February 15th, 2015
Kodiak, AK
Pan Pacific Defense Corps Proving Grounds
10:43

The complex was too large to have been built in only four months, but perhaps that was only true in a Pre-Kaiju world. And perhaps “built” was a poor choice of words; built implied that the structure was complete. Scaffolding and frenzied workers still covered the snow-dusted hangar bay, an impossibly endless river of people working through all hours of the short days and nearly endless nights. Announcements blared almost constantly over the 1MC, coordinating working parties, heralding meal times, announcing casualty reports, white noise when compared to the veritable army of workers down below.

Olivia Murphy had been in Kodiak for only three weeks, but in that time the size of the main bay had more than doubled. It stood nearly three hundred feet now, stretching towards the scant rays of sunlight, sprawling over nearly three quarters of a mile in length. New warehouses seemed to sprout up like weeds, a mad attempt to keep up with the incomprehensible amount of materials shipped in hourly. Rumor had it that the Supply Division had been gifted a supercomputer straight out of science fiction to deal with the logistical nightmare. Olivia believed it as she watched the thousands of people below, so distant they ceased to be people. A train inched along towards the main Hangar Bay, bearing a massive blade, glittering in the early morning sun.

All this work, all this brilliance and productivity and desperation, and the only thing it had earned them was another funeral. A secret burial, out in the snow, an unknowing widow back in Ohio, a complex of nearly thirty thousand people who hadn’t seen the techs pry the Captain’s limp body out of the Pons. The workers repaired the monster and everyone lied through their teeth. The good Captain was going to be okay, they repeated, he was just a little overwhelmed and back in the states receiving treatment. Nothing to worry about. Everything is going well. Get back to work

Get back to work had become the battle cry of the complex.Get back to work or the Kaiju win! Get back to work or your city will burn and your loved ones will die! Get back to work! Problem was, if you were a Candidate, there wasn’t any work to do. Just hold tight, the Marshall had told them. We’ll be running another test on the 18th. No one talked about the good Captain’s death. No one asked if the next Candidate would die too. They let the doctors poke and prod and ask questions, they trained, they ate, they waited. Olivia almost wished she had stayed in Norfolk. She had never felt so useless before in her life. After a long moment, she finally turned away from the window, rubbing the kink in her neck.

The accommodations were nice, if a bit soulless. She’d tried to decorate her room, but her photographs and spider plant were overwhelmed by the grey. The desk light buzzed and the showers were only ever lukewarm at best, but she’d made do with worse. As grim as her room was, it was nowhere near as miserable as the clinic where she had spent her morning. Three hours of tests-- she had given up on asking what the tests were for. She was found, as she was every other day, to be in perfect health. The curve of her nails bit into her palm, knuckles whitening, frustration bubbling in her chest.

Darren had told her she would be useful here. He’d vouched for her, gotten her a spot in the Candidate pool, promised her that this was where the fight would be. This was the way to finally even the odds between humanity and the Kaiju. He’d promised her she wouldn’t regret this. But the fucking Jaeger was broken and everyone was pretending it wasn’t. All these millions of hours of work and none of it fucking mattered. She hadn’t even seen Darren since she’d arrived. Of course, he actually had a job to do.

A strangled shout tore through her throat. Her pale hands gripped the chair, knocked it to the metal ground where it screamed into the wall. She swore beneath her breath, pressed her palms into her eyes. She was going to go mad here long before she had a chance to die in the cockpit. It was such bullshit.

Someone rapped enthusiastically on her door and opened it without waiting. A lanky blonde man leaned in her doorjamb, looking entirely too chipper

“Yo, Murphy. Marshall says we gotta play with the new Candidates.” He paused for a long moment, looking at the chair suspiciously out of place, then gave her a shit-eating grin. “You alright?”

“Peachy,” she was impressed at how even her voice sounded there, as if she hadn’t just thrown a tantrum like she was four. Clemens smirked, but wisely remained silent. Olivia almost wanted him to taunt her, just so she could lash out. She grabbed her jacket, shrugging it on as she followed her fellow Candidate out. Maybe they’d all be lucky and Clemens would be the next one in the cockpit. Maybe he’d be the next secret funeral in the snow. Olivia fell into step with him, twisting their way through the massive building.

The gym had become the central hub for all things Candidate. Working out was really the only productive thing to do, and it was a fair shade less grim than the barracks. Everything here was shiny and new, presents from various governments, the ultimate whetstone to train their saviors. The Candidates had taken over a small ante-room, creatively reappropriating furniture and tools to make something of a lounge. A platter of mass-produced cookies sat on a table, men and women chatting away. She counted quickly. Six had become twelve had become eighteen. How many people were they going to throw against this robot until they stopped dying? There would be no shortage of volunteers. Four cities had been decimated. Millions of people would kill to be where she stood, and none of them knew the depths of their failure.

“Welcome, new Candidates!” Clemens had taken it upon himself to be their leader on day one, directing their actions and puffing out his chest for the Marshall. He’d been livid when the good Captain had been selected for the first trial-- less so after the good Captain’s death. He’d been quiet for a good day or so before resuming his antics. Olivia quietly seated herself at the table, ignoring the too-sweet cookies in favor of a stolen bagel. Clemens greeted the new Candidates, fresh from processing, in his usual grandiose fashion. Something about heroics, greatness, and a lot of fucking boredom. It was the same shit he’d spouted when the last group had showed up two weeks ago, like he was some wise leader with all the answers. Olivia rolled her eyes. Her bagel was cold and stale. It tasted like cardboard in her mouth. Awesome.

Clemens was still talking. A couple Candidates were looking attentive, if a bit uncertain, a few looked incredulous at the length of the welcome speech, and they all looked tired. They’d probably been up all night being tested and examined and shuffled around. Now they had to listen to some asshole spew bullshit at them. Olivia’s temper flared.

“Shut the fuck up and let them fucking breathe, dickwad,” was probably not the most diplomatic thing in the world to say. Clemens looked ready to strangle her with her own intestines. That sounded like fun. She rose to get in his face and was ready to unleash hell when the Marshall cleared his throat.

The Marshall was the sort of man Olivia didn’t want to fuck with. He never shouted but he was still the most intimidating person she’d ever met. He exuded confidence, seemed to be forged from steel instead of flesh. He hadn’t even flinched when they’d the good Captain from the Jaeger. He was the sort of man who could balance the odds-- what were the deaths of one, two, a dozen, a thousand Candidates if they could make this Jaeger work? He’d kill them all if it were necessary. And it was, she reminded herself. It was all necessary. She hated that. She didn’t want to die here, paving the way for others to kill the Kaiju. That would be too cruel.

“Marshall,” Clemens greeted professionally. They’d all risen, all instinctively stood at attention. The Marshall’s eyes lingered on her and Clemens, as if inviting them to fight, but Olivia remained still. He knew she’d cheated her way here, used her connections to get her candidacy. His eyes moved to the rest of the group. The Marshall nodded, almost like he approved.

“Candidates,” he greeted, and something in his voice made the very simple statement sound terribly profound. “Welcome to the Proving Grounds.”

He seemed different somehow--more determined than she had last seen him, if such a thing existed. He looked tired, but something had changed. Maybe the program had been cut. Maybe something else had broken. He continued,

“We have three days until the next trial run. For the next two, we will be conducting interviews and running drill to determine our next pilots.”

Pilots, he had said. Olivia glanced about her. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Was there another Jaeger, or did they simply want a spare? She returned her gaze to the Marshall. His gaze focused on her and Clemens again, and she could feel the mothefucker stand straighter beside her. An irrational surge of irritation filled her. Damn if she was letting him take that spot.

“Lieutenant Murphy,” the Marshall said suddenly. “Help our newest Candidates to their rooms. Lieutenant Clemens, with me please. We’ll reconvene here at 0600.”

That son of a bitch. Clemens looked entirely too pleased with himself, falling into step with the Marshall like it was the most natural thing on the planet. There was silence for moment, but it quickly gave way to nervous energy and chatter. The dark cloud of the good Captain’s death seemed a distant memory. Pilots, she wondered, then turned to her charges.

“Come on then,” she tried to sound professional, but damn if Clemens’ smirk hadn’t pissed her off. “We don’t have all day.”

Despite the gleam all around, the cookies were stale, like old church lady cookies from after the sermon, the ones she could buy along with her dog food cans for dinner. Better to give cookies at two dollars a pop, than to give nothing, or worse, something as unsweet and modern as Chicken inna Biscuits. But, after too many hours awake off-set by rationed breakfasts, stale cookies had the same comforting effect as the ones in the basement of the First Methodist back home.

Ribsy sighed, thumbed the play button on her media stick, then watched the small screen light up. One hand occupied with cookies, she set the player on her knee, then captured the dangling headphone and stuffed it into her ear before gathering the player back up and bringing it close enough to watch. The saturated, sixties color was harder to see, not to mention resolution of older stuff didn't hold up so well when miniaturized, still, she knew the movie by heart and her brain filled in the gaps her eyes couldn't quite pick up.

As the triumphant, tinny music filled her ear, the crunch of cookie her skull space, for a moment, she transported herself back to her six year old self, on the brown shag carpeting, watching the large screen as the first shinto shrine came on screen. A land as fantastical as her unicorn books, she didn't mind so much the clumsy dub job or the lack of color sense because here was a land in which her dreams came alive. People looked like far off elves, black haired with pixie faces or round peach shaped heads. All wore magician robes and the women were as thin as her twelve year old sister was. Men ran about, bow-legged and with fierce Spock-like eyebrows, shouted curses at one another, while children rushed about with bare bottoms and left her giggling on the pillow she'd stolen from the fort she'd made an hour before.

Best of all, in her memory, was the moment her father walked into the living room, smelling of axle grease and beer. He reached for her, lifted her off the floor and high over his head.

“What're you watchin' munchkin?” he peered under the veil of her hair as she giggle wildly overhead. His dark brows looked like the men in the movie but not so fierce and he grinned in childish wonder, matching her. “Hell, haven't seen this in a long time. C'mon pickle-spit. Let's get some popcorn.”

“Mom!” they'd called together and before the mountain broke open and the statue wreaked its havoc on the villagers in their elven town, they had finished a whole bowl of popcorn and two sodas apiece, had watched a statue destroy buildings, lit by a furious green background until, like a fairy tale king in her books, was finally stopped by touch of the heroine's purifying tears on his great, stone boots.

It was the first time she'd heard the word, “kaiju.” She liked the way it rolled off her tongue and while the other girls used jumprope around one another's middles and played ponies, she used a plastic viking hat from the dollar store and played kaiju with the boys who made forts out of pine needles and ran around with sticks.

It was also one of the few things in her life she could share alone with her dad. The kaiju movies, the Gozillas and the Motharas, the Daimajin, were for “geeks like us,” and the rest of the family left them well enough alone when they curled on the couch or on the floor with calls for popcorn or illegally out of the dining room bowls of Rocky Road ice cream. Her childhood was softened by the nearness of monsters, made bearable because no one quite knew what to make of a pretty, red headed girl who wanted to play foot ball and who never got over her initial discomfort with bathing in the locker rooms in junior high.

Then again, it wasn't as if she knew what to do with herself either. In that small Wisconsin town of six hundred, being gay was a sin and being undecided? Well, that just about made things impossible to explain. Granted, it was easier to hide her adolescent leanings because she could date Jory Kelp for six months, but it left her with a feeling that something in her silence was a lie by omission, just because she wouldn't have minded breaking up with Jory for his older sister who was a senior at the time and did Ribsy's hair for the Susie Hawkins dance and who smelled like something floral and edible at the same time.

College got easier, but the half-light of childhood was impossible to pierce and make whole when she didn't tell her mother that she couldn't come to Thanksgiving that year because Terry was actually Terri, but instead had to make up something about a research assignment for a professor.

When the San Francisco attacks came, Terri had become Mike and Ribsy called home every few weeks just to let the “fam” know how she was. San Francisco was far from Wisconsin, though, and in the distant way the terrorist bombings of a decade earlier had been, no one back home felt the loss as deeply as Ribsy who had spent three weeks there the summer before with a group of friends. Her mother talked of Mrs. Dalton's son being in San Francisco but he was all right, thank the Lord. Ribsy didn't share how Paul's dad and little sister were still missing.

Even with the world having moved on, there was still talk in the streets of it being the beginning of a purge which, had she been a good Wisconsin kid, she might have been able to brush off as crazy talk. Because of the Terri's and Kyra's in her life, she couldn't help but take it a little more seriously and despite neither of her parents being that closed minded, it still strained telephone conversations back home.

She wasn't military, but she had an almost degree in engineering so when the call went out and the first of the volunteers were sent to try out the newest protection against the kaiju (how the word had changed itself around, twisted itself around her memories), a jaeger – the marvels of technology. She had intended to finish her degree and then try to get onto the technical staff, but the promise of being on the inside, watching history happen, had her lined up and begging for a way in. She could wield a mean welding torch if need-be.

A sign-up turned into a quick psychological and aptitude eval, which morphed into concerned hums and more testing, then more. She laughed about it on the phone to her dad. “They tested me all the way into being a candidate, Dad.”

“Candidate for what?”

“Fighting those fucking bastards. We can finally stop them.”

Then they shipped her to Alaska, ran she and a handful of others through final tests, informed her it would be a regular thing, and stuffed her into a room off of a work-out space with a dozen others like her, and gave her stale cookies. Which, she had to admit, she'd eaten because somehow, it had reminded her of those basements from when she was a kid.

“The Giant Majin, huh?” a deep voice broke into her business and she glanced sidelong at the man who had looked over her shoulder. He gave her a slow smile, easy going, which she liked immediately. “I used to watch that when I was a kid. Go and do my table top with the other geeks and then watch monster movies.”

“Oh yeah? So you still trying to prove to the world that you're all a B.A. Dragon Necromancer?” she let her head fall back, set the player down on the seat and handed him the other headphone.

He settled in against her side, warm and solid and human, and chuckled in a way she thought women must have found irresistible. “I was actually into World of Darkness, so it was a Grump Redcap, if you ever did Changeling.”

“Nah,” she shrugged, “I wasn't enough of a geek to do any role-playing crap. But I had friends who were.”

“You were probably a cheer leader then,” he laughed.

“Fuck off, man. No, but I dated one, once.”

“Oh?” he lifted one brow, “Tom or Tessie?”

“Actually, she was a Janice and it was only for a few weeks. She got scared someone would find out and she broke up with me.”

He nodded and didn't seem phased at all, but then, he hadn't really been hitting on her, she knew. They had far bigger, more important things to be doing than playing footsie under the tables.

“Welcome, new Candidates,” a man at the front of the room called out and the pair of them went obediently into silent mode. She did, however, keep the movie going. He handed her the earphone back and gave her a friendly smile before he returned his attention to the introduction.

When they moved out, following, en masse, a pissed off blonde Lt. Murphy, the guy came up alongside her. They were almost the same size which said nothing about him and a lot about her. She was six foot one and he had to be six three, so they were almost eye to eye. Most guys found that disconcerting, but it didn't phase his interest at all.

“Owen Davis. My friends call me Badger.” He grinned and she noticed that his teeth were the kind of white only dentist's kids and Hollywood stars had.

“You're more like a stork. Okay, I'll bite. What's with the name?”

“When I was in college, I always stocked up on crap food that you couldn't get at the cafeteria. And I'd moved on from monster movies after table top, to Firefly and stuff like that. So my buddies would come in and ask for things and I'd break out in a fake cockney accent. So they took to calling me Badger, after the fence in the show.”

“Gotcha,” she offered her hand. “Ribsy. Dad named me Amanda Tucker, but I named myself Ribsy when I was seven. After the Beverly Cleary-”

“...Cleary book, yeah,” Davis took her hand with a sheepish grin. “I used to read those to my sister's kids. “Cute. Nice to meet you, Ribsy.”

“Davis,” she reciprocated. “So, what'd you think of that whole scene in the prep room back there?”

“You mean between Clemens and Murphy? I don't know. Guess, you get stuck waiting as long as they have and I'd guess you rub a few folks the wrong way. We'll be at one another's throats before you know it.”

“You and me? Get lost. Not gonna happen. I can tell we're best buds already.” She shoved at him and heard him chuckle even as the group slowed and she turned her attention to the blonde woman head of them.

Ribsy gave a good natured eye roll to Davis. “Two three ohhhh,” she made a crash and burn motion with her fingers, then laughed. “If I am not at breakfast, come and scoop up my remains, Candidate Badger.”

Davis chuckled low and delighted. “How about I come and we have a card game later tonight?”

“What?” Ribsy's eyes went wide, innocent and sweet blue eyed girl, “I have homework, don't you?”

“Fuck,” Davis shook his head. “Look, I'm sure she's just having a bad day. Take it easy on her.”

With a companionable middle finger cocked his way, Ribsy hooked her bag up over her shoulder and went to find her room number. It wasn't far from Davis' place which was nice. It was also very much like every stereotype of what a room would look like. It smelled of sweat and perfumed soap, woman. Ribsy took in a deep breath and lined out for one of the open bunks, taking a top one and tossing her bag atop it. A smaller, heavier boned woman with dark eyes and darker skin gave her a small smile and took the other.

“Shankari?” Ribsy leaned on the bunk and held out her hand. “Amanda Tucker, but my friends call me Ribsy.”

Davis peered in, gave a whistle at the digs, then left as Ribsy pretended to throw something at him. Her call of, “pervert!” wafted after him and he was grinning as he entered into his rooms.

Each bunk in his rooms was open and the other three were working out who would sleep where. Davis introduced himself and took the last bunk, being the last in the door. It only seemed fair. His bag was quickly unpacked and he settled down with the work Ribsy had unerringly said he had. The studying though was important. He wasn't the quickest tool in the shed, at least not as quick as some of the others who he'd been paired up with. During the testing, he'd been told that construction was what he was best suited for, of course. “But,” the psychiatrist had cleared his throat and tapped the page, “you're so damned sane, we may have another choice for you.”

And so he'd ended up here. He wasn't sure just how sanity came into it, but then, up against Ribsy, maybe sanity was a bonus. Someone had to keep the ping-pongs from bouncing the walls down.

Speaking of ping-pongs. Ribsy skated in twenty minutes later, Shankari on her coattails and a deck of cards with a pack of cigs under her arm. “Five card stud, boys?” she called out, low and sweet and Owen realized that maybe, in that moment of that stupid Japanese movie over her shoulder, he might have started to develop just the slightest bit of a crush.

They filled in the table and Ribsy sucked on a cancer stick and Owen lost all of the money he'd set aside for one night's fun. He laid back on his bunk, read his book, and listened to the quiet talk. It was a lot like the Alaskan oil fields, the coarse talk and easy way of interacting. Everyone knew they had a job to do and they were focused on it in the way that said they would really rather not think at all about things. Someone had pulled out a bottle of whiskey but no one drank heavy. They just played, joked, and with time to spare, they made note of the need for showers and bed.

Ribsy kicked him as she went by, her grin white and brilliant. “Davis,” she nodded her head at him. Owen went just slightly pink then reminded himself she wasn't interested in guys. Not that that made much of a difference on his interest.

Twenty one thirty hours and Owen stood, freshly showered, ready for a day's worth of tests, and feeling legitimately nervous about the future. He tugged on his suit and looked for a breakfast spot. The space was full of others who were gung-ho at being there, unsure what to expect and so being super early. Ribsy was there, leaning against a wall, a pencil chewing in her jaws and a book stuck to her nose. She had her hair up atop her head and glasses on her eyes. She had to have twenty twenty or she couldn't be a Candidate, so he wondered at the glasses, if they were an affectation, but nevertheless, she looked comfortable. Most of the newest candidates were settled in around bowls of breakfast. Owen wasn't hungry so much so he just got a cup of joe, then settled down at a half empty table away from the others, wanting to watch the room a bit, figure out what he was going to do next.

Ribsy settled into the cot with a groan. A full day's worth of testing and not a single moment of rest for anyone. They'd sucked down lunch, inhaled dinner, and had gone back to the tests which had consisted of everything from eyes (again), muscle tone (again), heart/ekg (again, again, again), to the more invasive blood tests. Each check was followed by something physical. They'd sparred against one another, watched over by the candidates who had been there longer, then watched while those who had been longer, were forced to do more intense sparring – the actions more of a dance than actually sparring.

Then it was on treadmills, spitting in a cup, sucking down more water, eating snacks, then back to doing some work on form.

Of course, that didn't have to be all, because it wasn't just about their physical ability, it was their mental stability, and after everything was done and over with, then they'd begun the real torture. Tests, examinations, focus assessments, and finally the sim drives.

Ribst flexed her arms just to shake off the lassisitude in them. Above her, she could hear Shankari rummage around in her bags before the door opened and Shankari shuffled, then went still.

Ribsy lifted her head and stared at the woman who had just entered. They had missed one another, mostly due to Ribsy being at the poker game until late. That wouldn't be happening for a second night in a row. With a grimace, she rolled to sitting up, clasped the edge of her mattress, then glanced over at where Shankari was standing at a sort of attention.

Rolling her eyes, Ribsy hopped up. “Lt. Murphy? I'm Ribsy. Sorry we missed one another last night.” She extended her hand to the smaller woman and her best, most friendly smile. The woman had been in a piss-poor mood due to some bureaucratic nonsense the day before, but that wasn't about Ribsy or Shankari, really. So there was likely no ill will toward the pair of them, so much as Ribsy could see.

The last time they had ramped up testing like this, they had been selecting their pilot for the trial run. The Good Captain had outclassed them all with his physical and mental ability, breezing through every challenge with a good natured smile. In the two and a half weeks she had known him, Olivia had never heard him complain. She hadn’t minded losing out the pilot’s seat to him—he was the best of them. A natural leader, the Good Captain had been the obvious choice. It had been easy to believe in him. If it had been him taking the fight to the Kaiju, they would never have had to worry.

She hadn’t thought her hope so fragile, but one seizure and a secret burial later had proven her wrong. Maybe it was because the Good Captain looked so much like she imagined John would have in his coffin, if there’d been a body to bury. He’d somehow even looked heroic in his desperately unheroic death and his shameful funeral. John’s had been all ceremony and thousands of people strong as they buried their loved ones beneath canon fire and bugles, but it hadn’t felt as real as the Good Captain’s. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this coffin wasn’t empty that had made it worse than John’s.

Olivia did her best to keep her maudlin thoughts at bay—if she wanted that pilot’s seat, she couldn’t hold herself back with something as weak as grief. The testing usually kept her too focused to let her thoughts disrupt her, and there was something about being in the clinic that gave her the strength to keep calm and lie when the docs asked probing questions (”Do you feel guilty for your brother’s death?” “No sir.” “Have you ever considered killing yourself?” “No sir.” “Why are you here?” “To serve my country, sir.”)

Sparring was the best bit, a chance to get her energy out in vicious strikes and the artistry of the back and forth that she’d loved since she was a little girl. She’d followed John along after school to his gym and started fighting in her bid to be just like him. He eventually dropped boxing for football, but Olivia had loved it too much to quit. Even here in this snowy hellhole, she found herself craving the rush of the dance. The chance to knock Clemens on his ass was a bonus.

Outside of testing, the only place Olivia felt at peace was in the gym with a pair of gloves and a heavy bag. There was something tangible about beating down on vinyl and stuffing. Someone had, rather artfully, painted a caricature of Trespasser on it. Every moment she could spare, she found herself working through routines, bass pounding in her ears, blood running hot. The painted heavy bag was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was the closest she’d come in the past year and a half.

Working until exhaustion was nothing new to Olivia. She’d been through the process in flight school and out in the fleet hundreds of times. Privately, she suspected the lack of consistent sleep cycles was shaving years off her life, but concerns like that hadn’t really mattered since K-Day. The strain in her arms told her it was finally time to stop. An injury now would be the ultimate slap in the face. She’d sat out K-Day with a broken arm, and she certainly wasn’t doing that again. Olivia slung her towel about her neck and unhooked the eighty pound bag, carrying it to its rightful home and stacking it neatly.

She dreaded the thought of returning to her barracks. She had been spoiled for the past three weeks, with the room all to her own. Olivia had lived in tighter quarters with more women before, but their bunkroom had been a proper home, cramped as it was. It had soul and women she knew and trusted. Perhaps it was unfair to pass judgement. She hadn’t exactly been the friendliest of people before K-Day, but she’d certainly been more tolerant. Rubbing the back of her neck, Olivia found herself beating the familiar path back to her least favorite place in the Proving Grounds. She couldn’t avoid it forever, after all. Besides, they were probably off playing cards again.

-
No such luck. Olivia shouldered in through the door, dropping her bag on her desk and realizing rather awkwardly that Shankari had come to attention. She’d never enjoyed being saluted or people rising for her, even more so out of uniform. She hardly looked a proper Lieutenant like this, her dark hair in a messy pony tail, face slick with sweat, tattoos snaking out of her matching pink PT gear, still a little out of breath.

“Uh, at ease,” Olivia was promptly accosted by the exceptionally tall one (fucking Christ, did she eat HGH as a kid or something?), and was a little taken aback. Shit, she’d underestimated how overworked her brain was. It took her a moment to process what the woman, Ribsy, had said. She shook her hand and tried for a friendly smile, although it came off more as a grimace.

“You don’t need to call me by my slave name,” the joke was a little dry, and she instantly regretted it. She’d forgotten how much she fucking sucked at talking to people. There was a reason she was a pilot instead of a communications officer. She dropped the woman’s hand. “Olivia Murphy. Uh,” she tried to think of something intelligent to say, “Enjoy your first proper day, then?”

Wow, Olivia, you might be the single worst maker of small talk in the history of the whole world.

Ribsy crinkled her nose and laughed. “Helluva way to induct the newbs,” she admitted. “But I'm guessing it's just more of the same from here on out.” It wasn't so much a statement as a check on her reality which, considering how exhausted the lieutenant looked, wasn't far from the truth.

She took a step back, gave Shankari a shrug, then settled against her bunk, one arm over the top as she dragged out a pack of cards and threw them atop her pillow. “Anyway, just so long as I can get some kinda chance at changing this damn invasion.”

Shankari rolled her eyes and, free of the salute as well as taking some hint through the interplay between the other two women, grabbed her shower things and hooked her towel from the side of the bunk. “That's all it is to you, a chance. You'll get nowhere you keep actin' like it is only a chance.”

The taller woman grinned. “At least I won't be a whiny bitch when I don't get first crack. I'll get my piece of flesh. Just gotta wait it out.” She glanced at Olivia. “Everyone's working on a new fighting technique. Seems less fightin' and more a dance class. You wanna get us up to speed on that? It's not that I don't like it, just been wondering on the why's and wherefore's.”

Despite the topic, Shankari left the room, heading to the bathrooms, no doubt, which Ribsy should have been directing herself toward as well after the long day, but Ribsy was not going to leave behind a chance to get to know their roomie. Even less so with Olivia being almost nice about it.

Olivia relaxed slightly at the easy banter between Shankari and Ribsy. It was familiar. Olivia knew how to handle banter, how to engage with sarcastic quips and ease up. She rubbed the tension out of the back of her neck, trying to think through Ribsy’s questions through the haze of exhaustion.

The sparring. Olivia thought to the folders locked away in her footlocker. Darren’s information was incredibly detailed, a leg up in the competition to win the chance to fight. She didn’t understand half the jargon, but Olivia was smart enough to get the gist of it. Sharing the load, balancing the stress across two pilots, melding minds and bodies into harmony. Olivia thought it sounded like a bunch of new-age bullshit, but even she couldn’t deny the simple beauty to the logic.

“I think,” she decided on finally, “That it’s probably more of the same, to be honest. More psych testing, just dressed up in PT to try and catch us off-guard. Everything’s a mind game here. They’d rather break candidates early rather then have them break against a Kaiju.”

Ribsy gave a nod and a grunt as she leaned heavily on the top bunk, pulling out the muscles in her back a moment. “Yeah,” she didn't sound so sure, but she also wasn't dismissing it out of hand. “Damn, can't even begin to tell ya how this is not what I signed up for.” She frowned, her lips pursed as she let herself slide down and sit on the bottom bunk. Her long fingered hands curled between her knees together and she tilted her head just to one side and kept a close eye on Olivia.

“I mean,” Ribsy grimaced, “the testing I get. Seems that's all it is, though. I'd have thought they'd get some folks into the jaegers, doing sims testing and start to work what tech fixes they need.” She sighed. “Figured they'd have me working on getting the mechanicals working right. Ya know, thought I'd be Scotty. Instead, I find out I'm a red-shirt and not even sure I'll be able to join a landing party or if I'll just bench sit until they get tired of dicking around and asking if I'm crazy or not.” She laughed at herself. “Been asked more shit about my personal life over the last month than I've ever thought would be necessary to get behind a throttle and shoot big ass monsters.”

It wasn't all that clear, no. She knew that but the waiting was leaving her feeling a bit stir crazy. Had to wonder how the Lt. managed to keep her head straight. She looked well accustomed to it all, like she'd been there far longer.

Ribsy threw her arms out in front of herself, stretching. “But I can say this. I think I could probably kick the ass of any of the boys on the block back home now. That's saying something.”

This was probably the longest conversation Olivia had had with another human being who wasn't a psychiatrist or dead in the past month. She wasn't sure what to make of it. Ribsy seemed perfectly content to do all the talking for them, which was likely the only reason their talk had yet to fizzle. Olivia had never been good with words. She'd had friends, of course, but that had been before the world had decided to go to hell. Most of her friends had died since K-Day. Fighter Pilot was not a job with a long life expectancy these days.

Ribsy mentioned testing the Jaegers and it was like the world had dropped out from under her feet. Olivia focused her attention on unpacking her gym bag. She swallowed, tried not to think about the unmarked grave. Red shirt, Ribsy had said. It was horrifying how accurate that was. Expendable red shirts, scurrying about to meet their end at the hands of their own salvation. Little nameless red shirts. God, she was going to go insane before she could even die in a cockpit. Olivia wasn’t sure which one was worse.

"First test pilot went in about a week ago," she said evenly, rolling her now emptied bag neatly. Fiddling with her locker, she slid the compacted pink bag into its designated slot. Locking it, she turned and leaned against the locker. The cool bite of metal against her back was grounding.
"There were complications,” it was the understatement of the century, but it was honest. “Which are supposedly fixed. I don’t think we’ll be waiting much longer before pilot testing starts up again.”

Ribsy’s confidence was…it was strange. The world was ending, and she was pleased she could beat up boys from childhood. Olivia didn’t quite know what to make of it. Part of her yearned to snap at the taller woman, but most of her was amused. The world wasn’t any less horrible, but there was something to be said for putting the old boys in their place. That, Olivia suspected, would never be any less fun. Her lips twitched into a smirk, her dark brow quirking at the thought. She’d never gone back home after joining the Navy, but she could imagine how good it would feel to walk her hometown in her dress blues in a giant fuck you to her detractors.

“Indeed,” she agreed. Back home implied there still was a home to go back to. Olivia couldn’t help her curiosity. “Where’s home?”