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Since the very first time, her every waking moment was with the two of them.
They were both so fierce. Brave to the point of arrogance, and seamlessly synchronized in the Drift. The love the brothers had for each other was deep and steady. Powerful.
Yancy and Raleigh were their names. Her Rangers.
Gypsy Danger trusted them with everything she was, and they led her into battle after battle – moved together in the everchanging rhythm of skill and raw talent, shared joy and bright excitement in the heat of the fight.
She lived only in those moments, filling the in-between with the brothers’ newest memories. Laughter, and discipline, and hard work. And oh, they were glorious in their victories, again and again and again.
And then they lost.
Yancy’s composed, focused on the task for the whole time. Only when Knifehead rips through the hull his thoughts turn frantic – a piercing scream of fear and regret and pain cut short, and amongst it all, Raleigh. Raleigh, Raleigh, Raleigh. My brother.
A split second later there’s only sudden, terrifying silence on one side, utter helplessness on the other.
There is nothing where Yancy was before, but his last wish rings so clearly in the unsteady, brutally mutilated Drift. A wordless, desperate thought born from love, calling for someone, anyone, to protect his little brother. But there’s no one else listening except her, so Gypsy Danger reaches for Raleigh’s mind, grasps for him in their wavering connection.
Her Ranger is exhausted, hurt, heartbroken. He’s the only pilot, now. But he is not alone. Damaged as she is, Gypsy Danger still stands, and she will get him to safety.
When Raleigh turns them towards the shore, she lends him the power to move her limbs, heavier than they ever were without Yancy lifting half the weight.
That day on a cold Alaskan beach Raleigh disengaged and never came back. Gypsy Danger waited, vaguely aware of the occasional movement somewhere on the edges of her consciousness. People worked around her. She waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Years have passed since the last jolt of energy intense enough to wake her up. There were quite a few before, but this—this is something more. This is preparation.
And when Gypsy Danger is ready, the power surges again. Two minds reach for each other and for her, and she reaches back, intertwining with them in the Drift.
She knows this presence. It’s sorrowful now where it used to be bright and confident, the longing etched deeply into its expanse, but it’s still familiar, still fiery underneath all the pain and loneliness. She knows this man and his life. She knows the memory that rises to the surface, the flashing image of a man ripped from the Conn-Pod. She knows it because she remembers.
Half of her, torn out from her core.
The excruciating pain resonating between the pilots. Death.
Raleigh. Her Ranger.
Her Ranger is back. And his brother with him, immortal in his memories.
It’s been so long.
There is a woman here, too. Mako. Her strength matches Raleigh’s easily. Mako knows Kaiju and loss just as well as Gypsy does.
But her thoughts are restless, overwhelming. They pull Mako in, whereas Raleigh’s flow with practiced ease. Mako wanders deeper into the childhood memory instead of letting go, unable to find the quiet in the Drift. Gypsy Danger follows her lead, because she has no other choice, but they are still misaligned. The true connection slips away.
Mako is inexperienced, attached to the past. She’s not a Ranger yet, but she will be. Raleigh believes in her firmly, so Gypsy does, too. It’s not hard to look into the depths of Mako’s brain, after all – the sharpness of her mind is wonderfully promising. They would work so well with Raleigh on the battlefield. With her logical approach, Mako would balance out his recklessness, and he would provide the practical knowledge she lacks.
They’re going to make it work, the next time they have a chance. All three of them.