Alarm

## Meta

**Timing:** after Jackson's second escape, before the beans admitted to the CDL

**Setting:** Jones quarters, corridors, Drivesuit room, VS-04 Conn-pod

## Text

Jack grins and sweeps the handful of poker chips toward his side of the the kitchenette table. "'bout time I got lucky," he smirks.

You sniff, "Luck's /**exactly** what that was."

"Sore lo—"

The Breach alert screams.

Chips fly as Jack jumps—

""SE-05, prepare for launch. VS-04, pre—""

—turns an /*X-Files* alien shade of gray.

""—pare for launch. SE—""

You're on your feet and dodging the table—

""—05, prepare for—""

—get a hand on Jack's shoulder—

He starts.

""—launch. VS-04—""

—say, "We can do this, Jack"—

""—prepare for launch.""

He swallows.

"Ring," you order, holding out your hand.

Jack fumbles it off, passes it over.

Stride to the shelf, give it to Double-Oh-Seven for safe-keeping.

Gagnon pops up in the open doorway. "C'mon, gents. They're waiting on you."

You grind your teeth, return to Jack, squeeze his arm. "Let's go."

Jack sits there rooted like a tree.

You get a grip on his elbow, pull him to his feet, let him go.

Jack hasn't moved.

Sigh.

Grab him again and tow him out the door.

Gagnon grunts and staggers when you 'brush' past him.

Jack drags his feet.

"Stalling ain't gonna help, mate," you throw back at him. "Faster we finish the job, faster you can take that twenty-four-hour leave they promised."

Jack picks up the pace.

High five, self.

Gagnon still hasn't caught up.

Awe/**some**.

Halfway to the Drivesuit room, you let go of Jack's arm.

He keeps matching step, down the halls, around the corners.

And you're there.

Hand the tags to the tech.

Outta the shirt, then everything else.

Check on Jack.

Tech's working off his tracker.

It's gotta be almost thirty in here but he's still shivering.

You roll your eyes.

Into the jock, the circuitry suit, the underarmour.

The techs put your armour together like an all-black jigsaw puzzle.

You flex everything, check your range of motion. Not as good as your tee, but good enough.

Helmet's snapped on.

Gel squeezed in.

That shit's /**cold**.

Shake everything, try to even out the goo.

Check on Jack.

Dressed same as you, 'cept, again, shivering.

The two of you clomp into the Conn-pod.

Lock in your boots while the techs hook up your spines, the harnesses, the armatures.

Gun controllers swing into view.

HUD and control panel flicker on.

AI says 'hi.'

Techs make last checks, tighten last bolts.

They nod.

You nod.

The Conn-pod door clangs shut and the bolts slam home.

In your peripheral, Jack jerks at the sound, blinks rapidly.

""VS-04, confirm two pilots on board.""

Flip your comm. "Pilot one, on board and ready."

Jack takes a moment, finally chokes, "Pilot two, on board and ready."

""Confirmed. Two pilots on board and ready to connect. Prepare for neural handshake.""

You whistle.

""—tiating neural handshake.""

Jack turns his head, slowly.

""Thirty.""

Project 'you alright?'.

""Twenty.""

Smiles weakly, thumbs up.

""Ten.""

Smile encouragingly, thumbs up.

""Neural handshake initiating.""

Lean back against the harness, close your eyes, brace for it—

Jack's memories, fear-flavored (except, cake?), every one of 'em, wash through—

—the little gold flicker that's /**him** flares up in the back of your head—

—not stickin' around; you don't bury the gold trying to shield it, not like you used to, not like you want to.

Christ, this shit is changing you.

Marshal Wills breaks in, snippy: ""Calibrations, Rangers.""

You roll your eyes, go through the motions, say (like a good little solider), "Right hemisphere calibrating."

"Left hemisphere calibrating," says Jack, mirroring you.

""Calibrations complete. Neural handshake stable. Ready to activate VS-04.""

"Activating." You flip your switch.

Jack hesitates.

You push as much warmth as you dare toward the little gold light.

Jack sets his teeth, flips the switch. "Activating."

/*Vulcan*'s core thrums to life far, far beneath your feet.

""VS-04 activated. Roof retracted. Jumphawks ready to lift.""

Chatter from the choppers to LOCCENT and back.

""Lift in three ... two ... one. Lifting.""

The rig presses hard against the soles of your boots and everything sways.

Check that the comm's off.

"Too bad they don't let us pack cards for the trip, ay?" you tease. "I could win back those chips."

Jack snorts. "Like hell you would."

"You can't bluff to save your life."

"Don't hafta bluff to win," he huffs.

"It's an essential poker skill, dingus."

"Not if you can calculate the odds." Armatures stop him from crossing his arms. He frowns.

You snicker. "You're a fuckin' open book an' that's part of why I keep kicking your—"

The comm crackles.

""Good evening, Rangers,"" says the Marshal. ""Codename: Shieldbreaker is finally moving toward the coast and its presumptive primary target is Newcastle. Secondary target is likely Sydney. Shieldbreaker's a mid-sized Category Three, well within your capabilities. You'll be about an hour in the air then drop at the ten-mile line. HC-10 is tracking Shieldbreaker from the five-mile line and should arrive in Newcastle about twenty minutes after you do. We'll update you over the comm and via your HUD on the journey."" A beat. ""VS-04?""

Comm on.

"Yes, sir?" You almost sound polite.

""Take this time to study the data we've already gathered on Shieldbreaker.""

Someone in /*Striker*—probably Chuckles—snorts.

Jack rolls his eyes.

You don't sigh. "Yes, sir." Pull up the file on the HUD, turn off the comm.

Oh look.

Next to nothing.

You do sigh.

Reading kills about five minutes.

Jack sighs, too, looks over. "Think they have any games installed on this thing?"

"Doubt it." Poke a few buttons. "Maybe we can bribe a tech to fix that."

"What do we have we can bribe a tech /**with**? 's'not like we're flush with cash."

"Weeeell, those wool sock—"

"/**NO! /N-O. /NO.**"

"C'mon, Jack! A couple pairs or hours of boredom."

"/**NO.**"

"Nanny can send you more."

"I said /**no**."

"Selfish jerk."

He sticks out his tongue.

Laugh.

Operation: Relax Jack is a total success.

High five, self.