Vent

## Meta

**Timing:** shortly after "Wilt" and "Extraction"

**Setting:** Jones' quarters, sim

## Text

Logan stomps out the washroom and throws himself onto the couch.

"You okay?" Jackson winces, realizing he's using the 'upset bean' voice.

Logan narrows his eyes, frowns.

Jackson perches next to him. "Seriously, you okay? You look pretty rough."

"I'm fine."

"The shrink an asshole today?"

"Yea, sure, that's it."

"Okay. Spit it out. What happened?"

Logan heaves himself to his feet, grumbles, "We're gonna be late to the sim."

"I don't want you in my head messed up. We'll chuck."

"I'm fine," snaps Logan.

Jackson sighs, stands. "I'll tell them to have buckets handy."

Logan stomps out.

Jackson rolls his eyes and follows, mumbling, "This is gonna suck."

They make it to the sim control room two minutes early, nod to the officer-in-charge.

"Change of plans, Rangers. Marshal wants you to do 'Jaegers and Kaiju' today versus WJ-03."

Logan huffs.

"You're the Kaiju," adds the officer.

Jackson sighs.

Bubbles and Yoslene stride in.

Yoslene greets, "Hey, guys!"

Jackson smiles, "Hey."

Bubbles ignores Jackson, glares at Logan and growls.

Logan gazes back impassively.

Jackson and Yoslene look from Bubbles to Logan.

"This'll be fun, ay?" offers Yoslene.

"Like dental surgery," mutters Jackson. "This is /**so** gonna suck."

"Time to suit up," sings the Drivesuit chief.

Logan and Bubbles snap turns on their heels, stomp to the armouring area.

Yoslene heads off; Jackson slouches along in Logan's wake.

"Logan," calls Jackson. "Logan!"

Logan keeps stomping.

Jackson grab Logan's shoulder, spins him, traps him against the wall. "Listen—"

{Jackson traps Logan against the lockers. "Listen—"}

Logan scowls.

"—tell me what happened now so I'm ready for your head. I'm gonna find out in a few minutes anyway."

"Then you'll find out in a few minutes."

Jackson gazes heavenward, pushes himself away. "Some days, I hate you."

Logan snorts. "Join the queue." Pulls off his shirt.

They strip; a tech whisks away their clothes, tucks them in their respective cubbies.

Then the jock, then the techs help them each into their circuitry suits. [Both layers of armour] next, then tromp into the sim room.

Across the room, Bubbles and Yoslene shake out their goo.

The techs lock Jackson and Logan into the rig, inject the suits with their own dose of goo. They wiggle around, confirm everything's working, and the techs leave.

""Neural Interface[: training mode]: initiating. Three.""

Jackson watches Logan in his peripheral.

""Two.""

Staring dead ahead into middle distance.

""One.""

Jackson huffs, braces for the Drift.

""Initiating neural handshake.""

—ond hair, pink hair, walking into the

coffee shop, ribbon of ink glinting crystal, almost g—

—ets his eye with a high kick, blonde's

laughing, sweeps a wave of salty pool water over

the bandage; hiss, pink apologizing, dabbing

at your jumper, Book grinning, presiding from the booster seat high

up in the gallery, pink's forever watching (and learning)

from you, mirroring, a flooffier, browner, smaller you, like a

shadow; Bubbles likes them (likes everyone), Stabby's

smiling for the first time (Baby's just pooping, but!)

""Neural handshake: initiated.""

Jackson's stomach flops— ["Was that— Is she—"]

Logan's flips— "Leave it, Ja—"

They wobble in the harness; their Kaiju tips dangerously—

"But—"

Arms flail and they stay on their feet.

"Fuck o—"

The sim chief calls, ""Alignment's a little wobbly, Kaiju. Take a moment and get yourself centered.""

Deep breath, eyes closed, breathe out after a three-count.

""That's better. Off with you, then.""

Logan tugs them toward a block of multi-story flats, pounds away at one's foundation until it collapses in a cloud of dust.

The surviving buildings rattle with /*Whisky*'s heavy footsteps as she closes in.

Jackson queries.

Logan goes for a narrow alley with plenty of excessive shoulder and tail movement, gouging and whacking two more towers as they squeeze through.

/*Whisky* breaks into a run; the buildings tremble.

Logan turns back, gives one a nudge.

Over it goes, blocking /*Whisky*'s path.

"Nice move," says Jackson.

No response.

For the next ten minutes, they play hide-and-seek with /*Whisky*, thoroughly trashing the simulated city as they dodge the Jaeger.

"Wonder why the Kaiju face off with us when they could do this."

"Probably have more fun kicking the shit out of something that fights back," replies Logan.

"So they're like—"

""Kaiju, would you /**please** stand and fight before WJ-03, uh, explodes out of frustration?""

"'bout fuckin' time," declares Logan.

"Wait, what—?"

They whirl, charge /*Whisky* head-on—

"Logan!"

—smash into her midsection, crash her through an office block, lay her out flat on her back, crouch on her chest, punch away at her face.

The sight's glass shatters.

Logan bares his teeth in a wild grin.

/*Whisky*'s engines roar as she grabs them by the throat and throws them into a glass and steel skyscraper.

They gasp, shake the static from their heads, launch—jaws gaping—at her thigh—

/*Whisky* lurches into their path.

—their claws sink into her unarmoured hip; they wrench out a bridge's worth of muscle strands, tear off the armour panel protecting her hamstring, dart into her blind spot.

/*Whisky* lists badly, drags her lame leg as she pivots to face them.

Logan yells, "Cable! Go for her throat!"

Jackson grips the longest span, flips the other end to Logan's hand.

They step directly behind /*Whisky*, loop the wire around her neck, hook foot claws around her exposed hamstring, lean back, and /**pull** with all their weight and strength.

/*Whisky* scrabbles at the garrote, at their hands—

Jackson's stomach rolls as her movements become more frantic.

Logan pulls even harder.

—/*Whisky*'s hand closes like a vise on Logan's wrist and she tears him loose—

Logan howls.

—shredding one of his fingers off against the wire, flings them over her shoulder.

The ground smashes the air from their lungs and they lie there, fighting to breathe—

/*Whisky* plants a foot on their diaphragm, presses, presses, presses the breath out of them—

—wriggling, clawing, desperately seeking leverage to throw /*Whisky*'s [twenty-five-hundred] tonnes off—

—pressing, pressing, gasping, noairnoairnoair—

Jackson comes back to himself with a jerk, without Logan in his head, with bile in the back of his throat.

He catches Logan in his peripheral, down on all fours, retching—

And then he throws up.