, her stomach, her abdomen and she still has paint in her bellybutton. She huffs, ensures she cleans very, very carefully /again, moves on to her eleven major stretch marks. Four definitely came from Book, the others--

Charlie cups her abdomen, rests her forehead against the tile.

.

Someone trips her in the hallway.

Charlie crashes into someone who's a lot closer--

"Aug!" They shove-punch her away--]

.

""Firefly, what happened?""

Charlie shrugs, one eye too bright, the other too purple. "They think I k—" Her face crumples and she breaks down into her hands.

""Firefly, Firefly,"" Jackson flutters. ""Oh, Firefly, I'm so sorry.""

[>i guess there should be more time passing between the videochats<]

.

"She didn't do it!" insists the [cellmate].

"We all 'didn't do it'," drawls a duchess.

The [cellmate] prays for patience. "The way she talks about the kid—the baby—killers don't talk like that."

"Like you would know."

The head table laughs.

["She has pictures of them on her wall--she talks to them sometimes!"

"That just makes her sound crazy."

"Just because I've got pictures of guys on my wall doesn't mean I'm straight."

The cellmate takes a breath, asks calmly, "What] do I have to do to give her a chance?"

.

"They can get you out," says an inmate of East Asian descent, handing Charlie a book.

Charlie doesn't take it. "They wouldn't win."

"Just call them."

[Charlie smiles, eyes too bright, shakes her head. "My baby would still be dead."

.

For Baby's seven month birthday, Charlie sits outside by the smaller vegetable patch, eyes closed against the sun.

"What's your baby like?" asks a duchess.

"Baby ... Baby insisted on doing everything in a snuggie. Sleeping, working--for us--, walking ... Got really easy to tell when frustration levels got high 'cause the feet would come out." Smiles around the clench of her heart. "Right in the spleen. Like if the Kaiju weren't cold enough--a friend of Jackson's gave us these Jaeger vs Kaiju teething sets and Baby /loves them. Wouldn't even consider rings or rattles or anything else, always Kaiju."

"Good taste."

"Yea."

"Extends to books?"

"I dunno. Book wasn't picky like Baby; for whatever reason, when we try board books, Baby grabs them, shakes them, and wails. No idea why so we stick to cloth books."]

.

Three weeks later, Charlie learns two things: the medical examiner who did Baby's—the medical examiner was charged with malpractice and their cases were being reexamined, starting with Baby's, and Jackson has a malignant brain tumour (he'll likely be dead within the month), an honourable discharge, and full custody of Book.

Charlie tries to be happy.

Charlie can only think of Baby in the crib, skin too cold and lying too still.

.

Four days later, a private clinic in China asks Charlie if, as Jackson's next-of-kin, she would allow them to perform an experimental surgery on his brain that could put him in full remission but ruin any chances of him ever Drifting.

Charlie signs the form.

.

Jackson asks if she likes his new 'do.

Charlie tells him she can't see the difference.

.

[For Baby's eight month birthday, Charlie sits outside by the smaller vegetable patch, eyes closed against the sun and the tide of grey.

Baby insists on spending the day in the snuggie, loves gumming dinosaurs, and prefers cloth books to board books.]

.

Two weeks later, the reexamination rules Baby's d—

The new autopsy shows an overdose of morphine.

.

Charlie receives a hand-addressed envelope.

She finds censored newspaper clippings and a typed noted describing how investigators had followed up on an anonymous tip that led them straight to an assassin. They found a cipher and encrypted documents from PPDC command and were attempting to track down the higher-up from whence the order came.

Charlie tears the note in half, and then in quarters, and then in eighths, and then in sixteenths.

Charlie tears each clipping into halves, and then quarters, and then eighths, and then sixteenths.

Charlie sweeps the pile into the envelope and throws it in the incinerator.

.

The next day, Charlie receives a hand-addressed envelope.

Charlie doesn't open it.

.

The day after, Charlie receives a hand-addressed envelope.

Charlie doesn't take it from her mail slot.

.

The day after that, Charlie doesn't check her mail.

.

[Baby insists—]

.

Charlie's found not guilty of child abuse and infanticide, and receives a formal apology from the Medical Examiners of New South Wales and the head of the newly-restructured PPDC.

Charlie smiles as best as she can and nods, then asks to return to her cell.

.

Baby insists, loves, prefers—

Baby insisted—

.

They wipe clean Charlie's record and she walks out of the prison to Jackson and Book.

### Conceal

The Uniforms dump Logan on the beanbag—

He doesn't hiss at the grinding of his fractured ribs; that's good pain.

—chair in the Shrink's office, step out to take their positions flanking the door.

A new Shrink, he idly notes.

East Asian, trim, tidy.

The Shrink folds their hands, examines Logan's face.

Doesn't have the usual panic button.

They're brave or stupid.

"You're suicidal," states Shrink.

Logan gives them nothing.

It's an old game and he's good at it.

"You want to die because you killed your brother's baby."

Nothing.

—even though his vision is going grey at the edges.

"Baby's death reminds you how close you came to killing your baby brother."

The grey starts bleeding red.

But still, nothing.

"You will do—have very nearly done—anything required to survive, but you vowed you would never be a murderer."

Red becomes a mist.

Holds to nothing.

"Yet, here you are: a murderer."

Logan waits out the mist, the Shrink.

"I have a proposition for you."

Logan waits.

"I will secure your release from this facility and you will come to work for me."

Ah. Not a shrink.

"Doing what?"

"Whatever I ask."

"You've got yer pick of unhappy thugs in this place. Why me?"

Not-Shrink smiles. "Because you will be the most useful to me, until you succeed in killing yourself, that is."

Logan ponders.

Not-Shrink raises an eyebrow a millimeter.

"Fine. Get me out and I'm yours for as long as I last."

Not-Shrink inclines their head, flows to their feet, says, "I'll collect you after lights-out."

Logan grunts.

Not-Shrink raps on the door.

The Uniforms enter, haul Logan to his feet by his elbows, and march him down the hall.

""See you later, Mister Jones!"" calls Not-Shrink.

Logan tosses half a wave over his shoulder.

## Out

Logan hops off the chopper on the Madhouse helipad.

Some little officer with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes beckons—freezes solid when they recognize the faded /*Shaolin Rogue* tee under Logan's new Russian parka—

Logan gestures 'get on with it'.

—snaps a salute, sets off at a jog for the door.

Logan sets his teeth, takes off in pursuit.

Straight to the Marshal's office.

Pentecost beyond the pond; Old Hansen (arm in a sling—ow.), Chuckles, the damn dog, Mori, and Becket face him.

Rolls to a stop at the end of the line.

Old Hansen does a double-take.

Tips the ol' imaginary hat.

"I thought ye—"

>"No voice an' a few screws, but I can still fight."

A grunt of approval.

"Ranger J—"

>"Not a Ranger." Shoulders back. "Sir."

Pentecost frowns. "Are you aware of our situation, Jones?"

>"Two working Jaegers—" Scans the line. >"—four pilots, and two old geezers—"

Old Hansen stifles a smile.

>"[—and a mutt—"

Chuckles grumps.

>"—so] whicha the kids is my copilot?"

Pentecost frowns harder. "Ranger Hansen.{ The younger.}"

Logan leans around Old Hansen, addresses Chuckles: >"You okay with that?"

"Yea."

>"Then we're cool."

.

Herc corners Logan outside the Drivesuit room.

Logan raises an eyebrow.

Hercs eyes slide off his shoulder to the wall beyond and he croaks, "You're taking my son out there."

>"Yea. And I'll bring 'im back, too."

Herc jerks his gaze back up to meet Logan's.

>"Yer surprised? You think /**I** plan on dyin' down there?"

The laugh's out before Herc can stop it.

Logan smiles, too.

Wiping an eye, Herc says, "I shoulda known better."

Logan's turn to duck his head. >"A favour?"

Herc waits.

>"If your kid manages to get us killed, /**you** tell Jack."

Herc swallows, nods.

Logan snaps a nod, snaps a turn on his heel.

.

Chuck frowns at the niche in his armour's chest plate.

Fiddles with a handful of dog tags off their chain.

His own. His old man's. Pietr's.

>"Tryin'—"

Chuck does. not. jump.

>"—t' figure out where mine goes?" says Jones from over his shoulder. "'ll make it easy: I don't have one t' give ye."

Chuck blinks, utterly confused.

Jones shrugs. >"Mine're off the breakwall in Port. With Jack's."

"But how—"

>"Hansen." Jones sighs. >"If something goes wrong on this one, we're done for. There won't be bodies t' identify, either."

Chuck blinks rapidly.

Jones smirks. >"So ye better not screw this up, 'cause I sure as shit ain't gonna."

Chuck laughs.

.

>"You gonna fight me for the right side?" asks Logan as techs shim up Old Hansen's armour to fit Logan's thinner frame.

"Age before beauty, old man," smirks Chuckles.

Logan rolls his eyes.

The last bolts are tightened down.

.

""It's a Category Five. The first ever,"" intones Pentecost.

>"Awe/**some**," says Logan, grinning.

Chuck queries.

>"Finally have a shot at the record book."

"It's gonna count toward /*Striker*'s total, though."

Logan snorts, flicks their wrists to deploy their blades.

.

[The comm crackles.

Logan stops glaring at Chuckles.

""/*Striker* ....""

Old Hansen.

Logan takes a deep breath.

Old Hansen clears his throat, says, ""/*Striker*, you need to clear a path. It's the on—""

>"Yes, sir," interrupts Logan, starting to flip switches.

Chuckles has already finished his.

Logan sets his teeth, finger poised on the last button, glances at Chuckles.

Chuckles nods, eyes red.

>"Becket, Mori. Make this count."

They press the buttons.]

.

Jackson's mobile buzzes properly for barely a second before he's answered.

Muffled, uneven breathing.

Jackson, blood chilling, waits.

""Jackson ....""

Herc Hansen.

Jackson takes a deep breath.

Hansen clears his throat, still croaks, ""Jackson, Logan flew out here, jockeyed /*Striker—*broke my arm or I woulda—" Deep breath. ""—to the Breach. With Chuck.""

Jackson's heart stops a second time.

""They—They st—They're not—"" Deep, deep breath. ""They did what they had to.""

"How—" Swallows. "How's Derek?"

""Sick as a—"" Choking sound. ""—dog. In Medical.""

Jackson grunts.

Muffled, uneven breathing.

"Thank you for t-telling me, sir," says Jackson wetly. "'m sorry about Chuck."

Hansen grunts. ""'m sorry for—""

Jackson disconnects, scrambles for the washroom, gets the door closed and locked behind him before his legs give out.

.

Banging on the door.

Jackson blinks.

More banging.

""Some of us would /**really** like to use the washroom in the next century!"" snarls Chuck—Chuck gawd they have the same name—

Jackson shoves to his feet, yanks open the door.

Chuck (annoyance, surprise, unhappiness) nearly knocks his face—

"Logan and Chuck Hansen are dead at the bottom of the Pacific. Some of us would like a moment, so if you wouldn't mind, find yourself another washroom." Slams the door and wallows in the hot, ugly rage filling his stomach. (She didn't believe him, she didn't accept it, something broke in her heart.)

A minute.

Chuck croaks, or shrieks, or shouts thickly, ""You've had /**two** /**hundred** fucking minutes, asshole!""

Something hits the door and she stomps off.

.

Jackson, pillow tucked under one arm and head full of stuffing, limps down the hall and knocks on the door. "Can I come in?"

No answer.

Door's ajar.

Pushes it open.

Chuck sits on her bed, head in her hands.

"If you don't tell me to sod off I'd like to stay," says Jackson.

No answer.

He sits at the end of her bed, as far away as possible.

(If she hits him, at least he'll feel something.)

Listens to her breathe; each breath deep, slow, and ragged.

.

"What kind of wings would you have?" asks Chuck.

Jackson doesn't even jump. "Dunno. You?"

"Emu?" Chuckles wetly. "Dunno. Crow, maybe. Fitting considering everyone I meet dies."

Jackson brings the nightlight in and out of focus.

"Selfish little brat I am. World doesn't revolve around me, I don't have the stuff to out-stuff a war." Sighs. "It's the war's fault everyone's rotting, not mine. But still."

"Was it like this when Pietr died?"

"When Pietr died, I died, and I didn't know he died until a day later 'cause after they brought me back I tore up Medical looking for him and they had to sedate me, and if you ever bring him up again I will cut every bone in your body and set you on fire."

"I didn't feel it when Logan died."

"If you did you'd be screaming and having an aneurysm."

"Would probably feel better than this."

"Probably, yea." Rests her mouth on her hand, looks at the wall. "I still die, a couple nights a week. Guess it's because I have so little brain left I'm clinging to the only whole brain I know."

"You tell Lightcap?"

"'Hey, Caitlin, I'm reliving the love of my life's final moments over and over and over again--will you get rid of the only part of him I can call my own?'" Her laugh barely laughs before it fades. "Used to be more than that, wish it still was sometimes. I wake up, I can't breathe, I can't see, all I smell is smoke, and I'm so, so alone but I'm not, someone's right there with me the whole time and that makes it less scary."

"Logan would hate that."

"Yea."

.

"—sleep at all last night?"

Jackson's too tired to jump.

Sergio slides in next to his perch at the kitchen table.

Jackson grinds the heel of his palm into his eyes. "Couldn't. "

A mug of tea appears.

"Lavender, chamomile, and catnip. If that doesn't knock you out, nothing over-the-counter will."

Jackson grunts thanks, drops the tablet, wraps his hands around the steaming cup.

Sergio sips something with a distinct smoky aroma.

[It's that weird Chinese tea he drinks sometimes.

Nothing's on fire.]

Jackson shudders anyway.

"May I take a look?" Sergio reaches for the tablet.

Jackson shrugs.

Sergio swipes.

Jackson sips.

The tea tastes like a mouthful of grass and flowers.

He shoves it away.

Sergio sips, swipes.

Jackson stares at his hands, concentrates on keeping his breathing even. Ish.

Sergio sips, swipes.

"There aren't many of him after Derek's born." Wipes an eye. "Nanny went a little bonkers a while back and digitized /**everything**." Deep, deep breath. "Didn't realize how bad it was 'til now. I knew, /**knew** there was something off about how he got treated, I just had no idea how—" Throat closes.

Sergio sips, swipes.

Shaky breath. "He turns eight and—poof!—he's not in the family anymore." Buries his face in his hands[.]{, mumbles, "Kinda like yesterday."

Sergio catches him in a hug and Jackson sags against him.}

.

Jackson hobbles into the lab twenty minutes—

"Late," sneers Chuck. "Again."

"Sorry," he sighs, making for the stack of bluebooks taunting him from his desk. He pauses beside Chuck's station.

Chuck leans back, crosses her arms.

Jackson swallows. "The, uh, other night you asked what kind of wings I'd have."

Taps a foot impatiently.

"Think I know now."

Raises an eyebrow a millimetre.

"Dreamed I talked to L—" Deep, shivery breath. "—him last night and we had these." Offers a crumpled paper. "Didn't recognize them and thought maybe ...."

Chuck takes it, carefully unfolds the sketch.

Jackson studies the backs of his hands.

"Little eagle," says Chuck. Holds out the paper.

Jackson accepts it, tucks it away. "Thanks," he murmurs, finishes his shuffle, and drops himself in his chair.

"You could use a pair of long johns like those, I bet."

Jackson looks over his shoulder.

Chuck has a picture of an eagle with very fluffy legs and chest on her screen and a smile in her eyes.

["Someone gives me down-filled long johns, I'm never leaving bed again," grins Jackson.

Chuck rolls her eyes.]

## Mirror

Raleigh flinches as Jones' mind crashes into his.

it's not the proper washed-out blue, but /*black-green-blue*, ice cold, and smooth-opaque as glass.

Raleigh scrabbles at it, tries to connect, find /**something** to hold on to.

He's sliding off, slipping away, the Drift's gonna fracture, they're gonna fail--

The mirror yields, extrudes a coil of fear and loss--a brother slipping away oh god not again--

A spike of resolve, steely, unbreakable, wrapped around 'not again', takes tight hold of Raleigh's self.

Raleigh relaxes.

The handshake locks.

Across the Conn-Pod, Jones bows his head, sucks a deep breath through clenched teeth.

"You okay?" calls Raleigh softly.

Jones glances over, rasps, >"Let's do this," in his broken voice.

They bring up their hands, in perfect sync, for the first form.

## Daemons

### Jackson-with-James T. & Logan-with-Snicket-without-jumper

"And, for you." Jackson tosses something green on Logan's bed.

Snicket sniffs, snarls.

Logan picks it up between thumb and forefinger.

"?But you don't have to worry, ay, do you, furnace?" Jackson scratches James T.'s ears.

James T. woofs happily.

Logan gives the green thing a shake--it resolves into a cat-sized jumper. "Fuck. No."

"Trust me--"

Snicket snorts.

"--you're gonna wanna wear it."

Logan tosses it in Jackson's general direction. "We'll be fine." Shucks his jumper, casts it on his bed--

It bristles, shakes violently, and Snicket picks his way to a far corner and glowers.

--closes himself in the washroom.

### Jackson-with-James T. and Feng-with-Chao

The second week Feng and Chao are at the Academy, the dorm's heating system breaks. Wrapped in every article of clothing they have, they shiver back to their room.

No one inside except Jackson's enormous dog daemon.

「They must be in the cafeteria,」 says Feng.

""'ey, Curtains!""

Feng startles, flails, crashes into Chao, and they go down.

Chao sighs.

Feng's red panda squawks indignantly, wriggles out from under Feng.

Jackson's dog lifts its head, tips its ears forward.

""I know yer out there, Drapes.""

Feng squeaks, cowers behind Chao. 「Brother, the dog speaks English.」

"Hello, Jackson," calls Chao.

Feng tugs Chao's sleeve, hisses, 「It's stolen his voice!」

A hand appears over the dog's back, tests the air.

""Heat's still busted, ay?""

"Maintenance estimates it will be another two hours before it is repaired," explains Chao.

""Good thing I've got my own furnace, then.""

The hand scratches the dog's ears.

The dog pants happily.

"May we share in your daemon's warmth?"

""Sure. James has plenty to go 'round."" Jackson's hand /*thump*s James T's shoulder. ""I recommend staying away from the drooly bit, though.""

Feng throws himself across the room and the dog; Chao arranges himself with more decorum.

「It's so waaaaaarm,」 coos Feng, burying his face in thick fur.

James T /*whuff*s, licks the side of Feng's head.

### Chuck-with-[crow] & Jackson-with-James T

Chuck stomps into the Rec, towing a miserable James T by the scruff of his neck.

Jackson cringes.

"Uh oh~," sings Logan.

Snicket perks up, flows from Logan's shoulder to his lap for a better view.

"Your drool machine—"

James T tries desperately to look less like a hundred-and-forty kilos of fur and slobber.

"—decided to nap on my bunk."

Jackson prays the couch swallows him.

Logan chokes on a laugh.

Jackson shoots him a look that promises grievous bodily harm.

"You owe me a new pillow," declares Chuck.

"/*Uk-uk-uk*!" adds Chuck's freaky bird.

/***SPLACK***

When Jackson scrapes the slimy cushion off his face, Logan's on the floor not breathing for laughter, Snicket's a smug doily on the back of the sofa, and James T is attempting puppy-dog eyes while soaking Jackson's knee with spit.

"Some rescue dog you are," grumps Jackson.

James T whines pathetically.

"But I love you anyway." Scratches under a drooly chin.

A giant tail happily /*thump*s against the floor.

### Chuck-with-Max & Pietr-with-Pim

Max comes to a complete and sudden stop.

Chuck trips to a halt. "What is it, Handsome?"

Max whines, shifts his feet nervously.

Chuck peers around the corn stalks, down an intersecting garden path.

A person Chuck's never seen before waves to him, back resting against—

"The fuck is that?" blurts Chuck.

Person points to the big blue ... Thing then themself, then from Max to Chuck.

"That's your daemon?!" Chuck squeaks.

Person nods excitedly, fluffy curls bouncing.

Chuck clears his throat. "What the hell is it?"

Fluffy shifts, pulls a mobile from their pocket, swipes rapidly.

Thing shifts, yawns, showing disconcertingly large fangs.

Chuck takes a—/**completely** /**involuntary**—step back.

Fluffy hops to their feet, strolls over to Chuck.

Thing stretches, then stands up and up and up and—

Christ, it's bigger than Bigger Russian.

Fluffy presents their mobile to Chuck with a flourish.

Thing galumphs to a stop behind Fluffy.

"A Snorlax?" Chuck blinks. "Your daemon's a /**Pokémon**?!"

Fluffy beams, pats the Snorlax's belly and it /**rumbles**—

The ground fucking vibrates.

Max whimpers and scrabbles to hide behind Chuck's legs.

—and bows its head.

Fluffy scratches behind its ear.

Snorlax sighs happily.

"Are you terrifying or just crackers?" asks Chuck.

Fluffy shrugs, taps something into their mobile, shows the screen to Chuck.

- dinner? -

Chuck bursts out laughing.

### Logan-with-Snicket & Andrea-with-Alvitr

Logan groans awake, tries to place the noises outside his door.

Sounds a lot like screaming.

A /**lot** of screaming.

"/*Frrrp*?" says Snicket from near Logan's head.

Logan blinks blearily.

Snicket peers down at him, /**something** in his mouth.

Something squirming.

And squeaking.

Logan rolls his eyes. "Spit it out, furball."

A disheveled mouse plops onto Logan's pillow.

Logan scoops it up, heaves himself out of bed to the door, manages the lock and the whole opening thing.

Andrea glares at him.

Logan holds out a hand.

So does Andrea.

The mouse flings itself onto Andrea's palm, chittering frantically.

Andrea strokes the tiny head, coos, "Did that mean kitty scare you, Alvitr?"

Alvitr peeps in the affirmative.

"We'll get you cleaned up and into something warm, k?"

(Logan attempts not to roll his eyes.)

Alvitr chirps.

Andrea throws a final death glare at Logan, stalks off to her bunk.

Logan sighs, shuts and locks the door, flops back into bed. "Hey, cat?"

"/*Mrr*?"

"How 'bout next time you bring me Chuckles' dog as a present?"

Snicket purrs.

"Good."

### Logan-with-Snicket & Max-without-Chuck

Logan whistles back into quarters after his morning run, feeling oddly pleased with himself. He opens the door to his room.

Snicket beams from the center of the floor.

Max whines hopefully from the far corner.

Snicket turns, hisses.

Max cowers.

Logan crouches, scritches Snicket's ears, coos, "Good kitty."

Max whimpers.

## Amplifier

(I don't think I have Nate's voice right. Somehow, too, there's a version of a line that emphasizes Nate's Ranger-sexuality but I can't remember what it is.)

### 'verse one

Two Rangers walk, matching each other step-for-step, into a bar.

The bouncer ushers them right to Nate's table.

"Rangers," greets Nate. "How may I help you?"

"Well," says the blonde, "we got this in the mail." Hands over a perfumed invitation.

"One of mine," Nate purrs. "I'm so glad you could make it." Kisses the card, hands it back. "Welcome to my court."

The blonde tucks the card into her bomber, both herself and her copilot preening.

"Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," says the blonde.

### 'verse two

The two Rangers have a booth at the back and off center, but they are so very /there.

Nate catches Sabine's eye—

Sabine smiles, invites her to join them.

The darker skinned beauty at her right has an arm thrown somewhat over her shoulders absently playing with the hair at the back of her neck, matching bomber open over a bandeau, glints of silver, and a black fluttery tattoo whisping to the side of abs Nate wants to get her mouth on.

"So you're Charlie," greets Nate, sliding into the booth.

Charlie looks pleased.

"This is Nate," says Sabine.

"The Jaeger Fly." It's not an insult.

"/Queen of the Jaeger Flies." Nate motions the waiter for a drink.

"Really."

"Really really."

Charlie sits back. "So what does the Queen Jaeger Fly do?"

Nate thanks the waiter, stirs her drink. "I let a Ranger take me home, I get their clothes off, and then we fuck. Difference being, I'm the best."

.

So they're making out behind the stairs; Charlie has an arm braced over their heads and Nate has her fingers in Charlie's belt loops, and things are /really getting hot when Charlie pulls away, breathing hard.

"Gonna take me home?" asks Nate, tugging Charlie close.

"Maybe," pants Charlie.

Nate raises an eyebrow.

"What about dessert?"

"Can't we take it to go?"

.

In the car, Nate leans over and kisses Charlie, two fingers gently turning her chin and then sliding around to cup the base of her skull as she gets one leg over both of Charlie's and closes her in.

Charlie drags her fingernails up Nate's thighs, lets her neck relax a bit.

Nate takes the invitation, tilts Charlie's head up, deepens the kiss, flicks her tongue against Charlie's lips.

Charlie hums, and then there's teeth as she slides her hands up Nate's skirt, hem catching on her knuckles and riding higher.

Nate digs her knees into Charlie's hips, not so much sitting now as kneeling, presses herself against Charlie, pushes her head father back.

Charlie goes for it, nails scraping Nate's hips, and Nate has the sense Charlie's only letting her think she's in charge.

.

They get to the suite Charlie shares with Sabine and kick off their shoes and then they're kissing and they're doing this odd push-pull thing where Nate's pushing Charlie back towards the sleeping quarters and Charlie's pulling her, leading her while she walks backwards.

Nate pushes Charlie back onto the bed, takes her in.

Charlie pushes herself up just a bit, jeans riding even lower, eyes dark.

Nate joins her, and very deliberately sits astride Charlie's legs. "I," Hooks a finger over the top of Charlie's jeans. "Have been thinking about your abs," Pops the button. "All," Pulls down her fly. "Night."

Charlie grins, and it's part pleased, part unsure as to whether she should laugh. "Should I give you a better view?"

Nate shifts her weight back.

Charlie slithers from under her, stands, and peels off her trousers and underwear way easier than she had any right given how tight they are. She reaches up and under her bomber, unclips her bandeau, and lets it fall to the floor. Hands on the lapel of her bomber she pauses. "Leave it on?"

"Yes."

Charlie pops her collar, kinda tilts her chin up and Nate's reminded of the infamous photoshoot all Rangers did with designer jeans (possibly the very pair of Charlie's now on the floor), bombers open just enough to leave plenty to the imagination, and a /lot of nipple tape.

"God, you Rangers are works of art."

Charlie smirks. "You better believe it." Pushes Nate onto her back--

Nate gets a hand on Charlie's hair--

"Don't."

Nate hold up her hand. "Won't." Cups Charlie's neck, kisses into her, kisses her over, kisses her into the pillow and stretches herself against her.

Charlie slides her hands up Nate's skirt but Nate puts a stop to that pretty quick, pinning Charlie's wrists to the mattress and sitting back on Charlie's hips.

Rangers were trained to breathe from their abdomen and god did Charlie make it into an art form.

Focus, Nate.

"Now, Ranger Darling, I've been told you have a problem with letting other people be in charge."

"So what if I do?"

Nate kisses Charlie quite thoroughly.

Charlie's heels skid over the sheets; her hips jerk and her mouth tenses.

Nate breaks off, nose almost touch Charlie's. "I've been asked to help you with that."

.
Nate takes her time sliding the chain off Charlie, pointedly ignoring the building tension and how every. single. muscle in Charlie's body becomes more and more prominent and then she's on her feet, at the door.

"I will make you pay," Charlie growls.

Nate flops onto her back. "Go for it, Ranger."

.

"Ohmigod, Charlie--"

Charlie pulls away, propping herself up between Nate's legs, and actually turns the vibrator off. "Really, Mx?"

Nate smirks/smugs, reclines against the pillows. "Oh, Ranger Darling," Rolls her hips. "--please--"

Charlie smirks, lowers herself. "'Please' what, Mx?" Gently puts her mouth to Nate's clit.

"Ranger Darling," pleads Nate. "Please, please, I need--I need you to fuck me--"

Charlie sucks /hard.

### 'verse three

In the car, Nate leans over and kisses Charlie, two fingers gently turning her chin and then sliding around to cup the base of her skull as she gets one leg over both of Charlie's and closes her in.

Charlie drags her fingers nails up Nate's thighs, lets her neck relax a bit.

Nate takes the invitation, tilts Charlie's head up, deepens the kiss, flicks her tongue against Charlie's lips.

Charlie hums, and then there're teeth as she slides her hands up Nate's skirt, hem catching on her knuckles and riding higher.

Sabine presses her fingertips between Charlie's.

Nate takes Sabine's hand, pulls it up under her shirt.

.

"I will get stuff," Charlie pants.

"You get stuff," Sabine agrees. "You--" A finger hooked in Nate's collar. "--this way."

"Like I haven't been here before," scoffs Nate as Charlie wanders to the washroom.

"How're we going to do this?" wonders Sabine.

"I want my mouth on those abs, like, yesterday."

"Someone needs to sculpt Charlie," Sabine agrees, taking off her bomber.

Nate works on her shirt. "I think someone /did."

""Good point."" Sabine frees herself from the straps of hers.

Nate sighs.

Sabine queries.

"They look like fun."

Sabine grins. "I'll just have to wear it again."

The door opens and Charlie's a little startled.

"Off," says Sabine.

Charlie's shoulders straighten.

Sabine rolls her eyes. "You take command for Jaeger drops, I take command for trouser drops. Strip."

.

Rangers were, almost as a rule, somewhat weird. Naturally, this leads to Rangers being rather kinky, which is why Nate fucked Charlie with a strap on reminiscent of a light-up tentacle, rides Sabine on something that moved, and was then fucked by her and a piece with a variety of settings controlled via preset buttons on the harness or by remote which Charlie stole and messed around with until Nate closed that hand in hers and put her mouth between Charlie's legs and tried to draw a conclusion between Charlie's squeaks and gasps and the settings changing.

.

"That was fun," says Charlie, wrapped loosely in a blanket and reclining in a corner of the bed.

"Honey," says Nate. "I haven't been half the places I wanna go."

.

Sabine had her collection of strap ons ("I like to have my hands free."), and between the three of them, Charlie'd hooked up in the widest variety of places, including but not limited to the Drivesuit room, two different rec room couches ("Though does it count if we were on a towel?" "Yes." Nate and Sabine instantly.), the Kwoon ("Twice."), the gym, the locker room and the locker room shower, her bed ("Obviously." "Obviously," they agree), and in the backseat of an ute in the garage.

"Oh, and I screwed a tech in the Connpod."

"You're kidding," says Sabine.

Charlie grins, all teeth, smug, proud, and sprawls a little less efficiently.

## Soundboard

Lily insisted on taking Jackson out for dinner for their monthly meet, so there they sit, at patio table in front of a fancy restaurant with a reservation list six weeks long--unless you were Lily Prince, lawyer extrodinare.

Something ripples through the street, charging the air with a special kind of electricity.

"Rangers at eight o clock," whispers Lily.

Jackson dares a peek over his shoulder.

.

""Is this Jackson Jones, friend if Lily Prince?""

"Uh, yes?"

""Oh thank god. Ranger Darling said you looked cute. Are you interested?""

"Interested in what?"

""Being kept like a pet, mostly likely for the weekend. Mx Prince want interested.""

"Uh, sure?"

""Awesome, thank you! Pack an overnight bag, a car'll pick you up in an hour.""

"Wait--why--"

""You will find, Mx Jones, being a Ranger is point one percent awesome and ninety-nine point nine person mind-numbingly dull.""

.

Charlie pushes Jackson down onto her bed, fistful of his jumper keeping him close so she can keep kissing him, straddles his hips, kisses him into the pillows--

Jackson makes a sound, dips his head. "I have to work on Monday."

Charlie pouts. "Do you have to?"

"Kinda. I'm not as incredibly talented person with an amazing job as you."

.

Jackson lets himself into his flat.

"Yo," says Charlie from the kitchen counter.

Jackson squeaks.

Charlie doesn't look up from her mobile, jerks a thumb to the side. "Brought groceries."

.

Jackson stops on the landing of his building.

""--just leave the 'Dome!""

""You knew where I was!""

""It doesn't matter! You can't run off like this--""

""You are /not my mother!""

""I'm your handler and you have contract--""

""Which I didn't violate--"

Jackson's neighbour leans close, says conspiratorially, "That friend of yours knows some interesting people."

""You left the premises without permission--""

""Oh, fuck this--""

Jackson's door slams open and Charlie storms by, trailing a flustered handler and two security.

"She does, doesn't she?" replies Jackson, voice a liitle too high.

.

Jackson doesn't know whether or not Charlie has permission to be at his place, but it's two in the morning and she has her hands around his neck and she seems to bethinking about squeezing.

He stays still.

Charlie lets go and lies back down.

Jackson stays quiet, but he turns his head and looks at her.

"I think I'm sick," Charlie says to the ceiling.

One night, Charlie tucks herself into a hoodie she lifts from a locker, snags an envelope of cash from under her bed, and, bomber in hand with the chip torn out, leaves the 'Dome.

She stops at a store for a change of clothes and a backpack, dumps hers in a donation bin and stuffs her bomber in the bag. An hour later, she finds a bike that she likes, shuffles a few bills from the envelope, leaves the rest in the mailbox, and drives off.

.

Jackson lets himself into his flat.

His mobile rings.

"Hello?"

""Mx Jones? Have you seen Charlie?""

"Uh, no?"

A frustrated sigh. ""If you see her, will you give me a ring? Do you have my number?""

"Yes and yes."

""Excellent, thank you. Have a good day, Mx.""

"Thanks, uh, good luck."

.

"Charlotte Kirra Darling, stop this at once!"

Charlie gapes.

«Kirra, I love you.» cups her cheeks. «you are my niece, my blood. I love you, yet--» Wipes away tears. "Yet I hardly know you." Looks Kirra in the eyes. "But I want to. So please, let ghost people make sure you're well, and then you'll come back here and we'll get to know each other." Tries to meet Kirra's eyes. "Okay?"

Charlie nods.

"I'm so sorry about your partner."

Charlie nods, face twisting with pain and she curls in on herself, hugging her stomach, against Cecilia.

She hugs her back, strokes her hair.

## Silencer

(From "Charlie scraps")

Charlie's asked to the dean's office.

PPDC's there. They (and the dean) rave about her accomplishments and her grades and all her contributions to the university (she's a notetaker for all her classes, TAs a couple others), what a good fit she'd be for the Jaeger programme and University of Sydney would be /**thrilled** to sponsor her.

"It's a relationship built on mutual trust and respect. Not just your Drift partner, but your LOCCENT team and your crew. It's like a second family--they're there to help you and have your back."

Charlie says 'yes'.

Charlie goes to the Academy.

She's fast-tracked for the next Jaeger. Keeps to herself, barely looks at anyone, much less talks.

They do manage to find her an 02--Sabine, she-her-hers, blonde.

First time they Drift, they wake up the next morning in the same bed, sticky and tangled together.

They get on with their lives.

.

Their Jaeger's brutally efficient. (Charlie gets Sabine to coordinate with the other teams and LOCCENT.)

They sleep together a couple more times, always after they Drift, always desperate *comebackcomebackcomeback*—

Until they don't.

Charlie stops speaking all together, starts withdrawing.

Sabine worries, brings it up with their handler.

The PTBs give Charlie pretty things, pretty people, try to get her to engage with /**something**—

"Wanna go to the pool?" asks Sabine has they walk back from a sim. "You should wear your new swimsuit!"

"It's on your bed!" adds their handler.

They get changed into swimsuits-matching patterns in their team colours, though with different cuts. Both are two-.piece; Charlie's is sleeveless, a small turtleneck, and high-waisted shorts. Sabine's top crops higher and her bottoms are more brief-like. Charlie gets all the straps of her in the right spot the first time, Sabine needs their handler to straight some of hers out at the back. They grab their towels and sunglasses, and off they go.

Three chairs wait for them in the best corner of the pool.

Charlie dumps her towel and rolls onto the one she deems hers, the one farthest from the door--

"No, no, sit here," insits Sabine, tugging her to the middle chair.

Charlie takes over the middle chair.

Sabine sits on the now-empty chair, catches someone's eye, smiles.

They come over, greet Charlie--

She raises a hand.

--chat with Sabine, head off.

Sabine suggests someone else come over, and the practice starts again.

And again.

And again.

Four people later--

"Sabine!" calls Nate. "Don't you look gorgeous!"

Sabine's on her feet, grinning, kisses Nate's cheek. "It's great to see you!" Takes her hand, "Have a chair for you and everything."

"Why thank you, beautiful."

They chat for a bit, and then their handler suggests it's time to go.

Nate and Sabine link arms with Charlie as they stroll back, and since Charlie links her arms with theirs, Sabine smiles 'good luck' and casually falls into step with their handler.

Back at the suite, Nate catches Charlie's hand as she heads to her room. Nate steps closer to Charlie, runs her hands over Charlie's shoulders, around her neck, goes up in her toes, stretching and pressing herself against her, and kisses Charlie.

Charlie's lips are soft and cool and as responsive as if she wasn't being kissed.

Nate pulls away, steps back. "Sorry."

Charlie resumes heading to her room.

Nate turns on her heel and saunters to the predetermined waiting spot of Sabine and the handler, smiles as genuinely as she can, and hisses, "Are you trying to get me charged with assault?"

Sabine groans.

"Didn't work?"

"No, it did not," Nate snaps.

"Nothing works," sighs Sabine. "She doesn't respond to anyone."

>a transition<

Mattie, wearing her most flattering shirt, hair style, and makeup, and awesome jeans, follows the handler into the suite Charlie shares with Sabine.

Charlie's just finishing supper.

"This is Mattie," says the handler.

"Hi!" greets Mattie.

"Maybe you two could hang out tonight."

"Books're over there," replies Charlie, voice surprisingly gravelly, plugging the sink.

The handler stifles a sigh.

Mattie gives them a thumbs up.

Charlie adds soap.

'Good luck,' mouths the handler.

Mattie smiles.

Charlie turns on the water, returns to the table for her dishes.

The handler leaves quietly.

"So," Mattie wanders to the couch. "Recommend anything?"

"On the bookcase."

Mattie picks one with an author she recognizes. "Wasn't this the guy in the news the other day?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"I'll look it up!"

Charlie washes her cutlery.

"Never mind, wrong guy."

Charlie washes her plate.

Mattie looks around.

Lots of trinkets, lots of pictures with beaming famous people (Charlie smiling shyly)--

Mattie frowns.

Come to think of it, had she ever heard Charlie say anything in press conferences?

Mattie can't bring an instance to mind.

Charlie sits on the couch as far from Mattie as she can, turns on the TV.

"Anything good on?" asks Mattie.

The channel connects.

*Click*.

*Click*.

*Click*.

Mattie tilts her head.

*Click*.

One second.

*Click*.

One second.

"This show's pretty good."

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Commercial break.

*Click*.

Mattie swallows a sigh, tries again every couple of minutes until they hit a music station--"I /**love** this song!" She throws herself to her feet, belts out the lyrics, dances around the main room, adds a cadenza of her own on the find chord, and bows with a flourish.

*Click*.

Mattie hops back--

*Click*.

--sits in the middle of the couch--

*Click*.

--continues offering recommendations every few minutes, and tries to decide if Charlie's a blank wall of the smoothest glass to which nothing sticks or a fun and energy-sucking black hole. (She's pretty sure Charlie's more the first.)

And that's what they do until precisely 2100 hours, at which point Charlie turns off the TV and goes to her room.

Mattie follows.

Charlie's room, like the suite, has loads of personality and /**looks** lived-in but feels ... lifeless. Unloved (that's not right). Like a museum exhibit--"the habitat of the 20teens young adult!".

Charlie flops into bed, cracks open a paperback.

Her closet--

"Oh my gosh!" squees Mattie. "They're so pretty!" Hesitates, twists to Charlie. "Lemme know if I shouldn't touch anything."

Corner of Charlie's mouth twitches up.

Mattie mentally celebrates, pulls a garment out at random, checks herself out in the mirror. "I love this colour but it looks /**awful** on me." Sighs, but smiles and curtsies to her reflection, returns the dress to the closet, takes out another.

Charlie's closet is chock-full of clothes, sensible shoes, two labeled garment bags (-Suit #1, #2- and -Launch gala-), and three pairs of /**wicked** heels (one gold, one black, and one in her team colours).

And that's what they do until precisely 2130 hours, at which point Charlie sets the book on the bedside table, gathers her PJs from the dresser, and leaves.

Mattie peeks out the door--

The washroom door closes.

Mattie counts to five, packages away her depressing thoughts, and pulls out her mobile.

**message sent:** this isn't working

**message received:** damn.

**message sent:** sorry

**message received:** no, no, it's fine. you were our last resort. if you couldn't connect, no one could.

**message**--

The washroom door opens.

Mattie shoves her mobile back in her pocket.

Charlie drops her folded clothes in the hamper, tucks herself into bed. "Night." Turns off the light.

"Night!" chirps Mattie. "Want me to close the door--"

Charlie sounds like she's already asleep.

Mattie lets herself out, hits the hall light, curls up on the couch again with her book, and waits for the handler.

.

So they send Charlie home.

Her family doesn't try to get her to talk; they only see her when the table's set, hide-nor-hair the rest of the time (Tilda, too, for that matter. They're not worried even if she and Charlie aren't wandering together).

.

The PTBs bring Charlie back to the base.

She doesn't look at anyone, much less talk.

She and Sabine keep Drifting, keep deploying, keep winning.

And then Charlie slips away.

The other team takes the kill, the choppers pull them from the ocean; they're a little bruised from the fall but otherwise fine.

Charlie reacts slowly to noise, hardly at all to pain, and doesn't notice anything in a visual field (people, for instance. Sabine. Their handler. Doctors, family, crew, faces she sees everyday. A potted plant.).

DriftSci runs every test they can think of, hooks Charlie up to every available sim, including some not even in development yet.

Nothing.

.

The PTBs give Charlie an honourable discharge, send her home. Takes two days; the first they spend putting together more shelves and organizers (Little Mike and two of the strays grumble they could've /**built** far better stuff in less time), hanging the clothes they gave her in her closet, and arranging trinkets and baubles around her room. They keep to themselves and the household stays clear, trying not to be too obvious with their side eyes.

They bring Charlie the second day, pushing the wheelchair through the porch, around to the back swing at Cecilia's bequest.

They get her set; Charlie tucks her legs up and relaxes into the nest of blankets and pillows, books, games, and lemonade. Tilda makes herself comfortable on the veranda in a sunbeam, gives the lot of them dirty looks. One of the PPDC briefs Cecilia on Charlie's medication, what they should do, what they could do, and what they might expect. (Cecilia half-hopes she keeps her sneer under control.)

Then the PPDC tip their hats and leave.

Cecilia goes onto the porch and looks at Charlie, and reflects she knew so little about their niece that she couldn't say she didn't recognize her in this state, that she wouldn't know 'conscious' or 'present' from not, and what a pity she probably never would. She swallows the pang and orders Big Mike and a stray into the kitchen to help her with lunch while Red, tending the garden under the railing, gives this 'narrating their day out loud' business a shot.

One morning of the third week, as Cecilia's checking on the state of Charlie's toast, Charlie catches her hand, doesn't let go.

.

She notices her family over the next few weeks, tracking them with only her eyes at first, and then her head. She figures out how to move her arms next, and within six months she can walk around on her own.

(Cecilia doesn't say it out loud, but Charlie's skin feels less like the ambient air temperature and more actually warm.)

And then one day, when they think everything may be golden from then on, the pump breaks.

Instead of replacing it, the house decides to build a new, more efficient system.

Their local guy says it's buildable and that maintenance wouldn't be an issue, but they didn't know quite how to design it.

The house does some research, keeps getting recommended to this place in Sydney.

Cecilia and Red head down, come back a week later with a few consultants. Cecilia shows them around and Red gets lunch going, shooing Charlie from the kitchen despite her protests she could cook just fine. Red agrees, and then points out taste is a more obvious selling feature than a nigh-inedible dish crammed full of nutrients.

Charlie huffs, gets the door for Tilda, and marches out back to help feed the flock, Tilda matching her step for step and grumbling the whole time. Charlie just gives her a Look and lugs a bag from the silo.

Tilda snaps.

A strange voice squawks.

Charlie huffs, tugs Tilda away.

Stranger picks themselves off the ground. "Uh--" Clears their throat. "Hey."

"Hey." Returns to doling out feed.

"So you're Charlie?"

"I know where she is."

Stranger shuffles into her peripheral, rubbing their neck. "Mrs Cecilia said I should talk to a "Charlie" about getting pictures of the pipe behind the nest of one "Tilda the grouch"?"

Tilda huffs, ruffles her feathers.

"Can't a hand help?"

"They've all mysteriously vanished."

Charlie twists, casts an eye over the yard.

Besides herself, Cecilia, and the consultants, no other humans in sight.

She returns to the bag.

"Tilda can show you."

"I don't think Tilda can spell things out for a mechanically-disinclined noob."

"Then you're going to have to wait."

"I can wait. You're pretty--your arms are pretty--you're poetry in motion--gawd, that's /**such** a cliché--I'm going to shut up now."

Charlie fills the trough, takes a breather while she's crouched.

Stray seed on the brim.

Also, emus eying her general area hungrily.

Tilda tucks in.

Charlie flicks the seed.

"Ow."

"Thought you said you were gonna shut up." But she's smiling. "C'mon." Folds up the bag, heads off.

### Meta

I'm sorta thinking Mattie's an escort-ish the PPDC has on retainer.

Big Mike used to be just Mike and then she had a kid (he's younger than Charlie) at which point they needed something to call the kid so they called him 'Little Mike' and her 'Big Mike'.

The strays are the semi-homeless youth who wander in and out. They get three meals a day (and tea), board if they don't mind the stable or the loft, and half minimum wage 'cause the Darlings can only afford that much.

## Utonium

 Setting
 Initiating author
 Inspired by

(From "Button family scraps")

Blossom tracks Buttercup down at his favourite park, announces, "The Professor wants to see us tomorrow at nine."

Buttercup grunts.

"What d'you think it's about?"

He sits up, crosses his legs. "Nothing good."

Blossom snorts.

The next morning, they're all on the couch in The Professor's office; Blossom perches between Bubbles and Buttercup.

That's not The Professor behind the desk, not the familiar thug working the door.

PPDC's there in their places.

They rave about their skill as a fighting team and what a good fit they'd be for the Jaeger programme, how it would be a chance for them to make something of themselves, give back to society.

Buttercup laughs, pushes to his feet, strolls—

The thug on the door blocks his path—

—shoves by—

—drops him with a shot from a taser.

The Suit behind the desk sighs. "We'd /**hoped** to discuss this like adults, but some people are apparently incapable. Now, then—"

Bubbles and Blossom swallow.

In Kodiak, Buttercup and Bubbles shift into what Buttercup calls 'round peg' mode; Blossom mostly keeps her head down.

The PTBs gleefully announce they've developed a three-way Drift for them.

Bubbles' Compatibility score is /**just** within the safety margin. The PTBs hook her up anyway.

The first Drift—

A /*white-bright-magnesium-blue* flash and a taste of copper—

Blossom wakes up in Medical a month later.

Buttercup comes to within the half hour.

Bubbles never does.

The PTBs remove the third arm from their under-construction Jaeger.

Blossom and Buttercup pass the fitness-for-duty test and the PTBs hook them up.

The second Drift—

A storm of /*black-green-blue* burning like ice, twining around her /*sunny-violet-warm*.

Afterward, Buttercup locks himself in the washroom.

Blossom curls up on her bed and /*aches*.

They Drift, they deploy, they win.

As soon as they're de-armoured, Buttercup locks himself away.

In between drops, he won't speak to her, won't look at her.

She understands and the /*ache* grows.

Their sixth drop, sixth kill—

Blossom burritos in three blankets to wait out the /*ache*.

Buttercup croaks, "Hey," from the doorway.

The morning after, she wakes up sore, sated, alone.

The washroom door's locked.

Blossom swallows ECP at Medical.

They Drift, they deploy, they win, they fuck.

Buttercup avoids her, says nothing.

Blossom twists her hair, says nothing.

Eleven drops, eleven kills: a new record.

They Drift, they deploy, they—

The Drift fractures.

They keep it together, the other team takes the kill, they stagger back to shore.

The morning after, Blossom throws up in her trash bin.

Medical offers her a choice of pills.

The PTBs offer an honourable discharge if she takes the vitamins.

She takes the vitamins and goes home.

Word comes Buttercup's been discharged, too, and vanished god-knows-where.

Seven months later, Blossom basks in a Townsville sunbeam, hands folded atop the shelf of her belly.

Buttercup croaks, "Hey," from the garden gate.