Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful day when Right-Eye died. The sun was out, the weather was perfect, and he and Redcloak had playfully raced each other to the bay when an alert had arrived at the Shatterdome. The Crimson Mantle stood, tall and proud, gleaming in the sunshine after the engineers and maintenance crew had scraped the remains of her last encounter away. The Jaeger was built to last, to take hit after hit after hit and keep standing, and to land blows with her mace-like fists, powerful enough to crack kaiju bones.

Just as the name implied, the Crimson Mantle was a brilliant, shining red, a coat that Right-Eye maintained as lovingly as his ongoing prank war with the head biochemist, Lirian. Redcloak and Dorukan-- Lirian’s husband, and the lead engineer on the Jaegers-- had been content to sit out, laugh at the results, and tip one another off when someone planned to cover the floor of their room in Legos.

Redcloak gets into the armor, and Right-Eye does the same at almost exactly the same time. Drifting has always been easier than most for them, considering that they knew each other’s heads so damn well already.

“Prepare for neural handshake,” Dorukan says over the comms, and Right-Eye just grins like the fucking maniac he is. Redcloak doesn’t grin, not quite like his brother does-- Right-Eye’s grins are sharp and crooked, reassuring to his friends and terrifying to everyone else, and Redcloak’s are… less sharp, but more cold. Not reckless and hot and dangerous, but calculated and cool and ruthless.

They compliment each other perfectly. They’re the best pair of drifters the program has ever had, and they know it.

“Four, three, two, one-”

Redcloak barely feels a thing, now. The two of them are in each other’s heads so often already that it hardly makes a difference anyway-- ghost drifting is hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to them, and it’s… honestly, it’s actually done more help than harm, even if neither of them get laid unless the other is in another country.

“Neural handshake stable.”

-

The Crimson Mantle makes it to the kaiju-- codenamed Dracolich, because Dorukan was a giant nerd and Lirian was just enough of a geek to indulge him-- along with the Sapphire Guardian. Miko and Hinjo are the last people on the planet you’d expect to have a stable mental connection, but the both of them had the right kind of single-minded focus on getting the kaiju to stop destroying their fucking planet to make it work.

It’s cold, and there are glaciers, but the sky is still clear and the weather is still perfect, and Redcloak has his brother beside him and nothing is going to stop them.

Dracolich is a Category III, and the two Jaegers get into position for an ambush on the sea serpent-like creature. The Sapphire Guardian is hidden behind the nearest glacier, its blue and white and silver hues better suited for blending than the Crimson Mantle’s brilliant red and black ones.

Redcloak glances at the screen tracking its location, and freezes.

“Sapphire Guardian!” He shouts into the comms, Right-Eye sucking in a breath because he’s mentally linked to his brother, he doesn’t need to glance down to see what’s wrong or to pick up the message where Redcloak leaves off.

“Ambush. Category III, on your four o’ clock, underneath the glacier you’re hiding behind. Fuck.”

The comms crackle as Hinjo replies.

“Affirmative. Engaging the surprise target. Will the two of you be able to handle the other one?”

See, the thing about actually becoming a Jaeger pilot was that you did so fully expecting yourself to die on any given day. This was why Redcloak and Right-Eye didn’t have family, or loose ends, or old friends. They had each other and they had the rest of the program and that was enough, that had to be enough.

Redcloak did the math as Right-Eye gave the affirmative no matter what the actual answer was, because Hinjo and Miko had the survival instincts of something that definitely shouldn’t have lived as long as they had.

The first kaiju attacked. The Crimson Mantle responded in kind.

-

Five minutes later, the Sapphire Guardian stops moving, the kaiju dead but neither pilot responding to Redcloak and Right-Eye’s frantic calls. A quick message to the system reveals that the Jaeger’s power source is undamaged-- her arcane core functions fine, magic flowing the way it was supposed to, except that Miko and Hinjo aren’t fucking answering and-- oh.

Shining one-way glass had shattered where the kaiju had used its last lunge to punch one large claw into the Sapphire Guardian’s cockpit.

Redcloak keeps fighting; Miko and Hinjo might be alive. Miko and Hinjo are probably not alive. As of right now, he’s more worried about himself and Right-Eye than them.

Three minutes after that, the comms crackle, and Hinjo’s bleary, terrified voice comes through.

“Miko- Miko’s hurt, she’s bleeding-- it got her-- she’s alive but she’s lost a lot of blood, and-- wait-- she’s waking up-- okay. Okay. She says she’s only good enough to walk back to the shore, and then she’s out--”

“Where’s the wound?”

Redcloak had been a med student, before the breach had opened at the bottom of the ocean and the world had started to end. Ghost drifting meant that Right-Eye might as well have been one too.

“Her... her side. it’s a couple of inches deep...”

Miko was going to bleed out within the hour. Redcloak knew that, which meant Right-Eye did too, and Miko likely knew that and Hinjo was probably too much in shock to get it right then.

“Get back to shore. You two are gonna be useless in a fight anyway in that state.”

Right-Eye doesn’t open his mouth, but he tells Redcloak that he made the right call anyway.

It would take them forty five minutes going top speed to get to the pickup zone, and Miko would probably push both herself and Hinjo that far. The Crimson Mantle was built for strength, but the Sapphire Guardian was built for speed-- it had yet to lose a limb to kaiju because it was just too damn fast.

The likelihood of Miko surviving was well below one percent. Even if Hinjo’s estimate was off by a half an inch or so, she’d bleed out within the hour, and that was if the wound had managed to avoid all her organs, which, to be fair, was more likely than her waking up the next morning.

The kaiju rears up. The Crimson Mantle gets ready to fight again.

-

Ghost drifting was almost nice. Redcloak was never without whatever conversation Right-Eye was having at that moment, or whatever charming words he’d come up with that time, dimmed to a low murmur in the back of his mind but there all the same. His brother’s sharp grin ached in Redcloak’s cheeks, and sometimes when they sparred he heard Right-Eye planning out his attacks.

The kaiju is wounded beyond any repair, and it takes Right-Eye down with it, and everything in Redcloak’s mind goes silent.

He pilots the Crimson Mantle back to shore, through where the pickup zone should have been but wasn’t, because the moment even one Jaeger arrived at it the crew got the hell out with whoever it was. Redcloak knew that. Right-Eye knew... had... did…. 

It takes him three hours. Goblins weren’t built to pilot Jaegers on their own. Nobody was.

Redcloak and the Crimson Mantle crawl onto the beach and collapse, and Redcloak sends a message to Dorukan and then he passes out.

-

Redcloak wakes up in the infirmary, and he knows Right-Eye is dead before the events even come back to him because there is silence .

There’s a hole left in his mind, a space at the fraying edges of Redcloak’s consciousness that should have been woven into somebody else’s head.

He can’t leave the program. He won’t leave the program. Redcloak doesn’t know why he has to stay but he has to , he has to the way he has to pray to the Dark One for his spells even if they pale in comparison to the arcane power cores of most of the Jaegers.

Redcloak’s next co-pilot is Xykon. He feels the human(?) shove his way into Redcloak’s mind, pushing and poking and forcing everything to make room for him.

Redcloak’s yellow eyes are staring at the sea in front of them. He’s too busy figuring out how to kill this kaiju to call Xykon on it.

---

Vaarsuvius had always expected to be the last to die of the two of them. They hadn’t expected to wind up co-piloting a Jaeger with their high school physics teacher and the man who taught them magic, but Aarindarius hadn’t either.

Aarindarius had been a friend of Vaarsuvius’ parents for longer than the elf had been alive, and when they’d gone to university in his city he’d happily cleaned up the guest room of his apartment. They’d been studying for their midterm.

Vaarsuvius couldn’t remember which class. It didn’t end up mattering, because their parents had died at the hands of these things the news anchor had called kaiju, and they couldn’t not do anything, and Aarindarius likewise couldn’t not do anything.

In the four years it took the two of them to complete the program necessary to qualify to pilot a Jaeger, Vaarsuvius dropped out and married a baker with two adopted kids. In the three years since Aarindarius and Vaarsuvius had started piloting Dragonslayer, Aarindarius had never once resumed teaching in any capacity at all, outside of tutoring Vaarsuvius in magic.

He’s all they have left of their parents. They’re all he has left of their parents, too.

The Dragonslayer is beautiful, a marvel of old magic and new technology. Matte black scale-like armor covers nearly all of her body, rimmed in brass and accented by the shining red lights that tell any nearby aircraft to fly far, fast. She moves slower than the Sapphire Guardian and she’s got a little less strength than the Crimson Mantle, but this is supposedly made up for by the fact that she was built to be piloted by mages.

Aarindarius had only ever cast a spell once while piloting Dragonslayer, and the power had surged out of his hand and into the conduits down the Jaeger’s arm until it burst from a cold metal hand, amplified tenfold and doing far more damage to the kaiju that got a Jaeger-sized Fireball to the face. He’d stumbled out of the cockpit after that mission and immediately forbidden Vaarsuvius from ever doing the same, before he passed out after taking another two steps.  He spent the next three days in a coma.

Ghost drifting was… welcomed, by the two. It was like always having Aarindarius next to them-- Vaarsuvius never had to wish he was there to silently support them, because he always was, and he never had to wish Vaarsuvius was there to hum the comforting lullaby their father had taught them when they moved in with Aarindarius, because they were.

Neither of them were ever alone.

Vaarsuvius had only expected to be the last to die because Aarindarius was a few centuries older than they were.

The kaiju was a Category IV, and Aarindarius starts casting spells with the Dragonslayer’s hand as Vaarsuvius presses a button and unsheathes the Dragonslayer’s knife-like claws.

The Dragonslayer wasn’t as fast as the Sapphire Guardian or as strong as the Crimson Mantle, but it was twice as precise and five times as sharp a weapon.

Vaarsuvius slits the kaiju’s throat, and when they look over at Aarindarius, the elder’s empty green eyes are staring straight at the ground, and blood is dripping down his chin.

Jaeger casting took a toll only the gods could heal, and Vaarsuvius was not a cleric. Tears pricked their eyes as they took over Aarindarius’ side of the Dragonslayer, felt their mind pull and stretch far too thin trying to pilot a Jaeger alone.

They started walking, and they didn’t stop, until they walked the Dragonslayer into the Shatterdome hangar and saw the looks on everyone’s faces-- nobody had expected either to come back, it seemed, after Aarindarius died-- and Vaarsuvius stumbles out, and there is just silence.

-

The Dragonslayer is passed down to Sabine and Hilgya when Vaarsuvius quits the program. Hilgya joined because she couldn’t not do everything she could to protect her son; Sabine because the kaiju had killed her boyfriend (who had apparently looked just like Elan).

Those two would take care of the Jaeger. Sabine may have been a little on the sleazy side, and Hilgya far colder than most dwarves, but the half-demon had an appreciation for beautiful things, and though Hilgya respected little, she respected the machines that kept her son safer than he would have been without them. She scoffed at the people who piloted them, she always had, but when it came to the Jaegers Hilgya went quiet, giving small, silent nods to every one she passed.

Haley may have hated her, but Vaarsuvius and Sabine had always had a sort of… professional respect for each other. They gave her advice about what to do if she would up in bed with somebody dangerous. She tipped them off when Laurin tried to drug their food. It was never anything one could call friendly, but it was something all the same.

Vaarsuvius’ hands are shaking when they run them over Dragonslayer’s hide for the last time. Sabine and Hilgya don’t say a damn thing when a sob crawls up their throat. The half-demon puts a hand on their shoulder, and Hilgya puts another on their waist.

“...you lost another parent. With him,” Hilgya says, and it’s not a question but Vaarsuvius nods anyway because they can’t trust themself to speak. There is precious little Hilgya respects, but she respects the relationship of a parent and a child. Vaarsuvius is pretty sure the only reason she keeps piloting is because if she dies now Kudzu will be too young to remember her as Sigdi raises him.

“We’ll take care of her. You helped me out in a pinch and we’ve both wanted to get into the field for years, and- we’ll take care of her,” Sabine says.

Sabine eventually walks Vaarsuvius over to Haley, and the redhead nods at the black-haired woman without a hint of malice.

Haley and Elan piloted the Platinum Siren, and Roy and Durkon piloted Legacy Storm. Redcloak and Xykon had remained as pilots for the Crimson Mantle despite the… issues the two had, Andi and Bandana had the Mechanae, Belkar and Minrah piloted Bloodstone, and Lien and O-Chul piloted the Sapphire Guardian.

Vaarsuvius numbly let Haley lead them out of the Shatterdome, down to her car, let her drive them back to their apartment as they brushed off her questions and she quietly closed the door behind her. They wondered how long it would take for all of the others to die, too. 

Would it be Legacy Storm, with it’s massive sword that blazed with magical green fire and its two pilots all too willing to take hits meant for their friends? Or maybe Platinum Siren, with Elan’s bardic magic flowing through the metal veins and Haley’s sniper’s eye firing blasts at the kaiju from behind whatever cover they could find. Bloodstone wasn’t a far stretch-- Belkar and Minrah had never been anything but ruthless, angry, reckless during a fight. 

Lien and O-Chul would die protecting civilians from a kaiju they couldn’t ever defeat. The Sapphire Guardian would never go down any way but fighting. Andi and Bandana would be drawing its attacks away from Roy and Durkon, and the Mechanae would take one hit too many trying to protect her friends, except it would already be too late for Legacy Storm. Crimson Mantle would arrive as backup and the other Jaegers would already be dead, and then Redcloak and Xykon were lost causes too, and Dragonslayer--

Vaarsuvius laughed, harsh and bitter and broken and without one trace of joy.

They knew how the Dragonslayer died.

The purple haired elf leaned their back against the door to the apartment they’d used to share with Aarindarius, and they slid to the floor, because it was empty, and for the first time in years, they were well and truly alone.

Chapter Text

The red coating of the Crimson Mantle falls into disrepair as Xykon keeps pulling Redcloak away from maintaining it as some sort of homage to his brother. The goblin should have seen it coming, he should have noticed something before Roy fucking Greenhilt did, but he didn’t.

The two had piled into one of the sitting rooms with all the other Jaeger pilots, nursing drift hangovers and holding completely silent conversations with their partner. It’s the first time Xykon’s been in the same room as everyone else-- it’s only the fourth time for Redcloak, even after all those years.

Xykon grins, Redcloak gasps, and the human turns out to be very not human in the slightest. He gets Sabine and Hilgya with a spell that knocks them both out cold. Andi freezes under a Hold Person and Bandana has already sprinted out of the room and down the hallway, shouting for backup. Haley is up and pointing a gun at the lich before anybody else really moves, and in the end, the only thing to win the day is Roy’s quick thinking and O-Chul’s katana, carried with him for strength and luck and memory.

It used to be Miko’s. Redcloak doesn’t tell him that the ‘luck’ part is bullshit. He doesn’t tell any of them how she died or why Hinjo quit, because it sure as hell wasn’t because he was suddenly a world leader in the UN or because she’d nobly taken a blow for him.

Lirian and Dorukan left shortly after Hinjo did, and when they told everyone that Miko had gone down protecting her co-pilot, Redcloak didn’t protest and Hinjo didn’t either. 

Miko had gotten Hinjo to the pickup zone, and she’d fallen dead moments afterwards, bled out from a wound nobody could survive, because she’d been just plain unlucky. And because the world leaders that Hinjo now had to put up with on a daily basis were assholes to Jaeger pilots, they’d tried to both discontinue the program and paint Miko as an arrogant self centered bitch.

Granted, she had been one, and the only redeeming quality she really possessed was her drive to save the world, but she’d died trying nonetheless, and fuck the UN for saying otherwise.

-

He’s pulled into Jirix’s office two days after Xykon gets killed and he finally has his mind back. Redcloak sighs, and he walks into the office that is completely bare but for a desk, two chairs on either side of said desk, and the various screens lining the wall behind the hobgoblin.

The other Jaeger pilots have accepted, somewhat suspiciously, that no, he didn’t fucking know Xykon was a lich, because they knew how drifting worked and they knew that if you really wanted to keep a secret you could. They also knew that Redcloak’s last remnant of his brother was the Crimson Mantle, and that the literal fucking second he could find an excuse to ditch the person who kept not letting him take care of his damn Jaeger he would.

Everyone else was not convinced, so everything was pretty much the same, because Redcloak’s only friends had always been his fellow Jaeger pilots. 

Jirix sat at his desk, and Redcloak closed the door behind him. The only light was the screens behind the hobgoblin.

“Trying to set the mood?” Redcloak deadpanned.

“Trying to make a choice,” Jirix replied, and as Redcloak took a seat, Jirix pressed a button on a remote, and the screen behind him flared to life.

It was footage of the Dragonslayer, fighting a Category IV. 

“Why am I watching Sabine and Hilgya kill monsters?”

Jirix turned back to Redcloak, and smiled grimly.

“Because that’s not Sabine and Hilgya piloting the Dragonslayer,” and Redcloak remembered.

Six months before Right-Eye’s death, two purple haired elves had joined the program. Two wizards. 

As the goblin watched, the Dragonslayer’s mechanical hands started moving in the sort of spellcasting patterns neither Sabine nor Hilgya knew how to trace. A massive fireball exploded in the monster’s face, and then a disintegration ray, and then a Prismatic Spray, and then Cone of Cold.

Redcloak had done his homework, when he’d been morbidly fascinated with the only other Jaeger to lose one pilot to kaiju and not both, which he hadn’t been there to witness. Aarindarius had kept casting spells at the thing until the toll killed him, and that had been the only reason Vaarsuvius could slit the kaiju’s throat with the Dragonslayer’s claws. The elf had walked the Jaeger all the way back to the Shatterdome, and they’d left without even packing their things.

Epic Mage Armor covered the Dragonslayer just in time to block the kaiju’s attack, which would have doubtlessly killed the Jaeger and her pilots. Redcloak knew that to be the spell that killed Aarindarius.

He wondered if Vaarsuvius did-- the claws of the Jaeger’s right hand had been landing blows too precise for them to be splitting focus between Aarindarius and fighting.

Redcloak watches the Dragonslayer’s left arm fall limp, and then he watches its right slit the kaiju’s throat and go still.

Vaarsuvius is taking Aarindarius’ controls, and he watches the Jaeger whirr back to life, turn around, and start walking. Even from here he can see the grief in the footsteps.

The screen goes black, and Jirix starts talking.

“You know, you’re one of only three sets of Jaeger pilots to lose your other half, and you’re the only one to keep piloting afterwards.”

“I do know, Jirix. What’s this about?”

“You are one of two people alive who has piloted a Jaeger alone. The other one has just gone through the messiest divorce I’ve ever seen and for once Sabine was involved without causing it. The Crimson Mantle needs another pilot.”

Redcloak stood, shoved his chair back to its original place, and started walking towards the door.

“If you think I’m forcing someone to relive the trauma of losing their last living family member then you’re really fucking wrong, Jirix.”

“That’s interesting, because they’ve already agreed to come back.”

At that , Redcloak paused, turned, and crossed his arms.

“You have my undivided attention because Xykon is dead and I cannot fucking wait to hear what you did this time.”

Jirix smiled.

“Vaarsuvius got a divorce over a murder committed in defense of themself, their family, and Sabine, who was actually with them at the time. They killed a woman named Haerta Bloodsoak-- she changed her last name herself-- and law enforcement had been trying to catch her serial killer ass for years. Haley and Sabine checked in on them at the same time and actually came back without looking like they got into a fistfight, and I asked them both what the hell had happened.”

Jirix rose, and the screen came alive once again. This time it was a news anchor telling them that famous serial killer Familicide was murdered by former Jaeger pilot Vaarsuvius Lancaster-- and that said former Jaeger pilot had released a statement of intent to rejoin the program.

“I have gotten so used to killing monsters,” the news anchor read, “that I forget we usually grant the humanoid ones mercy.”

Redcloak grinned.

It was a grin that was wide, and sharp, and hot, and reckless, and it ached in his cheeks in all the same places Right-Eye’s had.

Vaarsuvius Lancaster and Redcloak Mallachite.

He liked it.

-

Vaarsuvius walked into the Shatterdome for the first time in years, and they could instantly tell that Hinjo’s stubbornness hadn’t saved them from the UN’s decommission plan.

Only the Jaegers didn’t show it, and that was probably more because of the pilots flatly refusing to cut corners than the program actually having the money.

They beelined for the hangar, already knowing that their old room still waited, full of all the things they couldn’t bear to pack up. The first thing they saw was the Mechanae-- it was the only electric Jaeger, one of two not powered by magic. Andi and Banadana had clearly been doing quite a lot of yelling at the tech crews-- the Mechanae’s bronze armor was polished to a gleam, which meant that they were the ones the interns were currently most terrified of.

Platinum Siren gleamed steel and brass, silver and gold to the untrained eye, and Legacy Storm stood dark blue and green and tungsten colored next to it. Bloodstone’s carapace-like surface gleamed a bright, polished green, like the shells of Japanese beetles-- and it surprised quite a lot of people that Bloodstone, like the Mechanae and Platinum Siren, had never been painted.

The Sapphire Guardian was as gleaming blue-white-silver as it always was, and Lien and O-Chul were doing something with the paint on its head, which meant that they were the first to know Vaarsuvius had actually returned, besides Jirix and their new co-pilot.

“VAARSUVIUS!?” Lien shouted, and O-Chul turned, and then they were being hug-tackled by two blue haired pilots who reeked of paint as soon as said pilots finished running across the catwalks around the Jaegers’ heads.

“It’s- UMPH- it’s good to see you too.”

Vaarsuvius eventually persuaded the two humans to get up. Lien and O-Chul raced off in opposite directions, probably to get the others.

They kept walking, pausing with a soft smile at the Dragonslayer. The black scale armor was in perfect condition, the brass rims polished to gleaming, the glowing red lights clean and bright.

Hilgya and Sabine had taken care of her, and would continue to do so. Vaarsuvius’ time with the Dragonslayer had long been over-- it was the Jaeger just behind her that marked the elf’s destination.

They walked past the Dragonslayer, and up to the Crimson Mantle. The red coat of paint on parts of the black metal hull had been chipped and faded when Vaarsuvius had left-- now, it shone in a fresh coat, bright and proud.

Right-Eye had died six months after Vaarsuvius had joined, but they remembered that the Crimson Mantle’s colors had been his pride and joy, and that were it not for Xykon, Redcloak would never have let his brother’s memory fall into disrepair.

As it was, the goblin was putting the finishing touches on the Jaeger’s head. Vaarsuvius spotted a second can of paint and a bucket full of brushes next to him.

The elf started walking, dropping their bag next to the empty one Redcloak had presumably brought the paint in, and the goblin turned to face them.

“Would you mind my assistance?” Vaarsuvius asked.

“...not in the slightest. Vaarsuvius Lancaster, right?”

“Indeed, Redcloak Mallachite.”

Vaarsuvius grabbed a brush, and started painting. This was their Jaeger, too, now. Aarindarius had maintained the Dragonslayer’s scales just as Right-Eye had maintained the Crimson Mantle’s color.

They were quite sure that if they laid a hand on Dragonslayer’s hide again, it would do them no good. But Aarindarius had cared for the Jaeger he piloted, and Vaarsuvius would do the same.

-

The rest of the Jaeger pilots came dashing into the room a full four hours later, because Haley and Elan had been in a debrief and everyone knew Haley got dibs on chewing Vaarsuvius out for not calling any of them. 

When Redcloak and Vaarsuvius had finished the coat on the Crimson Mantle’s head, the elf had glanced down, seeing red and black and not much else.

“...we have time, I think, to add any details we’d like,” the elf said quietly.

Redcloak nodded, frowning slightly.

“I wouldn’t know what, though,” the goblin said softly. “Right-Eye only ever maintained the one color.”

“Well… I imagine we have a fair bit more free time than he did.”

Redcloak blinked, and Vaarsuvius glanced back at the large stack of paint cans in various colors that engineers had likely left out for Bandana and Andi, because they may have been terrified of them but their natural inclinations to be little shits outweighed that.

The two of them did have more free time than Right-Eye had. Right-Eye had always been helping around the Shatterdome, or planning his next prank on Lirian, or being generally something besides a socially awkward might still become a hermit. Neither Vaarsuvius nor Redcloak could say the same.

So, by the time four hours have passed and the other Jaeger pilots have arrived, the Crimson Mantle is painted red, with yellow-gold calligraphy along the edges in Goblin and Elvish, and pink arcane runes and violet divine ones in magic circles in the corners of whatever plate of armor they’d just finished, and there are green outlines of dragons, brown ones of dryads, white unicorns and orange phoenixes and black krakens and blue mermaids. 

The calligraphy is the same fragment of poetry in two languages, repeated over and over and over again: “In the name of the world we lost, in the name of the lives it cost, we will live to see the sun, so that in their names the war is won.”

The runes are inactive, but ready, waiting until Vaarsuvius and Redcloak push magic into them to trigger the various spells of haste and protection and strength and precision. If the two choose to use them, it will, without a doubt, kill them both.

Jaeger casting took a toll only gods could heal, and the two of them were only mortal.

The creatures were for fun, for the two of them. Poetry for the dead, runes for the Jaeger, and painted fantasies for two doubtlessly doomed pilots.

“...it is interesting that Jirix isn’t even testing our compatibility in the combat room,” Vaarsuvius mused, minutes before the group of pilots burst into the room and minutes after the two had finished painting the Crimson Mantle.

“I think that’s because he was doing it here,” Redcloak replied, and the elf gave a conceding nod to the nearest security camera.

Two minutes later, as the two sat reeking of paint fumes and leaning against the wall where the cans had been stacked, the door burst open, and Vaarsuvius was tackled by a redheaded blur.

“Why the FUCK didn’t you tell me!?” Haley said when she finally managed to stop squeezing the life out of the elf, much to Redcloak’s amusement.

“To avoid asphyxiation- for as- long- as I could-”

Elan immediately replaced Haley. Roy patted them on the shoulder, along with everyone else except Sabine and Hilgya.

Those two looked… nervous.

“You take care of her, and it shows. Thank you,” Vaarsuvius murmured. Sabine’s shoulders sagged in relief; Hilgya gave an unusually solemn nod.

It was then and only then that the head of the engineering department-- one Kazumi Kato-- arrived, noticed before any of the pilots did what Redcloak and Vaarsuvius had done, and promptly turned to the two in question.

“What in the holiest of all seven hells did you do that for?” Kazumi asked, and the others glanced up. Elan noticed first, and he gasped and pointed like a little kid and then everyone else was gaping at the Crimson Mantle.

“Holy shit. That’s a hell of a makeover you two gave her,” Roy said, walking up to the Jaeger. The other pilots were running around and picking out all the different creatures, led by Elan because Haley was terrifying when she wanted to be. 

“...it was a necessary homage,” Vaarsuvius murmured, pointedly not thinking about the three dryads dancing along the bottom edge of the Crimson Mantle’s left shoulder that, despite themself, looked just like their family.

-

When the two finally make it out of the hangar, Redcloak follows a few steps behind Vaarsuvius.

“Would you mind having a roommate again? My usual places to crash are still being investigated as part of the whole lich thing.”

Vaarsuvius had paused, just outside their door. They knew what was inside: all of their things, all of Aarindarius’, all likely dusty with the years that had passed. Jirix wouldn’t have touched the place with an intern and a ten foot pole-- both elves had spent too much of their free time messing with the general arcane forces of nature for him to risk it.

“...until yours is freed up again.”

“I wouldn’t have phrased it that way if I wanted this to be permanent,” Redcloak said, and Vaarsuvius recalled that the pair of them had painted the Crimson Mantle in almost total silence.

Maybe they weren’t as suited to working together as the elf had thought.

They opened the door, walked inside, and left the goblin to follow. 

Two beds, with shelves above them, and two desks, and a bookshelf that looked so ornately out of place in the cold metal space that you had to blink a few times at the intricate woodwork. Naturally, it was crammed completely full, just like the shelves above both beds, and there were still stacks of books and papers and composition notebooks everywhere but the set walkways between the two beds, the two desks, the bookshelf opposite the door, and the door.

“I get that he was a wizard, too, but this seems… a little ridiculous…”

Redcloak was trying to push them. To see how far he got.

Vaarsuvius had long ago figured out that ghost drifting was named as such for a reason. Aarindarius and his student had clicked perfectly the first time they drifted together, and Vaarsuvius had long ago figured out that his death hadn’t been a removal.

It had just… torn. Ripped him away, twisted the little nooks and crannies in Vaarsuvius’ mind he used to fill and snapped Aarindarius off of whatever pieces were stuck too fast and buried too deep. They had shreds of their mentor’s mind floating in their own.

“You’re not the only person in your head, Redcloak, and I’m not the only person in mine,” Vaarsuvius said, sitting down heavily on a dusty mattress as the goblin jumped six feet and whirled to face them.

It was a long, long while before he spoke.

“...I’d always wondered if I was the only one.”

“I’d always assumed that minds were complex enough that breaking two apart left ghosts behind no matter what.”

“So… so what’s your ghost like?” Redcloak asked, carefully shifting a stack of books aside and sitting on Aarindarius’ bed.

Vaarsuvius could almost see the lavender haired elf, glancing at the goblin with a mixture of bemusement and paternal worry, smiling when he turned back to Vaarsuvius.

“I think you’ll have a far harder time with this one than you did with me,” Aarindarius murmurs in Elvish, and Vaarsuvius closes their eyes and covers their face with their hands and tries so very hard not to cry.

“He likes you as much as he knows you’re difficult enough to make some people wonder why,” the elf says, and it sounds so much like they’re about to cry that Redcloak doesn’t bother holding his own tears back.

Right-Eye leans on the doorframe, watching Vaarsuvius on the bed with something curious and concerned and hesitantly trusting.

“I’m not sure, big brother,” Right-Eye says. “But I think they’re the best shot you’re going to get.”

Redcloak lets the tears fall, and he looks at the floor as he says “Right-Eye’s suspicious but he’s willing to let his mistrust be proven wrong.”

Vaarsuvius doesn’t respond. Redcloak didn’t expect them to.

If they’ve both got pieces of the ones they lost already filling some of the valleys on their edges, then Redcloak’s starting to wonder if the drift will even work at all.

-

And then it’s been three days and he’s still living with an elf and an alarm goes off at three in the morning.

Both of them are up and shoving themselves into uniforms almost instantly. Vaarsuvius’ raven, Blackwing, who Haley had been taking care of in their absence, is flying around the room, dropping the little bits and pieces of what they’ll need into their laps as they get dressed. It’s surprisingly helpful.

Then Vaarsuvius and Redcloak are off, sprinting down the hallways to the control room, perfectly matched even though Aarindarius is running just a few steps ahead and Right-Eye is shouting from where he’s hot on their heels, even though neither the dead elf nor the dead goblin are really there.

Redcloak slams the door open, and Vaarsuvius dashes up to where Jirix sits in front of the monitors.

“Two Category IV’s, codenamed Hatchet and Gladiator. Where the hell are the rest of you?” Jirix demands, as Redcloak jogs up to stand beside Vaarsuvius.

“Far slower, I imagine, than a pair of light sleepers who haven’t had good dreams in years,” the elf answers.

Right-Eye smiles at the elf.

“I’m a little surer about them now than I was a few days ago,” he says to Redcloak. “I think they’re perfect for you.”

“Also,” Redcloak adds, because Right-Eye isn’t here to do it. “Durkon’s hungover and I’m pretty sure Sabine is sleeping with one of the techies again.”

“Fucking- fine! I’ll send you two into the field on your first time drifting together so you can get killed on my watch!”

“That’s acceptable,” Vaarsuvius says, with the very slight smile of someone who knows exactly how annoying they’re being and doesn’t regret it in the slightest.

Jirix curses in Goblin. Redcloak translates for Vaarsuvius as they run down to the hangar.

-

Kazumi’s voice sounds over the comms as Redcloak and Vaarsuvius stand inside the Crimson Mantle.

“Prepare for neural handshake.”

Right-Eye leans against the wall of the cockpit next to Vaarsuvius.

“Four.”

Aarindarius stands just behind Redcloak’s right shoulder.

“Three.”

Right-Eye gets yanked out of the Crimson Mantle’s head by a monster Redcloak swears to all the gods he’ll annihilate.

“Two.”

Aarindarius gasps wetly as he fires spell after spell after spell, and Vaarsuvius glances over seconds after he dies and kills the Category IV that made him desperate enough to kill himself in the first place.

“One.”

(Vaarsuvius is sitting in Aarindarius’ living room)(Redcloak is having lunch with his brother), and the news is playing in the background over (Aarindarius’ old TV- it’s ancient, but it’s the only one that’s survived his magical hobby thus far)(the cafe’s television set into the wall- it’s modern, but the sound quality sucks) when the breach opens and the kaiju come through.

(Redcloak is shaking as Roy cuts off Xykon’s head)(Vaarsuvius is shaking as they send a disintegration ray into Haerta’s chest) and (the lich)(the woman) falls to the floor. (O-Chul)(Sabine) has a hand on (his)(their) shoulders, shaking until (he comes to, looking around the room at now-mistrusting faces)(they hear sirens, and finally realize how different being covered in kaiju blood is to being covered in red).

(Vaarsuvius)(Redcloak) is absolved of all charges, except (the ones they know they deserve when Inkyrius files for a divorce the next day)(the ones that will never leave him in peace, no matter how deep the slumber).

Vaarsuvius-Redcloak makes a choice three weeks-two and a half years ago, because there are still monsters and the world still needs monster slayers.

Redcloak cracks a smile when he hears that the Crimson Mantle runs on a nuclear core-- as a physics dropout and a wizard, it’s strangely amusing, even though he brushes some of his purple hair in front of his face to hide it.

Vaarsuvius grins bright and sharp and ruthless-reckless at Jirix, feeling claws drag along the back of the chair they were leaning against. It burns in all the same muscles their brother’s did. Lancaster and Mallachite. They like it.

Redcloak-Vaarsuvius paints another line in the steadily repeating poem. The Crimson Mantle had been shining and proud, and she would be shining and proud, intricacy and a walking representation of why this war was going to end .

VaarsuviusRedcloak wakes up twenty minutes ago, out of another restless nightmare, and the two exchange small smiles, sharp and jagged and broken, the same way mirror shards in your bathroom when you live alone and left it intact that morning were, and just as terrifying.

RedcloakVaarsuvius steps into the cockpit of the Crimson Mantle, fully armored and so, so ready to get that fucking hellspawn back for what they’ve done .

“Neural handshake holding steady.”

Redcloak feels Aarindarius’ remnant-presence-ghost standing just behind him, and he turns, and he can almost-not-quite see him, too.

Vaarsuvius knows, now, exactly what kind of sardonic grin Right-Eye is giving them as he leans against the wall next to them.

The goblin can taste Vaarsuvius’ espresso in the back of his throat, and the elf can taste Redcloak’s latte on the tip of their tongue, but above all-

There is noise again. The silence in Redcloak’s head is gone, replaced by facts and figures and someone who can calculate odds as quickly as he can, and how the hell can light be a particle without mass? Vaarsuvius, what the fuck?

There is someone there again, and Vaarsuvius isn’t alone anymore, and it’s not their last parent putting a hand on their shoulder, but it’s a scholar who went through med school pressed against their side, and that’s enough .

The Crimson Mantle whirrs to life once more, covered in the stories of love and loss and fantasy, and the promise of never again , piloted by a very firm ‘not today, Satan’.

Chapter Text

Turns out that just because they slept easier, didn’t mean Haley, Elan, Minrah, Belkar, Durkon, and Roy hadn’t been right behind them. Crimson Mantle steps into the sea and Legacy Storm is right next to her. Platinum Siren and Bloodstone set down shortly afterwards.

Redcloak and Right-Eye had been great at walking the Crimson Mantle. Vaarsuvius and Aarindarius had been awful at walking the Dragonslayer. It evened out, between the two of them already being so used to and so welcoming of ghost drifting that they were a lot more in each others heads on the first try than most, and calling the moves out loud.

Left, right, left right left right leftright leftright leftrightleftrightleftright-

There is nothing in the world quite like running in a Jaeger, your footsteps suddenly turned massive, no fences or walls or streets or cars in your way. The Sapphire Guardian was the most agile, but the Crimson Mantle eats ground as Vaarsuvius and Redcloak dash towards where the two kaiju have been spotted.

Both of them are high on a reckless sort of adrenaline that you only get running into a situation very likely to get you killed when you’ve got nothing left to live for and nobody left to lose. 

-

A lot of people have told Vaarsuvius and Redcloak, over the course of their lives, that they fight ruthless and cold and focused.

The Crimson Mantle faces the Gladiator kaiju, and the elf and the goblin laugh as one, wild and reckless and completely insane.

The two of them fight like forces of nothing but magic and nature, and as Vaarsuvius swings one of the Crimson Mantle’s fists as feels kaiju bone give way under their hand, they smile (this time, they know that smile, because Right-Eye’s battle-frenzied grin aches in their cheeks, too). The Dragonslayer had been knife sharp precision and exactly what they needed at the time, but the Crimson Mantle was what they needed now .

Most Jaegers fought as either tanks or speeders.

The Crimson Mantle fought as rage, as Redcloak and Vaarsuvius pummeled the monster into some pulp-like mixture of flesh and bone.

Prayers to the wrong god echo in Vaarsuvius’ head. They ask the Dark One to protect them all with someone else’s thoughts.

For the first time in a long, long time, Vaarsuvius prays. They pray to Thor for Durkon’s safety, and for Minrah’s. They pray to the Dark One for Redcloak’s. They pray to all the gods of trickery they can name for Haley, and all the gods of music for Elan, and all the gods of noble warriors and honorable fights for Roy, and all the gods of truly mindless slaughter for Belkar.

For the first time in a long time, Vaarsuvius doesn’t care . They don’t give enough of a fuck about anything to have any qualms about asking everyone else’s gods to keep them safe.

Naturally, everything goes to hell.

-

The Crimson Mantle has just downed Gladiator when Hatchet reveals why it stayed away from the fight for so long.

The kaiju releases a pulse that is distinctly magical, one that ripples over Vaarsuvius and Redcloak and leaves a film of yuck on both of their skins, and at first the elf and the goblin think it’s some Ray of Sickness type thing, and then the comms flare up.

“-not responding! This is Roy Greenhilt, myself and my co-pilot are alive and unharmed but Legacy Storm is not responding to our commands!”

Vaarsuvius blinks, and then a second channel goes active.

“This is Haley Starshine, Elan’s okay and so am I but Platinum Siren is- it’s almost like she shut down, or something, but that’s not possible-”

Redcloak turns to look at the elf, alarm written all over his face. The same worry is etched in their furrowed brow.

And then, because tonight started at rock bottom and seemed determined to keep digging, the third channel flares to life.

“Okay, so, Minrah’s fine and I’m fine too- it’s the Belkster, by the way-”

Redcloak and Vaarsuvius sigh in unison. Belkar’s unprofessionalism had never once changed.

“-and Bloodstone’s sitting like a fucking rock in the water, and uhh… that’s... not good.”

There is a moment of concerned silence. Vaarsuvius and Redcloak share a glance, and the former breaks the silence.

“Hatchet is approaching. We do not have much time.”

Both of them level into a fighting stance, and the Crimson Mantle moves with them. An audible sigh of relief is released by both, and a consensus that they don’t really need to say out loud is reached as Vaarsuvius activates the Crimson Mantle’s channel.

“This is Vaarsuvius Lancaster. Both myself and my co-pilot are alive and unharmed. Crimson Mantle is fully operational and preparing to engage the kaiju.”

There’s a lot of yelling about stupidity and what Haley will do if they die and think of your raven and you’re too young before Roy’s voice drowns everybody out.

“QUIET!”

Vaarsuvius winces, and so does Redcloak even though he doesn’t have an elf’s hearing.

“We’re sitting fucking ducks and those two are literally our only shot at surviving until breakfast. I’ve contacted the Shatterdome, and Jirix said, and I quote, ‘well, fuck’. I’m going to take that to mean backup is either currently engaged or too far out. So. All of us are going to try and get our Jaegers up and running, and we are going to do it silently because I’m not risking closing the comm channels in case they won’t open again. I repeat: do not. Distract. Vaarsuvius. And Redcloak. While the two of them are saving your ass.”

Redcloak shares a silent conversation with Vaarsuvius. It’s a lot easier than both of them thought it would be.

“Thank you, Roy,” Redcloak says, and then Hatchet is in range, and Vaarsuvius prepares to hug Aarindarius again, and Redcloak prepares to do the same to Right-Eye.

-

Bloodstone dies the way every Jaeger does, a metal arm sinking with her metal body into the pure black sea.

In the end, Belkar and Minrah had been the only ones to get their Jaeger operational before the battle ended. Vaarsuvius and Redcloak both had been so sure that that moment was the last one they’d ever have, and then Bloodstone’s channel had lit up with a battle cry.

“VICTORY OR VALHALLA!”

Belkar and Minrah both had screamed those three words as the Jaeger lurched, stumbled, and the pilots righted themselves, as Bloodstone’s massive warhammer and gun-like blade launcher came up and Hatchet reared its ugly head.

Bloodstone kills her last kaiju, landing a blow with her hammer so powerful that Crimson Mantle’s pilots are pretty sure it caused tsunamis right on Hatchet’s head.

Hatchet takes the Jaeger and her pilots down with them. Both Belkar and Minrah remain totally silent as Hatchet rears up in it’s last moments and throws itself, full force, onto the Jaeger in front of it, as it rips Bloodstone’s hammer-arm off and sends her falling backwards into the sea.

That three word battle cry becomes Belkar Bitterleaf and Minrah Shaleshoe’s last words, and all that Vaarsuvius and Redcloak can think in the shocked moments after Bloodstone’s channel goes dead and her pilot’s vitals flatline is at least I’m not alone and at least there’s still some noise .

-

Jirix is livid that the kaiju can power down the arcane cores, and that’s probably why Vaarsuvius and Redcloak see the most action out of everyone. Six weeks and nine solo missions later, Kazumi comes up with a plan, and the Jaeger pilots are asked to gather in the nearest meeting room.

When she explains that they’re supposed to detonate a nuclear payload in another dimension, the silence among the pilots shatters.

It’s a whole lot of arguing about the damage this will do until Elan finally speaks.

“I can’t really think of a better way to avenge Minrah and Belkar,” he says, and the eleven pilots and one engineer go silent.

“I mean, there’s kind of no better homage you can make to Belkar than unleashing truly epic amounts of destruction on a bunch of extradimensional meanies. And Minrah wanted to fight the war with the kaiju, sure, but above all she wanted to end it. She wanted to see the world after the breach was closed. So. I think this might not work. But I think the alternative is not even trying, and that’s worse, because then we’re abandoning the world right when it needs us most.”

Sabine, oddly enough, speaks up afterwards.

“I mean… what do we really have to lose here? If it doesn’t work, the world ends, if we don’t try, the world ends, and if it does work, we’re all planetary heroes who finally get to retire.”

Haley nods, Hilgya sighs, and Roy turns to Kazumi.

“So… who’s taking the payload to the kaiju dimension?”

“In the wake of the events of Hatchet, it has to be the Mechanae or the Crimson Mantle.”

Vaarsuvius and Redcloak speak in unison. It’s not lost on either of them that the ghost drifting is bordering on unhealthy, now- it’s less like their minds are clicking and more like they’re fusing instead.

But gods, everything in Redcloak’s head had been so quiet, and everything in Vaarsuvius’ had been so lonely, and…

Redcloak is the best friend and the twin brother Vaarsuvius never had. Vaarsuvius is the best friend and the twin sibling Redcloak never had.

The two of them know how to stop themselves, and they can, and they have. The ghost drifting may be bordering on fusion, but it’s not going to get any farther.

“We’ll do it,” the elf and the goblin say at the exact same time, because Andi and Bandana had never had to learn that there was a type of silence that muffled your screams or a kind of loneliness that muted your company.

The Mechanae’s human pilots look as guilty as they do grateful, and Vaarsuvius simply gives them a small smile.

“You’ve lost less than we have.”

-

Kazumi needs two months to prepare. Everyone goes out and gets their affairs in order, ties up their loose ends. Redcloak has no such loose ends, and so when Vaarsuvius calls Inkyrius, he stands beside them.

“What do you want, Vaarsuvius.”

“...I wanted to apologize, for- for one last time. I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I owed you the apology.”

Redcloak presses a shoulder into Vaarsuvius’. The purple haired elf takes a breath.

“...why?”

“Because I rejoined the Jaeger program,” and Redcloak doesn’t speak Elvish but he knows that Inkyrius just rattled off a truly impressive string of swear words.

“You WHAT!? Suvie, what the hell? When did this happen?”

“A few months ago. I- you didn’t hear about it on the news?”

“OBVIOUSLY NOT.”

“I’m piloting the Crimson Mantle with Redcloak.”

The goblin puts a hand on Vaarsuvius’ shoulder and squeezes very gently as the kind of silence you get before knives are lodged in ribs comes over the phone.

“The Crimson Mantle that has gone on fourteen missions in the last two months.”

“Yes.”

“The one that has almost been completely destroyed twice by extradimensional sea monsters.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak to your co-pilot .”

“I’m right here,” Redcloak says, and then, “nice ‘get me a manager voice’. Very authoritative.”

“...why is Suvie calling now, because I know they won’t answer me if I ask?”

Redcloak is expecting the mental equivalent of Vaarsuvius screaming ‘NO’ and taking the call off speaker phone, but instead the elf looks almost serene as they nod.

“We’re going to try to save the world and the likelihood of us surviving is a hell of a lot smaller than the likelihood of our success.”

“So you’re going on a suicide mission and wanted to say goodbye.”

Vaarsuvius winces.

“Essentially, yes.”

“How long till you deploy?”

“Two months,” Redcloak says.

-

The cafe where Inkyrius has demanded they meet is nice. Good coffee, and he can taste Vaarsuvius’ espresso concoction from hell along with his own mocha.

Redcloak isn’t sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t neon green hair. 

Inkyrius sits down at the table and just glances at Redcloak and then at Vaarsuvius.

“ Don’t -” Inkyrius says “-try to pay for this.”

-

Inkyrius drives home from the cafe, and neither Vaarsuvius nor Redcloak have any contact with them in the weeks leading up to the mission.

Belkar and Minrah had been recovered from the ocean, but only now are they released from the morgue and buried. Redcloak and Vaarsuvius and Roy and Durkon and Haley and Elan don’t say a word during the funeral.

Bloodfeast- Belkar’s lizard- is left to Haley and Elan. Mr Scruffy, oddly enough, is left to Vaarsuvius and Redcloak.

The time between them and the mission runs out.

-

All six Jaegers are there, the other five forming a flower-like formation around the Crimson Mantle. Legacy Storm and Sapphire Guardian walk in front, the Mechanae and the Dragonslayer on either side, and Platinum Siren bringing up the rear.

Two Category IV’s emerge from the breach, and the fight begins.

In the end, the two make it.

Vaarsuvius and Redcloak walk the Crimson Mantle into the breach, her gleaming red paint covered in lovingly maintained creatures and poems and runes.

Right-Eye still leans on the wall of the cockpit, and Aarindarius still hovers over the both of them.

The Jaeger drops the payload, and Vaarsuvius and Redcloak are about to activate those carefully painted runes, and Aarindarius and Right-Eye do it for them.

Maybe they were more than memories.

Maybe there was such a thing as ghosts.

The Crimson Mantle sprints for the hole between worlds, and Aarindarius and Right-Eye destroy themselves making sure she reaches it. The runes burn with magnesium fire that blinds the kaiju around them.

Redcloak and Vaarsuvius are right in front of the breach, so very close to making it back to their own dimension. As one, they tense, and crouch, and as the two leap, there is only one thought in both of their ever-joined minds:

At least it’s not quiet, because I’m-you’re-we’re not alone.