Archive of Our Own

Drifting is like dreaming. Or it might be the other way around.  

Right now, Simon can’t tell. He's trying to wake himself up as the Jaeger techs get them into their dark green Drivesuits. He always likes looking at their wrists and elbows because there are barbs at each joint, cruelly curved; their Drivesuits are modeled after their Jaeger. Said Jaeger's cockpit waits at the end of the hall. Tommy nudges him at the elbow when they’re hooked up to the harnesses and it takes a lot to not turn this into a mock fight. 

“Viper Enigma, ready and aligned,” Tommy says. Simon is yawning at the late hour. Marshal Shepherd speaks into the LOCCENT microphone when he replies. 

“Prepare for neural handshake, gentlemen.”  

“Can’t believe I step voluntarily into your mess each time we do this,” Tommy says, and Simon snorts. 

“Should give you some stories to impress Beth with.” 

Neural handshake initiated.  

In the blue of the Drift, Simon sees their mother, their father, Manchester, and rain. Tommy teaching him how to throw a punch, how to ride a bike, meagre dinners made better by their mother’s rowdy laugh. The feeling of beating his father into leaving them alone. Digging himself out of a grave. Recruitment by Marshal Shepherd, looking for people who had something special – Drift Compatibility. 

The deeper the bond, the better you fight. 

Shepherd’s voice comes across the line once more. “Viper, you’re to hold Miracle Mile off Anchorage. Category Three, Codename: Scourge.” 

Their Jaeger technician at the helm speaks next. “Sir, I think there’s still a fishing boat in the Gulf. Civilian.” 

Simon glances over at Tommy, who looks concerned. In their Drift, he knows they’re going for that boat. 

“Anchorage is a city of two million people, Viper,” Shepherd says, already knowing what they might say. “Do not risk these lives for a fishing boat with ten people on it. Copy?” 

“Yes, sir,” they chorus, and Tommy’s finger lifts off the communication button on center console. 

He looks askance at Simon. “Fishing trip?” 

“You’re already in my head,” Simon mutters, but his scowl involuntarily cracks into a smile when Tommy whoops, “Then let’s go fishing!” 

Viper Enigma pushes six or seven miles out towards the fishing boat, the ocean swirling around them. They submerge the Jaeger to get the jump on the Kaiju. Their instruments pick up Scourge on their left and the boat on their right; emerging from the depths, Viper reaches down and scoops the boat up with their right hand. 

“Seven o’clock,” Simon shouts, and Tommy drops the boat as far as they can reach behind them, before they wind up and turn back to punch the Kaiju in the mouth. It screams at them and uses the spike on its head to try to ram them aside, but they grab a hold of it with their right hand, dig their feet into the ocean floor to hold it in place, and deliver several punches to the face and body with their left hand. It manages to take a bite into their forearm. 

Tommy and Simon yell in unison, and charge up their plasma cannon in their right arm that isn’t captured by the Kaiju. They shoot the Kaiju, blasting the body into the ocean. 

LOCCENT comms crackle loudly. “Viper, what in the goddamn hell was that,” Shepherd says.  

“Sixth kill,” Tommy says. “Job’s all done, sir. Blasted that thing three times.” 

Shepherd isn’t impressed. “And disobeyed a direct order. You’re seven miles out, six miles too far from the Miracle Mile,” he replies. “Don’t think I can’t do my math. Get that boat and get back to your post, am I clear?” 

“Yes, sir,” Simon starts, but is interrupted by a Kaiju shriek and the Jaeger head tech saying, “Kaiju signature detected. Viper, it's still alive!” 

The ocean is dark and deep, and it opens up when Scourge tackles them into the water. Both of them grunt with the impact, flailing their arms and trying to deploy the cannon in the left arm around to blast plasma into the Kaiju. 

Viper rises to their feet and shoves the Kaiju off them, locks their left arm into position to shoot, but Simon’s yell of pain bounces off the cockpit walls when Scourge charges and drives its spike into the left shoulder, severing the arm at the joint. The Drivesuit crackles with electricity. 

The whole cockpit shakes as Scourge claws at the head, metal and glass shattering. Simon sees spots in his vision. “It’s gone through the hull,” he says. “Tommy!” 

His brother whips his head away from the claw in the Jaeger and looks at Simon dead in the eye. Their Drift connection pulses with calm from Tommy. 

“Simon,” he says. As always, the big brother. “Listen to me. You need to –” 

The claw retracts and Tommy is ripped from the cockpit. 

The Drift goes blank white, then suddenly there’s too much noise. Simon thinks he hears someone screaming, until he realizes it’s himself; over and over, he’s been saying Tommy’s name.  

Everything burns. His body, his mind, his heart. 

His anger; at himself, and at Scourge. 

The Kaiju is shoving at Viper to get the Jaeger underwater and drown Simon. It rams its head and horn through Viper’s chest and heat sears through the Drivesuit. The Kaiju gnashes its teeth and begins tearing at Viper’s body – a predator that’s finally got their prey. 

Simon grits his teeth so hard he can hear his jaw creak. He engages the plasma cannon for a final set of shots, and aims straight for the heart. 

The memories after that are splintered. It’s dark, and then it’s morning when he and Viper reach the shore of Anchorage, the city so calm in the fog after a fresh snowfall. All the white hurts his eyes. It’s like the light at the end of the tunnel. 

He groans, and seemingly so does Viper, the metal frames screeching with final effort as he lets them both fall. He lands on his hands and knees in the cockpit and stumbles out of Viper’s broken visor when his harness detaches. 

The last thing he sees is a mother with a young child strapped to her back. She cradles his head so gently he begins to cry. She pets his head and turns, shouting at someone to get help. 

When he comes to, he’s alone in a hospital room. The mirror in the hospital room gives him the details he already feels. A bandage is over the large scar that runs from his left temple across his cheekbone and past the corner of his mouth, stopping at the edge of his chin. He thinks his helmet glass punctured his cheek. When he shifts his body, he can feel the scars seared into his left arm and torso in the shape of the Drivesuit circuitry pattern covered by more bandages. The scars lay atop the tattoos on the left arm. 

He isn’t matching with Tommy anymore. 

There are some civilian clothes on the chair. His Drivesuit must have been cut from his body. 

Simon slides the IV from his hand and walks out.  

Frankly, it’s all thanks to the Kaiju, Jaeger tech, and the Pan Pacific Defense Corps that Simon Riley was able to reinvent himself from what he was.  

The information about him that isn’t classified, he thinks, probably is as follows: Born in Manchester, England to a shithead of a father that terrorized his mother, Tommy, and Simon. Simon got his first taste of knives when apprenticing at a local butcher’s; he got himself out of his house by enlisting into the British Army at the minimum age of sixteen years old. 

By the time he’s finished with the British Army, he’s been through the Marines and went through selection to become part of the Special Air Service. It’s good, he thinks. Just like his father wanted from him; to make something of himself. To be a man.

He beats the shit out of his father and kicks him out when he’s granted leave and returns to Manchester to a house more broken than he was raised in: his mother’s once optimistic cancer diagnosis is terminal, and Tommy’s addicted to a variety of opioids and trying to convince him to give it a go. Simon does to prevent a fistfight between him and Tommy, but it doesn’t stick; especially not when the prescriptions and funds for being a smackhead come straight out of their mother’s purse. 

He's on leave until Tommy’s in and out of rehab and stays clean. Tommy kicks the habit for good when they bury their mother.   

Upon his return to the Army, Simon gets assigned to the American military team taking down the drug cartel under the care of Manuel Roba. It’s him, Major Vernon, Marcus Washington, and Kevin Sparks, until it’s just him, being tortured for months by Vernon himself. He doesn’t know if Washington or Sparks made it out alive. 

But he does, once he’s dug himself out of Vernon’s grave. Then he makes sure no one else under Roba or Roba himself is alive after that. 

SAS extracts him from Mexico and classifies the Roba debacle to the point where he isn’t even attached to it anymore – not even a name or a photo. Simon is forced onto leave after the psych evaluation, the shrink citing anger management therapy, and that’s when Marshal Shepherd finds him and Tommy.  

When they defeat their first Kaiju in Los Angeles, Simon thinks about the snake his father pressed to his mouth, tastes the bitter venom when he looks at Kaiju blood drain along the shoreline. He thinks that now he’s fought bigger snakes and won. 

Viper Enigma’s success catapults the Riley brothers out of Manchester to worldwide fame. Tommy takes to it better than Simon does. They’re invited onto both American and British talk shows after every victory; they even meet the Queen, and get knighted. He and Tommy get matching arm sleeve tattoos that would make their mother cry if she was still alive. Black ink with various military designs and Jaeger designs envelops their forearms. Left arm for Simon, right arm for Tommy, to reflect the positions in Viper they take. 

It’s a whole new world for Simon Riley. 

They make Manchester especially proud when on their off time, they opt to spend it back in their hometown. The United Kingdom seems to think the American pilots are quite bombastic with how they carry themselves. In contrast, Tommy and Beth’s wedding is intensely private and intensely happy; Joseph is born to the couple almost exactly nine months after the wedding. Simon spends his time at home trying to learn his mother’s recipes from her scattered notes. 

When Viper Enigma is defeated, Simon only thinks about disappearing. 

Out of the Anchorage hospital, he manages to get himself back to Manchester with some savings he’d split with Tommy. He needs to apologize to Beth, beg for her forgiveness, try to live a quiet life if she’d let him stay. The grief is a gaping maw in his chest. 

Simon’s brow furrows when he makes his way up the steps of the Riley family home on a drizzling Tuesday morning. The curtains are closed and it seems quiet. 

The front door is barely on its hinges when he gets closer. 

Simon feels himself move in slow motion. He pushes the door open and sees thick, dried blood pooling up at the doorway. Further ahead in the hallway, Beth and Joseph’s bodies are cold.  

He closes their eyes with gentle hands. Everything is numb, slowed down. Signs of struggle from Beth with the person who came in; it looks like knife work. A robbery? He should find something to wrap their bodies in. 

Simon turns, and there’s a knife lying around the corner, the handle just visible. He steps over the blood to pick it up and inspect it. 

The combat knife is a standard military one issued, familiar from his days before Jaeger piloting. There are notches carved into the handle, one wobbly point with two longer strokes. Morse. 

He recalls in the classified files that though Sparks was KIA, Marcus Washington was MIA. Washington was always sloppy.  

Simon buries Beth and Joseph in the cemetery at the PPDC issued headstone that has both his and Tommy’s names on it, but no bodies in the earth. When he’s done, he stares at the dirt under his nails for hours. 

Washington is in the middle of nowhere on the Alaskan border. When Simon appears at his shithole of a cabin, the first thing he sees is construction uniform wear, and then Washington armed with a knife. 

Beth was kinder than either Tommy or Simon deserved. It didn’t mean she didn’t know how to use a gun. 

Washington brings a knife to a gun fight and loses, of course. The radio in the cabin advertises jobs at the Wall in Anchorage. Simon takes the safety gear and decides he’ll reinvent himself for the second time.  

The nice thing about the construction at the Wall is that they never have any questions to ask. No papers needed, nothing. The pay is ration tickets, their barracks are even worse than the military, and there’s people dying every other week from injuries. 

Simon keeps to himself. He barely speaks to anyone.  

One day, he’s taking a quick smoke break while walking along the frame of the wall hundreds of feet in the air. He steps across a corner and someone bumps into him while moving backwards, trying to find a point to rappel down safely.  

"Shit, man," he says. "I almost knocked you off. You move quieter than a ghost." 

The name sticks, mostly because he ends up accidentally scaring some people with how quiet he is a few more times. It's somewhat funny.  

He'd already been wearing the black balaclava to cover the facial scar and for the cold, just like the other men around him. When a few balaclavas that come from some liquidation center have a skull printed on them, the men shove them towards him, saying they're for the scariest man on the rig. To scare away the Kaiju when they come.  

Ghost welds, collects his ration tickets, sweats through his nightmares when he sleeps, and gets up to do it all again when he wakes up. 

He’s watching the telly on site when the Kaiju collapse the wall in Sydney.  

Bonespitter is defeated by Shadow Rogue, a Mark V Jaeger. The reporters swarm around Shadow’s pilots; Scott Erikson has a tired smile and moves past them all. Philip Graves grabs one microphone. 

“Cat 4 down and that’s Shadow Rogue’s tenth kill,” he says, smirking at the camera. “New record, boys!” 

The reporter pushes forward. “Is it true Shadow Rogue and the Jaeger Program are being decommissioned?” 

“Sure is,” Graves says. “Sydney’s Shatterdome went quiet two weeks ago, but it wouldn’t be standing today if it weren’t for us. Food for thought for the higher ups on the food chain.” He winks and hands the microphone back. 

Someone nearby mutters about the point of these walls if the Kaiju rip through them like paper. Ghost works his jaw. He’s about to return to welding when he hears the beat of helicopter blades.  

Ghost always knew he was running, but he understands when the helicopter lands on the rig that the choice to stop running has been made for him. He eyes the chopper warily as it touches down and whips snow off the tarmac. The rest of the workers murmur when he pushes through them to meet the man stepping down from the plane door. 

The boonie hat is the first thing he sees. The second is that Marshal John Price is alone.  

It's not that the Marshal can't hold his own. Ghost has seen him alone only twice. The first time, Ghost was part of a covert mission to extract Captain John Price from enemy territory, where he was being held hostage, as part of SAS. He served as part of Price's platoon before Roba. The Captain was recruited for the Kaiju defense operations afterwards. The second time was when Ranger Price piloted Bravo Sierra solo before his stint as Marshal, when his co-pilot Kate Laswell was knocked out in the Jaeger cockpit during the fight against Trespasser.  

Price being alone now must mean the situation is more dire than Graves makes it seem on the news.  

"Lieutenant Riley," Price says, though Ghost hasn’t been that man for years. “Good to see you again, Simon.” 

Ghost looks at the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. The Pan-Pacific Defense Corps hasn't aged him even now.  

"What do you want with Ghost?" Someone calls. Price raises his eyebrows. Ghost feels the corner of his mouth prickle at the scar tissue. 

"Ghost," Price amends. "Can I have a word?" 

"Captain," Ghost says. He corrects himself, wry. "Marshal. You can follow me to my office," and walks off to a quiet corner on the construction site.  

They come to a stop near some rubble meant to be repurposed. Ghost turns to face Price so that his back is facing the wall of rubble and waits.  

Price looks around. "Anchorage is a long way from Manchester." 

"Wasn't always in Anchorage," Ghost replies. "Must've taken you a while to find me." 

"That it did. Five years, four months." Price folds his hands behind his back. "Weather’s piss poor in both places anyhow.” He glances over the skull balaclava. “New look?" 

Ghost considers before speaking. "New life, sir." He knows what Price is on about when the other man chuckles and shakes his head, like he knows Ghost is not suited for this. 

Maybe he isn't. But Price will have to ask before Ghost will answer. 

Price approaches him, boots crunching in the snow. "Spent the last several months activating everything I can. There's a Mark III Jaeger with your name on it." 

"Can't have been the first name," Ghost says. 

Price looks amused. "It was the only name. All the other Mark III pilots are dead."  

"You're sure you want someone who was connected to his brother when he died piloting for you?" He leaves the rest of his past unspoken. Price knows about Vernon's betrayal during the military, the extent of the torture. The mission Ghost had given to himself to eliminate every last traitor alone.  

Ghost knows he's a liability. That's why it took five years for Price to find him - there are better, more sane people out there to share brains with. Price is grasping at threads. 

"The world's ending, Simon," Price confirms. " You're sure you want to die here?" 

Ghost rolls the thought in his mouth, swallows it. He thinks of the rush of the Drift, the cool static cushioning his brain. How it felt to be held that way, safe, in his brother’s mind. And in his first few years alone, he thinks of exactly how much Ghost would have given to Drift once more. 

Turns out Simon isn’t all that different than Tommy, no matter how much he tried to be. They’ll both chase the high to feel alive. 

The Drift calls to him in his mind like it never left. Tommy’s voice – Simon, listen to me – whispers back. 

The thread Price holds pulls taut, with Ghost at the other end. 

The helicopter lands in Hong Kong, the only Shatterdome that hasn’t been decommissioned yet. The weather is abysmal. 

Price steps out of the plane, gestures at the man waiting for them on the tarmac with an umbrella opened against the downpour of rain. “This is John MacTavish. Call him Soap. One of our brightest – the youngest to graduate from the Jaeger Academy.” 

He’s a few inches shorter than Ghost himself, with an unkempt mohawk, a clipboard, and second umbrella tucked under one arm. Broad shoulders stretch under a leather bomber jacket. There’s a polite smile on his face, which has some scruff. His blue eyes are nearly grey in this rain.   

Ghost looks at Price for an explanation at the name.  

“Classified, like yours,” Price says. He nods at Soap and ducks under the umbrella. “Soap, this is Ghost. Lieutenant Simon Riley in a past life.”  

“Pishin’ it doon’ out here,” Soap says, as a greeting. The Scottish brogue rolls against the sound of the rain. He holds out an umbrella to Ghost.  

“English,” Ghost says. Soap lifts an eyebrow.  

“Rainin’ fuckin’ hard,” he says, and Ghost snorts. Soap smiles a little more genuinely, dimpling at the corner of one mouth. “Nice t’meet ya, L.T.”  

Ghost does not acknowledge the nickname. Soap’s eyes are steady on Ghost and the mask, calculating and re-calculating, as Ghost opens the umbrella to hold over himself. 

They walk. Price gestures towards the Shatterdome. “Soap is in charge of the Mark III restoration project. Handpicked the poor sods who might be your next co-pilot. We’ll take a tour, and then you can meet your Jaeger.” 

They step into an elevator at the base of the building. A few harried people follow them in, wheeling a sealed aquarium tank with what looks like a Kaiju brain in it. 

“Thank you for holding the door,” the man wheeling the tank says, nodding at Soap. The woman presses the buttons for one floor and the final man taps on a different number at the same time, easily moving around one another. Soap gives them both a smile, scrunching his nose a little.  

“Our research division, Hadir Karim,” Price says. Hadir waves and turns to peer at the brain. “His sister, Farah Karim, and her co-pilot, Alex Keller. Solar Rebel is their Mark IV Jaeger, originally deployed along the Russian coastline when Hadir was still piloting with Farah, but she and Alex have defended Manila well in the past few months.” 

“Marshal,” they say in unison. Ghost notes that they’re not quite moving in unison yet, but that should come with more deployments. 

Price directs his focus to Hadir. “When’s the next estimated attack?” 

Hadir grimaces. “A week from now if we’re lucky. You’ll be resetting the war clock soon enough, Marshal.” Price nods, grim, and they depart on their floor. 

“One person research division,” Ghost says, not really asking. The doors open to the main floor of the Shatterdome, with a sky-high ceiling and a flurry of staff moving around. He stares up at the war clock. 

Price snorts. “The Corps is not what it used to be, Ghost. Could’ve housed forty Jaegers in this facility if I had the money, but we’re down to four.” 

The situation is worse than Ghost could have anticipated. 

“Where are the decommissions coming from?” 

“Assholes,” Soap says, at the same time Price says, “An old friend from the glory days. General Shepherd.” 

That information makes Ghost pause. “General?” 

Price nods. “Fucked off to the American military for some pencil pushing. Got me a promotion, though.” He gestures with amusement at his uniform. “Spoke to him earlier this week since he’s on one of them Councils. He’s enjoying the Midwest, far from the coastline, and said he’d rather fund the Anti-Kaiju Walls.” 

Soap taps his fingers against his clipboard in an agitated, staccato rhythm. Ghost watches his jaw clench and unclench.  

They move further into the building. In the bustle of the place, the existing Jaegers rise through the buildings like leviathans. Price gestures at each one. 

“First on the left is Solar Rebel. Rocket launchers strapped to every limb, that one.” Solar Rebel has a gold metallic sheen over black metal, shimmering and changing colour when looked at from different angles. The build is stockier with the rockets. Ghost thinks it must weigh almost twice as a regular Jaeger.  

Two men are sparring with their bare fists on some thin mats at the base of the next Jaeger, while trainees in the Academy root and holler for each one. The Jaeger itself is a red darker than blood. 

“That’s Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra. They pilot Romeo Vortex, and have had the Gulf of Mexico unbreached for four years.” 

“Hermano! ” One of them calls, and Soap shouts a greeting back. “Get him, Rudy!” Laughter erupts when Soap distracts them both by this and they go tumbling across the mats. 

“Marshal,” a voice behind them says, and when Ghost turns, he sees Scott Erikson. Philip Graves is not far behind, ambling at a languid pace, looking around. 

“Gentlemen,” Price says. “Welcome to Hong Kong. This is Ghost. Ghost, here we have the last of the Mark V pilots: Scott Erikson and Philip Graves. Their pride and joy is Shadow Rogue. Graves also leads our Jaeger techs, known as the Shadows.” 

“Viper’s boy,” Graves says, eyeing Ghost up and down critically. The insignia pin of Shadow Company is on their jackets and the rest of the staff around them. Erikson reaches a hand out and Ghost takes it in a firm grip.  

“I’m sorry about your brother,” he says, and Ghost nods, because there aren’t really words for it. 

Erikson and Graves head off to their barracks. Price looks to Soap.  

“Soap, you can show Ghost to his Jaeger. I’ve got a meeting with Kate.” 

“Marshal,” Ghost says. Price turns to him. “What exactly am I doing here?” 

Price shifts on his feet. “There’s a nuclear warhead we’ll deliver to the Breach using Shadow Rogue. The rest of the Jaegers are coming along for defense.” 

They’ve tried hitting the Breach before. It hasn’t worked. Ghost says, incredulous, “A nuclear warhead? From where?” 

“A parting gift from Shepherd,” Price sniffs. “Would’ve appreciated some cigars.” 

“Pretty big cigar,” Ghost says, and Price chuckles.  

“We’ll be counting on it when it lights up. Welcome to the Shatterdome, Ranger.” Price nods at them and they split apart. 

Ghost follows Soap through the winding corridors towards the hangars. Some people glance up at him, but look away faster. It feels strange to be back in a Jaeger facility, both home and not at the same time. His scars itch. 

“Hey, Gaz,” Soap greets, to the man sitting in the LOCCENT Mission Control seat. Kyle Garrick, Price had told him, basically his and Laswell’s second. Technician and coordinator when Rangers suit up. Pausing his movement with his holographic screens, he fists bumps Soap and nods at Ghost in greeting. 

“Here she is,” says Soap, raising one hand as he approaches the balcony. “She was in rough shape after Scourge, but I think I patched her up pretty well. Double-core nuclear reactor, hyper-torque drivers in each limb. A beauty.” 

Ghost stops breathing. 

Viper Enigma stands in all her glory at 260 feet tall, her hulls not the green they once were but now a black so dark Ghost cannot see the rest of the Jaeger against the darkness of the hangar. Bits and pieces of it are visible from the hangar lights reflecting off of it. The sharp barbs at the wrist, elbow, and knee joints are as deadly looking as they always have been, but are larger and angled differently for more offensive attacks.  

Ghost stares into the nuclear reactor of Viper, her heart. It’s hard to pin down a single thought looking at the Jaeger he’d tried to bury in his memories made whole and new once more. He thinks of his own heart, of Tommy’s, and how much they’ve given to the Jaeger program. How much he’d still give for the future that Tommy had taken away from him.  

“Penny for your thoughts, L.T.?” 

Ghost casts a sideways look at him. “Didn’t think the PPDC had any spare change.”  

Soap barks a laugh, shifts to lean against the railing and look at Ghost straight on. “I’ve got my own savings. What d’you think?” 

“She’s beautiful.” Ghost watches Soap turn to Viper with open joy and admiration on his face.  

Soap nods, satisfied. “She always was.” 

There are sketches of Viper poking out from the clipboard. Price’s voice says Soap is in charge of the Mark III restoration project. Ghost realizes abruptly that Viper Enigma is Soap’s Jaeger in its own way, too.   

“Let me show you to your quarters,” Soap says, interrupting his thoughts. “Not five-star, but it’ll do.” 

“Out of your own savings, I assume?” 

Soap’s amused but exasperated. “Meagre savings, L.T. Once you see it, you’ll know why I only asked y’for a penny for your thoughts, not a pound.” 

Ghost drops his duffel onto the floor after Soap opens the metal door to his room. Spartan. One bed, a desk and chair, some lockers for storage. He turns to Soap leaning against the frame of the door. 

“Seems like you do it all,” he says, and explains once Soap gives him a questioning look. “Restore Jaegers, give tours. But Price didn’t mention you were a pilot, just that you graduated from the Academy.” 

“I did. I’d like to pilot someday.” Soap’s expression is carefully closed. 

Ghost shucks off his jumper for a sweater that isn’t as stale. “Might be sooner with the way things are going. Simulator score?” 

Soap perks up. “51 drops, 51 kills. It’s where ‘Soap’ came from, how quickly I can clear the simulations.” Ghost raises his eyebrows.  

“You’re not on the list of candidates?” Soap shakes his head, snapping his gaze from Ghost’s bare left arm back to his face. The scars prickle.  

“No, sir. The Marshal’s got his reasons.” 

“Doesn’t he always,” says Ghost. “Wonder what they might be. That’s a perfect simulator score.” 

“You knew him in SAS, right?” Soap fidgets with his clipboard at the praise.  

Ghost nods. “Hasn’t changed much since then. Smoking less, maybe.”  

“Fire hazard,” Soap confirms. “I hope th’ candidates are to your liking. Picked ‘em after studying your techniques.” 

“Alaska as well?” 

Soap nods. “Yes, sir.” 

Ghost tilts his head at Soap. “And what do you think?” 

Soap taps his fingers the edge of the clipboard again, then grips the edge firmly.  

“You’re unorthodox,” he starts. “You favour techniques that risk yourself and your team, and are unpredictable.” Soap straightens from his lean against the doorframe. “Alaska was all of that combined.” 

Ghost blinks. He’s not necessarily wrong. Ghost’s techniques are borne from stealth and military standard combat combined with guerilla warfare. They bring him up close and personal, probably too close for comfort for Jaeger fighting protocol, and often utilizes the surrounding environment to get the edge on an enemy.  

And his last decision with Tommy was disobeying Shepard’s direct orders to leave that shipping boat alone, marking the fall of the Jaegers. So there’s that. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Soap says. His face is solemn, soft, kinder than Ghost deserves. It almost hurts to be on the end of that kind of look. “I don’t know if you’re the right man for the job.” 

Hearing what Ghost has already told himself for years shouldn’t sting, but it does, albeit muted. It also feels like a confirmation. Like being given permission. 

He swallows and looks over the scars tracking down his arm and the ones that move under his tank top on his chest. He turns his sweater over in his hands. If Soap thinks he’s washed-up, then it’s a given for the rest of the base. What’s expected of Ghost is already failure. It’s surprisingly freeing, knowing that he has nothing to prove. 

“Thank you for your honesty,” Ghost replies, as serious as Soap. He notes surprise in the flutter of Soap’s eyelids, like he’s realized what he said. Soap takes a breath in, mouth open already to say something, perhaps apologize, but Ghost interrupts him.  

“But in combat, you make choices. Choices have consequences. Then you live with them.” He puts the sweater he was holding down and picks up the navy-blue fatigues he’s been issued.  

He turns away from Soap. “Are the candidates ready?” 

Soap shakes himself a little bit, snapping back to attention. “Yes, sir. The Marshal should be done with his meeting at 1300, half an hour from now. The Kwoon is where we’ll meet your candidates.” He smiles a little stiffly and closes the door behind him on his way out. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost mutters. 

It’s been a little while since Ghost was in a proper spar, but he’s pleased to note his reflexes and strength have not waned. The last fight he was in was on the construction site, where a group of men wanted to bully cigarettes out of him, thinking he didn’t know how to fight because he never needed to with his height.  

He lunges for a leg and flips the candidate upside down so that he lands on his back on the mat. Ghost holds back the urge to drop and pin the man down by the throat. 

“Four points to one,” Soap says, scribbling a little on his clipboard. Price watches on with a bored expression. “Next candidate, please.” 

Ghost flexes his hands in the bindings he’s wrapped them in. This would be the fifth candidate on the list now. He enjoys sparring, gets his blood running, but because he knows it’s about Drift compatibility, that part in his brain is buzzing and searching for something Ghost hasn’t found yet. Compatibility feels like an awareness at the base of his skull, anticipating what the other person might do next, neurons firing to make sure Ghost will block that attack. 

Every candidate so far has not sparked anything. There has been no flow, only predictability. 

This next candidate has apparently not been watching the entire time Ghost has begun this whole song and dance. Perhaps he’s taking Ghost less seriously because of the mask. He tries to approach Ghost extra offensively, but how he winds up for a move makes it easy for Ghost to duck and get in a few jabs that bring the man to his knees.  

“One-zero,” Soap calls.  

The next rounds proceed similarly. Ghost tries patience, allowing the man to try to figure it out, but he simply can’t let an opening go to waste. 

“Four-two.” 

No dice. That candidate emptied his brain instead of building a connection in it. Ghost rolls his shoulders and thinks about getting into a solid stance for the next person when he glances over at Soap again. He has a little displeased pout on his face, lips pursed in a moue, a wrinkle in the center of his brow.  

“Is there a problem?” Ghost asks.  

Soap blinks up at him. “Pardon?” 

Ghost approaches, bare feet silent on the mat. “Every round ends with that look on your face. You said you selected these people personally.” 

“I did,” Soap says. He shifts the clipboard in his arms. “The problem isn’t them, it’s you.” Price’s mouth twitches underneath his beard. 

Ghost narrows his eyes. “What’s my problem?” 

“Every round you could’ve taken them two moves earlier,” Soap says, tapping his pen on the clipboard. “I don’t know what it is you’re waitin’ for.” 

It’s true, but it’s not that Ghost is waiting for any arbitrary reason. He’s been approached like it’s a fight, like he’s an enemy to defeat, but it’s about compatibility, about dialogue. He was waiting to find someone who would try to read him and turn that around on him.  

Someone like Soap. 

Ghost tips his head upward, eyeing Soap. “How about you come and solve this problem?” 

“No,” Price says, the first thing he’s said since entering the Kwoon. “Stick with the candidates on the list with Drift compatibility, Ranger.” Ghost sees Soap mutter in protest. 

He’ll press Price’s buttons. It’s fun. “Your brightest can’t take a few rounds in the ring, Marshal?” 

The glare he gets from Price is worth it. He pulls the clipboard out of Soap’s hand and jerks his head towards Ghost. “Go.” 

Soap bounces onto the mat with a skip that’s almost giddy. “Don’t go soft on me, L.T.”  

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ghost swipes the roll of tape off the side of the mat near his boots and tosses it towards Soap, who’s shucking off his boots and unbuttoning the fatigue shirt to reveal a tank top similar to Ghost’s underneath, but in white, not black. 

Soap turns and catches the roll and wraps his hands with efficiency. Ghost watches his teeth tear at the tape. 

Soap looks up at him with a dangerous smirk. “C’mon.” 

“Four points to win,” Price says. “Remember this is not a fight, Rangers. Don’t waste my time.” 

They raise their fists. Ghost takes two breaths before swinging first, a cross that stops just short of Soap’s temple. 

He taps gently with his knuckle. “One-zero.” 

Soap pulls his fist up in an uppercut through the opening Ghost has in front of him. Ghost swings his head up to avoid it and ends up looking down on Soap. 

“One-one,” says Soap, cheerful. Ghost pushes his other fist into one side of Soap’s ribcage. 

He steps back. “Two-one.” 

They stare at one another, then strike. General combat training at the Academy involved a mishmash of different techniques, from classical boxing to taekwondo or judo, and Soap gives Ghost everything he’s got. Ghost parries punches and kicks with his forearms and closes in on Soap, feeling alive. He manages to grab hold of one arm as Soap is throwing a punch and twists to pin Soap to the floor. 

“Three-one.” 

Soap wrenches out of his grip and sweeps at Ghost’s feet with his own as he’s turning over, staggering him. Ghost attempts to grab at Soap again, hoping the weight of his fall could drag Soap down with him, but Soap kicks at his arm as he’s getting up and Ghost ends up on his back. 

“Three-two,” Soap pants, and Ghost rises with the fluidity of a predator. 

He holds his hands open palm this time. Victory for him is one thing, but what’s more prominent is the buzz in his head as he watches Soap for tells and feels that he’s being watched in return.  

It feels like compatibility. It feels like the Drift. 

He knows for sure that Soap is reading him when he ducks under Ghost’s reach and gets behind him. Ghost tries to turn, arms stretched out towards Soap, but he’s elbowed in the torso and then flipped over Soap’s shoulder. 

“Three-three,” and Soap’s grin is almost feral. Off to the side, Alejandro and Graves whoop. 

The Kwoon is charged with anticipation. Soap takes the opportunity to attack first. Ghost dodges, grabs Soap’s upper arm, and jabs his thumb into Soap’s armpit. Soap squawks in offense and tries to smack Ghost in the face, twisting to get out of Ghost’s hold, but Ghost ducks under Soap’s reach this time and wraps one arm around his abdomen and grips the back of Soap’s thigh with his whole hand. He braces against Soap’s shoulder blades and lifts Soap off the ground.  

“Fuck,” Soap groans, knowing what’s coming. 

“Four-three.” Ghost hurls his body to the floor. 

Price turns to leave. “That’s enough. Ghost, report to my office once you’ve cleaned yourself up.” 

Ghost catches Soap’s eye, who looks determined. Soap rises on one knee. 

“Marshal –” Soap starts to say, but the look Price gives him makes him stop. He glances back at Ghost.  

Ghost picks up his shirt and boots and extends one hand out to Soap. A hard pull, and they’re both up.  

“Thanks for the spar, L.T.” Soap throws his shirt over one shoulder and gives Ghost a quick salute.  

Ghost exhales and heads toward where Price walked off to.  

In his office, Price just looks at him until Ghost says, “MacTavish is my co-pilot.” Price is already shaking his head, pacing the room. 

“Too green,” says Price. “That’s going to get us all killed.” 

Ghost shrugs. “We’re dying already, sir.” Price glances at him, and chuckles. 

“Got that right. But Soap isn’t ready for the field yet. Vengeance is a knife you don't know you're holding by the blade 'til you're already bleeding.”  

Ghost isn’t sure what Soap’s story is. But Price mentioning revenge must mean it’s a tragic one, which is not uncommon these days. He understands that Price doesn’t want that kind of emotion brought into the Drift. 

“You saw what happened there, sir,” Ghost says, not trying to challenge Price, not exactly. But Drift compatibility as fluid as what just occurred on the mat is a shooting star of opportunity. 

“Stick to the list of candidates, as I said, Ranger. My decisions are final.” Price stops and turns. “Right now, all I need you to be is a soldier.” 

Ghost straightens his spine, looks Price in the eye. He ignores his brain calling out for Soap. Ghost thinks he’s made his way to the training dojo – or maybe Soap’s made it to his room, right across from Ghost’s. He thinks he might be able to feel it. Sparks ignite at the back of his skull. There's a swirl of adrenaline and excitement, at the thrill of real drift compatibility. 

Ghost thinks Soap must have been incredibly lonely these past years.  

Almost as lonely as him. 

“Yes, sir,” he says, and reaches for several manila folders of people who cannot match John MacTavish. 

After, Ghost takes a brisk stride towards the canteen. He hasn’t eaten since they landed. The space is crowded, but people give him a wide berth, widening it more when Graves and Erikson line up after him and pick up their trays. 

The fare is luxurious compared to what he’s been eating on the Wall. Bread, potatoes, a stir fry vegetable mix, and generous pieces of Peking duck. Ghost adds portions to his tray with one hand and tucks cutlery into the other hand that holds the tray.  

“Ghost, is it?” Graves asks, reaching across Ghost to take the ladle for peas. “Where’d that name come from? The way you disappeared after Alaska?” 

Erikson nudges Graves with an elbow, but he’s undeterred. “You of all people will be running defense for me.” He states it with obvious doubt. 

“Seems to be Price’s plan,” Ghost says, neutral. He’s reminded of the aggressively polite behavior of the men who tried to jump him for his pack of smokes; talk and try to provoke a reaction. Ghost ponders a dessert. The Jell-O is the colour of Kaiju blood. Maybe not. 

“When’s the last time you were in a Jaeger?” Graves leans against the railing that the trays slide across. 

“About five years ago.”  

Erikson’s trying to salvage this. “Were you working before Price recruited you to come here?” 

“I was,” Ghost says. He’ll give Erikson credit for trying. “Doing construction work.”  

“Construction, huh,” Graves says. “Can’t have been Jaeger construction, or I would’ve met you somewhere during recruitment for Shadow Company.” 

“Building construction,” Ghost clarifies, when Erikson politely asks what kind of construction. 

Graves shrugs. “Sounds like you’ll build us out of an attack, then. How useful.”  

Ghost selects a little red bean bun for dessert and waits for Graves to get to the fucking point. 

Right on cue, he says, “I don’t know what Price sees in you. But you’re the reason for bringing the Jaeger program down, and I’m not gonna let you drag us even further into the pit you crawled from. Follow orders and stay out of my way.” 

“Noted.” Ghost looks past Graves’ head and walks to his bunker to eat, mildly amused at Erikson asking Graves, “What the fuck is your damage,” as he leaves. 

Ghost eats at military established pace alone in his room with the mask pulled past his nose. In the bathroom, he showers and dresses in fresh fatigues, and waits.  

Suiting up is a bizarre experience.  

Ghost stays silent as the Shadows scurry around him in the Drivesuit room for Viper’s test Drift, fitting the spine in the grooves, checking connection and response. He’s both comforted and unsettled by the familiarity of the process. The suit is a beautiful, luminous black, to match Viper's new colour. It reminds him of his favourite combat knives. Once he’s deemed fitted and escorted to the cockpit, he’s left alone to wait for whomever is going to be his co-pilot.  

Ghost flexes his hands around his helmet and hears the heavy clunk of Drivesuit boots. 

"I'll be taking the right side," he calls out. "Left arm's shot." 

"Sounds good t'me," says Soap, and when he rounds the harness to smirk up at Ghost, the Drift part of his brain rushes to his frontal lobe in sheer relief. The wave of endorphins is a little ridiculous if Ghost has to say anything about it. 

"MacTavish." 

Soap’s smile is hungry and bright. "Hey, L.T. Lookin' sharp."  

So does Soap. He cuts a strong figure in the black armor, the field of blinking lights in the cockpit making the blue of eyes glint. He runs a hand through the mohawk and it fluffs up in a million different directions. Ghost wonders if it'll flatten underneath the helmet. 

“Don’t say anythin’,” mutters Soap, clearly talking about the mohawk. 

“No need to. You’ll be in my head.” Ghost sees Soap’s fingers twitch on his helmet. Nervous fidgeting.  

"It suits you," Ghost says, and misses the flush in Soap's cheekbones when Ghost slides the helmet over his head.  

Ghost looks out of the visor of Viper and into the LOCCENT control room, where Price stands alongside Kate Laswell, Gaz, and the other Jaeger pilots. He notes that Farah is not there while Alex is; Hadir had spoken to Price before, he thinks, maybe about the Kaiju brain. 

Gaz leaves the LOCCENT mic channel open, so he and Soap can hear the general discussion in the room. 

“– Kate, three cigars are not equivalent to a recording of the World Cup,” Price is saying. “I wasn’t asking you to fly to America for a live taping.” 

“You would be surprised at the amount of money it takes to play soccer, John,” Laswell says. Ghost has always liked her; she called Bravo Sierra ‘The B.S.’ affectionately. Post-retirement of The B.S. for her health, Laswell is the go-between for Price and politicians.  

“Clean water has to be used to maintain the real grass field,” she continues. “Not enough of that these days. Anyway, you know I had to speak to Shepherd across the pond, that’s what the third cigar’s for – funding.” 

“It’s football, Laswell. Football.” The roll of her eyes is visible even from Viper. 

Laswell approaches the microphone. “I don’t even smoke, John, you know Sarah would kill me. Good to see you, Ghost, Soap. Happy Drifting, boys.” 

“Laswell,” they both say, pressing the button on their end of the comms at the same time. She smiles up at them.  

“Prepare for neural handshake,” Gaz says, tapping away at his display. The voice of Viper’s A.I. repeats the statement. 

Initiating neural handshake.  

“Keep up, Soap,” says Ghost, to which Soap snorts. At least he isn’t looking so nervous anymore. 

“Lead the way, L.T.” 

“Let the memories flow. Stay in the Drift, where it’s silent.” Soap nods, rolling his head from side to side to loosen his neck. 

Neural interface Drift initiated.  

Ghost takes a deep breath and doesn’t feel himself breathe out until the blue crackle of the Drift takes him. Memories rush around his mind – his childhood dominated by his father, Tommy’s first go at heroin, joining SAS selection, the slide of blood on his palms; Soap at Sunday Mass, football games, the Jaeger Academy.  

Right hemisphere calibrated.  

Left hemisphere calibrated.  

Ready to activate the Jaeger.  

“Right on, Viper,” says Gaz. 

Ghost and Soap stretch out their left hands in sync, then their right hands, and then raise both open palmed, one in front of the other. Ghost blinks with two sets of eyes.  

Calibration complete.  

Ghost hears Tommy in his left ear. Simon, listen to me – you need –  

He flinches, and knows at once he’s out of alignment. He takes a deep breath and lets Tommy’s voice fade. 

Gaz speaks over the radio. “Viper, you’re both out of alignment.” The warning symbols begin to blare red. 

“I’ve got it,” Ghost says, but Gaz interrupts him. 

“Ghost is good. Soap’s not stabilizing. Marshal, he’s chasing the RABIT –” 

Price has a white-knuckled grip against the back of Gaz’s chair. “Fail-safe, Gaz. Now.” 

Ghost looks over at Soap, seeing him both in the Drift and in the cockpit. Soap’s eyes are wide and unblinking, and he doesn’t hear LOCCENT at all. He’s breathing hard. 

“Stay with me, Johnny,” Ghost calls. “It’s a memory. Don’t chase the RABIT.” 

The blue tendrils of the Drift solidify into a beautiful, sunny street in San Francisco. The perfect vacation spot. A fighter jet slams into a skyscraper, swatted to one side by the approaching Kaiju. A teenaged Soap, just on the cusp of adulthood, is shoved away by his mother into a nearby alley. His hair is styled into a fluffy faux mohawk – it reminds Ghost of a spring chicken. He runs through alley ways and side streets and bleeds from various skids and scratches on his arms and legs. 

“Ma, Da,” Soap shouts, sprinting blindly. His voice cracks with the volume.  

Ghost follows. The roar and movement of Trespasser is deafening.  

Johnny is skidding across rubble and shaking, his gangly body heaving with exertion and fear. He ends up hiding behind a dumpster and holding his breath. Trespasser’s foot collides with the building in front of Soap and he yells, crawling away. He uses the wall at the end of the alley to stand. The breath of Trespasser, hot and rancid, blows by his feet. 

Soap slowly turns around.   

Ghost stands next to Soap. “Get out of there, Johnny,” he murmurs. “Don’t engage. Come on, Soap.”  

Trespasser shrieks and pushes its way into the alley. Soap braces for impact and raises his hands to cover his face. 

In the Shatterdome, the plasma cannon in the right hand of Viper Enigma powers on.  

The Kaiju is hit at his side. It screeches and turns its body towards something past the alley, and moves away towards what hit it, leaving the immediate area silent. 

Johnny approaches the end of the alley. He peeks around the corner and his parents’ broken bodies lie in the rubble, eyes open and unseeing. Soap staggers towards them and takes several sharp, shaking breaths, until he collapses over their bodies and breaks down. 

The Drift swirls and changes around Johnny, various memories whizzing by – the funeral for Soap’s parents, entering the Jaeger Academy underaged, getting caught out once his skills were far and above the rest, being taken under Price’s wing after graduation for the Mark III Restoration program.  

Ghost knows he can’t reach him anymore. In the distance, outside of the Drift, he can hear the techs scrambling. 

It’s clear Soap’s connection is incredibly strong; it must be overriding the neural blocker and fail-safe. Ghost hears Gaz shout for the main power line to get Viper offline. With a loud crackle, Gaz pulls them out of the Drift. Around them the Drift interface fades and reality meets them instead. 

Ghost feels his Drivesuit unlatch from the harness. He yanks the helmet off and makes it just in time to catch Soap falling out of his harness, holding Soap by the torso when he drops to his knees. Ghost sinks down with him and uses one hand to grip the helmet by the chin and free Johnny from it. 

Soap is panting, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He blinks rapidly and his head falls forward onto Ghost’s shoulder. His forehead is hot at Ghost’s neck.  

“Easy, Johnny,” Ghost says. The only confirmation Ghost gets from Soap is the way his hand comes up to grip Ghost’s shoulder.  

In the corner of his peripheral, he sees Farah sprint into the room, shouting: “Hadir drifted with a Kaiju!” 

He hears Soap mumble, “Creepin’ Jesus.” Ghost lets out an exhausted chuckle.  Price can’t catch a break. 

The Shadows peel Soap and Ghost apart and divest them of their Drivesuits. They’re told to report to Price’s office once medically cleared. The doctors and psychiatrists are rightfully concerned about how they fell out of alignment with each other and Viper, about neural load and how to address the failure of the fail-safe.  

Ghost is released first and he waits in the hallway outside of Price’s door. He feels a prickle in his neck when Soap rounds the corner to stand next to him. He doesn’t speak, but Ghost can tell the mix of emotions he’s feeling – shame, embarrassment, fear at being removed from the Jaeger program, which is all he’s really known these past few years.  

Farah, Hadir, and Alex are having a heated discussion in the hallway when Ghost and Soap get there, clearly having just left Price’s office. Ghost lets the information filter through – it turns out the Kaiju are not just attacking to attack. They’re under orders from what Hadir says; with Earth’s climate change and pollution, it is ready to be colonized by what Hadir calls the Precursors, who clone and build Kaiju.  

Ajejandro and Rodolfo duck into the hallway to come up to Soap. 

“Crazy stunt you pulled there, hermano, ” Alejandro says. “You gotta show me that when we’re deployed together.” 

“Price won’t let me pilot after that mess,” Soap replies. Rodolfo shrugs. 

“For a first test Drift, it was strong. It would be a waste.”  

Soap shrugs in return. Alejandro claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ll just knock you both out if it happens next time, eh? I’ve always wanted to see a Jaeger-to-Jaeger fight.” 

“We already do that in the Kwoon, don’t risk Viper’s new synapse system,” Soap says, and gives Alejandro a joking shove. Alejandro is grinning until he overhears Hadir say a name. He approaches the trio talking about how to get a fresh Kaiju brain for another Drift, how Hadir can’t do it again alone, and where to find scraps to build two more headsets so Farah and Alex can join Hadir and share the neural load.  

“What name did you say?” He asks.  

“Valeria Garza. She runs the Kaiju black market,” Hadir says, and Alejandro and Rodolfo give each other a look before thanking Hadir and hurrying away. 

Through Price’s door, Ghost can hear Graves shouting. 

“We all saw it – he can’t control his Drift, and Ghost dropped out of alignment first. This is an operation where we can’t afford to make mistakes, and those two can’t even hold a test Drift together! I don’t want them protecting my bomb run, sir. The Kaiju are only getting stronger, and it’s a matter of time before we’re getting our asses kicked harder than they are already. They both need to be far away from any Jaegers from here on out.” 

“Watch your tone, Ranger,” Price says. “Dismissed.” 

Graves bursts out of the room and Erikson is already trying to hold him back. 

“There they are, the has-been and the rookie,” Graves calls out. He shakes off Erikson’s hold on his arm. “What a fucking disgrace. You call that piloting? Price is out of his mind for even thinking y’all could’ve done shit.” 

He steps right up to Ghost and gets in his face. “I should ship you back to the fucking wall you were wasting your life on and never let Soap get an inch near the cockpit again.” Soap bristles, irritated.  

Ghost cocks his head. His voice is soft when he speaks. “Is that a threat?” 

“That’s a guarantee, Ranger,” Graves sneers, all the edges of his face hard and angry. 

Objectively, Ghost knows Graves is right. They almost took down the entire Shatterdome with this first test Drift. Drift compatibility alone does not a Jaeger pilot make; it doesn’t override instability of the pilots, and he and Johnny are as unstable as they come.  

What a pair. One’s got trust issues out the window and the other has a vengeance streak a mile wide. If he was making the decision, Viper Enigma would’ve had different rangers months ago. 

Ghost understands. He agrees, even. But in his chest, the famous Riley temper rears its ugly head. 

Ghost hasn’t felt the burn in years. It’s been wrangled to submission by many sessions with military psychiatrists and PPDC psychologists to deem him fit for service. Generations of angry men teaching their sons to be angrier with their fists, with knives, with death. Ghost’s hands twitch. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel his father’s blood in between the webbing of his fingers. It burns. 

He can see it already. Caving Graves’ head in with his fists, gouging out the softness of his eyes with his thumbs. The sharp edge of that pin that symbolizes Shadow Company in his neck. It’s not fantasy; he can do it. He has done it before. Simon swallows that anger and does not go for Graves’ throat. 

But Johnny does. 

It’s faster than Ghost can react, and that’s saying something. Soap lunges and gets a jab in at Graves’ jaw, pivots to dodge a punch, swings with his other arm and narrowly misses. Ghost knows Johnny’s a brawler, memories of roughhousing and secret fight clubs with the neighbourhood boys being the foundation of his style. It’s brutal, but it could be more efficient. 

Or versatile. Ghost glances at the pipe running along the wall. Steam. 

As soon as he has the thought, Johnny gets a hold of Graves and slams him into said pipe. It’s dented on impact and spews steam; Graves emerges from the cloud, fuming. Soap backs off and waits for Graves to come to him. Graves stalks towards him, says with a drawl, “Big mistake. It didn’t have to be like this, brother.” 

He’s off balance. Could get the jump on him, Ghost thinks, looking at that stance. This should end before Price sees. Get him on the ground and end it.  

Graves swings, and Soap catches his fist with a palm and tugs on the connecting forearm with his other hand to get Graves to stumble. He holds onto that arm and gives Graves a smack on the side of his neck and ear with the back of his left hand before catching Graves’ other hand with his own. 

Soap gets one leg in between Graves’ stance and twists his entire body upside down, dropping his body weight towards the ground in a backwards roll. Graves’ hands are tied up in Johnny’s grasp and he goes down, smacking the concrete with the side of his face. Soap uses the momentum of the roll to get himself on top and wrenches his hand out of Graves’ grip to pin him by the neck to the floor. 

It’s over before it really began. Ghost hasn’t seen Johnny fight like that before. He usually puts his weight behind his fists – but Ghost does, using his height and body weight to pull others into submission. 

Ghost feels a burst of victory and righteous satisfaction near the middle of the back of his head before it’s pulled away. The door to Price’s office slams open.  

“Explain exactly what the fuck is going on out here,” Price roars, and Ghost gets Johnny up on his feet by the scruff of his shirt before he realizes. 

Ghost Drifting. He and Johnny are still connected. Johnny felt and acted on Ghost’s anger. 

Soap opens his mouth to speak, but Ghost radiates calm and concentrates it at the back of his mind, feeding it towards Johnny. Ghost sees his shoulders visibly relax.  

Erikson hauls Graves up by the arm, brushing his fingers gently against Graves’ nose to see if it’s broken. He’ll probably develop a black eye.  

Price looks unimpressed. “MacTavish, Ghost. Into my office.” 

“I’m not finished!” Graves struggles against Erikson’s grip. 

“You are,” says Price, tone hard. “As we discussed – vet Shadow Rogue for deployment, Rangers. Dismissed.” 

Ghost and Soap step into the office and stand side-by-side at attention.  

“What happened in there,” Price asks, voice flat. 

“I went out of phase first,” Ghost says.  

Soap shakes his head. “I chased the RABIT. It was my mistake –” 

Price interrupts him. “The mistake is mine. I should’ve never let you two into the same Jaeger.” He looks away, and Ghost sees regret, exhaustion, in the set of his brow and the slump of his shoulders. 

“Are you grounding us, sir?” Soap’s jaw clenches with the effort to keep his expression from falling apart.  

Price looks at Ghost. “Not you.” 

Ghost cuts off the sigh in his chest before it can make a noise. The disappointment that floods his head hurts, knowing how much Soap wanted this. Johnny is the strongest candidate by far to Drift and pilot with someone as volatile as Ghost. Price must have wanted this just as much, too, given his status in Soap’s life from young adult to Jaeger technician.  

Soap swallows with an audible click. “Permission to be dismissed, sir?” 

“Permission granted, MacTavish.”  

Ghost feels colder when Johnny leaves the office. The base of his neck feels hollowed out, empty. 

“Simon?” 

He looks up to meet Price’s eyes. He sees the different versions of Price he knows all at once – Captain John Price, steady-handed and a sharp shooter – Ranger John Price, solo-piloting Bravo Sierra and emerging victorious – Marshal John Price, a man taking the apocalypse into his own hands.  

“I’m sorry,” Ghost says. Price nods. 

“So am I.” 

Ghost flicks off the light in his quarters and gets into his bed. He blows out a heavy sigh and wonders where Soap might be. Perhaps in the Kwoon? His memories – well, Johnny's memories – sometimes have witching hour sparring sessions.  

Ghost thinks on Soap and piloting with a different person until he somehow is drawn into sleep. The setting of the dream is one that Simon is all too familiar with: he’s inside Viper Enigma’s cockpit, in Alaska, the rush of the frigid ocean at the Jaeger’s knees. Ghost looks to his right, to speak to Tommy – 

Instead of Tommy, John MacTavish looks back at him. 

Terror roils in Simon’s stomach. “You can’t be here, Johnny.” 

“L.T.,” Soap says. His smile is so warm. “It’s all right. Listen to me –" and Simon watches him get ripped out of the Jaeger, feels his brain tear at the seams. The panic between them both compounds into a high screeching noise.  

The scene changes. He’s standing in San Francisco, turning to face Trespasser, the Kaiju and the wall of water it brings with it thousands of feet taller than himself. He’s running alone in the streets. He finds his parents in the rubble. Then he’s in Manchester, opening the door to his sister-in-law and nephew on the blood-soaked floor. He’s in Mexico, being waterboarded into talking.   

He sees himself, from Johnny’s – or Tommy’s – point of view, reaching out of the destroyed Jaeger cockpit. 

The water rushes in, and Simon can’t hear his own screaming over the crash of it, but he knows he does from the burn in his throat. The scene shifts again, back to Viper. He feels the weight of Viper free-falling straight into the depths of the ocean. A loud metallic banging becomes clearer and clearer until Ghost startles awake in his bed. Someone is banging furiously on the door. 

He’s up and moving for the door before he realizes he is, the ringing in his head louder than the Kaiju klaxon alarm. He doesn’t notice the Kaiju alarm has not actually gone off and the ringing is actually from Soap broadcasting fear and urgency through their connection until Ghost has opened the metal door and gets body checked by Soap barreling through it. 

“Simon,” Johnny breathes, arms wrapping around his torso, and the heat of his body against Ghost’s shocks him fully awake. It’s like holding a live wire. Ghost’s hands spasm, unsure whether to shove Soap off or hold him. One of Soap’s hands climbs up to his shoulders and his fingertips brush against the edge of the mask at his neck. 

The wetness of tears against his bare shoulder pulls Ghost’s arms around Johnny without a second thought. Soap is shaking, taking deep breaths to stop the shuddering of his entire frame. Something claws at the inside of Ghost’s skull, trying to reach Johnny, and it feels like his mind is trying to connect through the Drift without any tech. 

Ghost steps towards his bed. Physical touch and connection are the closest thing outside of the neural handshake, so they should stay like this. He matches Soap’s slow breathing pattern to quiet the thing in his mind and pulse calm through it instead. He manages to get them to lie down without breaking their hold on each other. 

This closeness should have Ghost crawling out of his own skin. The idea of sharing his mind with someone else mere days ago while he was on the Wall induced panic and anger.  

But he’s done it. Went and shared his whole mind, his whole self, and feels loyalty, determination, and acceptance for who he is in return. Most surprisingly, there is no blame. 

Johnny doesn’t blame him for anything. Deep down, Simon is ultimately relieved he can trust again. He thought that part was lost to him after Roba, and was sure it was gone after Tommy.  

But it couldn’t have been just anyone. Soap MacTavish was the right choice.  

“It’s never been like that before,” Soap says, after a few minutes. Ghost notes his breathing has evened out. “The nightmares havenae’ felt like that before.” 

“Perks of my memories in your brain, too,” Ghost replies. “Tommy’s as well. Exponential nightmares.”  

Soap turns to him, barely visible in the dark. He asks, "D'you want to talk about it?" 

“What’s there to talk about? You’ve been in my head,” says Ghost.  

Soap shakes his head. “It’s not the same,” he insists. “I want t’hear it from you.” 

He doesn't want to do this. But Soap has Drifted with him. He already knows.  

First things first. “I didn’t warn you how difficult a first Drift was. It’s too easy to chase the RABIT. This happened under my watch, and I’m sorry.” 

Johnny shakes his head in disagreement. “There wasnae’ much t’warn me about,” he says. The accent is thicker with exhaustion. “Simulator could only get me so close to th’ real thing. Price argued with me, about takin’ that emotion into th’ Drift. I know what he means now.” 

Ghost swallows and feels residual sweat cling to his shirt. After some time, he says, "His name was Joseph." If Ghost unfurls his hands from Johnny, he’ll feel his nephew’s cold body in them. Simon was also that small when he was that age.  

"Your nephew?" 

"Yeah." 

“Cute kid,” Soap says. “Looked like you.” 

“Chose the right genes from the family.” 

Soap smiles. Ghost can feel the pull of skin against his shoulder. “Tommy was the heartthrob.” Ghost rolls his eyes, the memory of Tommy being the charming one on British television causing lots of drama, especially when he got married.  

“Talked out of his arse the whole time and that makes a heartthrob? Should’ve spoken more.” 

“Nah, you had th’ brooding schtick all sorted out, L.T.,” Soap replies. “The U.K. mourned you, too.” 

Ghost swallows thickly. Alaska is both far away and right here in this room. San Francisco is too. 

“This line of work never gets any easier, Johnny,” he says. “Easy isn’t in the field manual.” Not in the PPDC, and not in the military.  

There’s gentleness settling in the back of his neck, pushed across their line from Soap. “That’s why we’ve got each other, Simon. Basics of neural load theory – y’can’t do it alone.” 

Soap shifts against his body. He pushes himself up, one hand on Ghost’s chest, intimate. But there are no lines to left cross anymore, not when they’ve combined their brains.  

Johnny still knows the importance of asking. “Since we’re fixing each other’s problems tonight, what’s up with the mask?” 

Ghost snorts. “Who said the mask was my problem? I thought it was the Kwoon candidates.” 

“The first one in your whole list of problems,” Soap says, dry. “Along with the shitty Jell-O in the canteen, and the cold of the Shatterdome in the morning.” 

“Should update that order. You’re second on the list, Johnny.”  

“It can’t be comfortable in the helmet.” 

“The entire business of the Jaeger isn’t comfortable.” 

“Take it off.” 

“Negative.” 

“Are y’ugly?” 

“Quite the opposite.” 

“Then prove to me you’ve got the better genes in the family.” Soap tilts his head, smile teasing. 

Ghost pauses. He has deliberately avoided looking into mirrors ever since he left the hospital. The man who stands in the reflection isn’t someone he recognizes; instead, the pain from getting his face and body ripped open is a phantom in the shape of Simon Riley. 

The PPDC psychiatrists call it the modesty reflex. If a pilot judges or tries to control memories or knowledge during the Drift, it’s inherently from a lack of trust in their co-pilot. That kind of wall between pilots is certain death during a sync.  

And maybe it’s time for Simon Riley to be known.  

“Go on, then,” Ghost says. “I’ll kill you if you run your mouth.” 

“I don’t kiss and tell, L.T.,” Soap says, laughter under his breath. Ghost keeps a lock on the interest that blooms in his gut. He wonders when that got there – was it him first? Or Johnny?  

Soap’s callused hands pull the mask over Ghost’s face to reveal Simon underneath. Simon keeps his eyes on Johnny’s face as steady as Johnny looked at him when they first met, looking for a reaction. Soap spends a few minutes moving his gaze over and across Simon’s face several times. 

His cheek twitches when Soap frames his face with both hands.  

Johnny’s smiling. “Nice t’meet you, Simon.” 

Simon snorts. “Don’t talk like you haven’t seen the inside of my brain.” 

“Ever heard of manners, L.T.?” Soap shifts his upper torso further over Simon’s, and the spark of interest in him ignites into a slow burn –  

The Kaiju klaxon blares. 

Gaz’s alarmed voice calls over the intercom. “Movement in the Breach – double event!” 

Soap and Ghost stand at the back of the group that surrounds Price, Ghost behind Soap’s right shoulder. Gaz and Laswell are operating two different holographic displays. 

“Breach was exposed at 2300 hours,” says Laswell. “Two Category Fours.”  

Gaz turns to Price. “They’ll reach Hong Kong in less than an hour, sir.” 

A sharp nod from Price. “Laswell, get the city evacuated and all bridges closed. Every civilian needs to be in a refuge within the next half an hour. Set up shop for three Jaegers to deploy, Gaz.” 

He turns to face the pilots. “Solar Rebel, Romeo Vortex, you’ll be deployed to the harbor. Stay inside of the Miracle Mile. Shadow Rogue will stand on the coast; do not engage unless necessary, you two. Your main objective is to carry that bomb.” Graves and Erikson nod. 

Price looks at the other pairs. “We talked about trying to capture one for their brain for Hadir’s use, but these are larger than we’ve ever seen before. You all have execute authority; no captures. Remember that the city is the priority. Get in your Jaegers.” 

“Yes, sir,” they chorus. 

Soap stands stock still as the other Rangers move past them. “You two stay put,” Price says. “Standby unless Laswell or Gaz need your help.” 

The Shatterdome is in full motion as Gaz gets the neural interfaces set up for the three Jaegers and Laswell gives her own orders to the evacuation staff. Price stares hard at the two Kaiju signatures. No codenames have been given yet.  

“Get us a visual,” Price says. A screen opens up of a helicopter’s view of each Kaiju. One has a prominent claw in each hand and foot; the other is just very large and wide with raised ridges on its back.  

Price points at the clawed one, somewhat pterodactyl looking in the head. “Codename: Knifeclaw.”  

“Solar Rebel on the coastline, holding Miracle Mile,” Farah says. They watch Romeo Vortex drop from the choppers further ahead. 

Alejandro’s voice is relaxed. “Romeo Vortex engaging. Movement detected at four o’clock.”  

Knifeclaw rises out of the ocean with a shriek, spraying blue acid from its mouth and getting itself balanced with the help of its long tail. Romeo dodges the spray of acid with ease and moves forward. The dual bladed swords that emerge from the back of both wrists and sit over the back of each hand of the Jaeger pierce into the chest and neck of Knifeclaw. The hydraulics in the arms groan with the effort of pushing to sever the head from the body, angling the acid organ that’s in the mouth up and away. 

The tail of Knifeclaw whips around to crash into the abdomen of Romeo. LOCCENT watches as Romeo is battered by the tail, and when the tail worms between the Jaeger and Knifeclaw, Romeo gets shoved away by it and they nearly fall over in the water.  

Knifeclaw takes advantage of the stagger to spray more acid. The prehensile digits at the end of the tail are trying to reach the head of Romeo while the Jaeger fights to get control of the other two limbs clawing at its torso. 

“Mierda,” Rodolfo says. “It knows where we are, Marshal.” 

“If it wants our head, we’ll just have to take theirs off first,” Alejandro shouts, and Romeo shoves the Kaiju away to get the tail away from the head of the Jaeger. Romeo throws several punches that drive the wrist blades into the ribcage of Knifeclaw; when the Jaeger tries to get hold of the tail to slice it off, Knifeclaw is able to get its neck out of the grip of one of Romeo’s hands and shoots acid point blank.  

Rodolfo’s pained yell cuts through comms. “Acid through the hull!” 

“Rudy! Fuck, the harness – LOCCENT, requesting backup from Solar Rebel! Our Drift is compromised!” On Gaz’s screen, alarms flash to try to get Romeo’s Drift stable.  

Two rockets blast against Knifeclaw and send it falling backwards into the water.  

“Romeo, retreat,” Price says over the microphone. “Choppers, extract Romeo Vortex as soon as it’s safe to. Solar Rebel, continue ranged offense. Push forward and increase the distance between Knifeclaw and the city. Engage as you see fit.” 

Solar drives Knifeclaw further away with missiles deployed from its shoulders and hips. Some missiles aim for the tail and mouth, but Knifeclaw turns to take the explosions with the toughest parts of the skin on its back, shaking them off. 

“Engaging in close range combat,” Alex says, and Solar Rebel braces for impact when Knifeclaw dives under the water to launch itself towards the Jaeger. They collide with a crash that seems to even shake the chopper cameras, and the jets at the back of Solar are working overtime to keep the Jaeger upright. With the weight of the rockets, Solar Rebel delivers heavy hitting punches to Knifeclaw’s face and body but is victim once again to the tail, which wraps around a knee and yanks to tip Solar over. 

Graves’ voice filters over the comms. “Solar Rebel is in trouble, Marshal, requesting to engage.” 

“Hold your ground, Rangers,” Price says. “Do you copy?” 

“Negative,” Erikson says. “We’re moving in.” Shadow Rogue takes off at a sprint with jet rockets at the back propelling the Jaeger forward into the water. 

Price straightens from his lean over the microphone and gives a knowing look to Ghost, both clearly thinking of the last time a Jaeger defied orders to not engage. 

Knifeclaw and Solar are wrestling, each party trying to get their body over the other and crush it into the water. Solar Rebel manages to get Knifeclaw into a headlock and is firing missiles from its hips into the body. 

“Solar, six o’clock!” Graves shouts, but it’s too late. The second Kaiju that has not moved from its position has launched itself out of the water, jumping to crash into the shoulders of Solar. There are more holsters for rockets placed at each shoulder; these are the only reason the head of Solar is not taken off, the claws of the second Kaiju grappling the arms of Solar with a grip that crushes each arm just underneath the shoulder. 

Farah and Alex shout in pain. The momentum of the second Kaiju’s jump brings Solar to their knees and the Kaiju get shoved on top of one another when Solar lets go of Knifeclaw. Solar goes under the water and Ghost balls his hands into fists when Alex screams that water is getting into the Jaeger, then their comms are cut off for a terrifying moment.  

Shadow Rogue makes it to Solar Rebel and fires rockets from the chest holsters to drive both Kaiju further away from the damaged Jaeger. 

“Requesting exfil for Solar,” Farah pants. “We’ll keep ranged attacks going as long as we have the ammunition, but we can’t engage further, not without arms.” 

“We’ve got guns aplenty,” says Graves, and the pilots of Shadow yell in triumph when they meet Knifeclaw in a collision and grab it by the tail and arm to push it into the water. One Jaeger arm lets go of the tail and rears back over and over to punch Knifeclaw in the jaw. The tail at first wraps around a leg of the Jaeger, but slackens enough that Shadow can get out of its twist; Shadow grabs it at the base and begins to lift the Kaiju above its head to throw the entire Kaiju away from it. 

When Knifeclaw crashes into the ocean, Shadow’s chest holster unfurls once more to fire.  

The second Kaiju activates its back ridges and sends out a set of EMP blasts that ricochet across the coastline. 

Shadow Rogue powers down, and so does the entire Shatterdome. 

Price looks at Gaz, who presses buttons frantically. “The electrical circuits are out. It’ll take our crew at least two hours to get things online.” 

Price swears. “No comms either. The Jaegers are all digital.”  

“They’re adapting to us, sir.” Gaz’s expression is tense. 

“Viper’s analog,” Soap says, the first thing he’s said since the Kaiju alarm sounded. “Nuclear.” The set of his jaw is defiant. 

Price looks first at Soap, then Ghost, and jerks his head towards the hangar. 

The visuals from the copters on Shadow Rogue show that Graves and Erikson have since disengaged from their harness and are on the head of their Jaeger, shooting flare guns at the EMP Kaiju. Erikson is holding his dominant arm at an odd angle, injured from the Jaeger being battered around while powered off.  

Viper Enigma has made it just in time to distract the Kaiju from shoving Shadow Rogue into the water.  

“LOCCENT, picking up only one signature,” Ghost says through their comms. “Knifeclaw’s likely in the city about to commit some war crimes.” 

“Time t’commit some war crimes of our own,” Soap says.  

“We’re on our own, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. “Get ready.” He holds Soap’s nervous gaze for a second before they both snap to attention and see the EMP Kaiju begin to run towards them. 

Viper crouches for impact and they grunt when the Kaiju crashes into them, grappling with the Kaiju. They push and pull to get a grip on the EMP blast ridges on the back of the Kaiju and begin to tear the mechanism off. It crackles with blue-green light, trying to send a blast to neutralize Viper, but nothing happens other than Soap and Ghost ripping it off with a yell. 

The Kaiju shrieks before backing away. “C’mere, you little rascal,” Soap grits out, before shouting because the Kaiju lunges from below and picks up Viper by the torso. They swing their arms to try to punch and get the wrist and elbow barbs at Rascal’s face, but the Kaiju braces itself and throws Viper like it’s a wrestling ring. Viper tumbles into the shipping docks at the coastline and they turn the fall into a roll that gets them back on their feet. 

Ghost can feel Johnny’s thoughts scatter a little in panic. He grits his teeth to get them both to focus. Normally, seasoned pilot pairs don’t need to communicate verbally during combat or to even signal their A.I. out loud to activate certain features. All of it is wired through the Drift and the connection with the Jaeger. For newer pilots, the rush of the Drift can be overwhelming; verbal communication even when their brains are being shared in real time brings to the conscious mind what is unconscious movement, brings focus into action. 

Rascal shrieks again and begins to run towards them. 

“Come on, Johnny,” Ghost says. “This is for real now.” Their Jaeger hydraulics whine with the effort of rising to their feet. 

Soap nods. “Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, L.T.?” 

Viper Enigma begins to run. They meet Rascal with a thundering crash, smashing their fists and the wrist barbs into its face and neck. Soap’s brawling style is out in full as they deal punches to Rascal’s head. They draw their hands back, angled, to make sure the barbs slice and tear at the Kaiju.  

“Elbow rockets – right now,” Ghost says, and their fists come together with extra force and speed to clash on either side of Rascal’s face. It goes down with a groan, and on its way back up, grasps shipping containers to whack Viper with. 

“Two can play that game,” Soap hisses, once they’ve taken a container to the face, and they pick up shipping containers to use too. They raise their arms and bring their fists down onto the Kaiju’s head, smashing it into the ground. 

Rascal is making angry grunting noises and rises to grab Viper by the torso. It tackles them further into the city and Viper grapples for a hold against the mass of Kaiju pushing at them.  

“Activate cannons,” Ghost shouts at their A.I., and the cannon on the calves of Viper push and ground the Jaeger. The plasma cannon on the right hand of Viper whirrs to life. 

“Big geezer,” Ghost says. They position the plasma cannon. “Shoot and repo as fast as possible.” 

They shoot at Rascal’s belly and Ghost feels satisfaction rip down his spine when the ribcage becomes visible, Kaiju blood spilling fluorescent blue down the body. They manage to get the cannon into the mouth and shoot down Rascal’s throat. 

Ghost glances at the ammunition storage levels on the screens. A full round. “Empty the clip,” he calls, and Rascal burns from the inside out. 

Soap shakes his head. “You’re stone cold, Simon.” 

Ghost taps at the controls to recharge the cannon. “What has two legs and bleeds?” 

“Don’t tell me,” Soap groans, both with exerted effort of holding Rascal in place and exasperation. 

They push the body of Rascal onto the ground where it lies unmoving. “Half a Kaiju.”  

They take a minute to assess the damage, panting with exertion. Soap looks across at him. “Just in case, L.T.” They raise the plasma cannon again. 

Ghost nods. “Open hearts and minds with it, Johnny.” 

They clear another few shots of plasma cannon ammunition until the body of Rascal is blasted open, ribcage gaping.  

Victory is short-lived. The screech of Knifeclaw echoes in the distance, bouncing off the windows of the skyscrapers. 

"LOCCENT, can we get a visual on Knifeclaw?” Soap asks. 

“Bunker. Get to it now, Viper,” they hear Price say.  

“I don’t think we should find him while we’re empty-handed, L.T.,” Soap says.  

Ghost raises a brow. “Accurate and deadly fire tends to resolve these things.” But he gets the sense in Soap wanting to maintain distance where they can, especially with Knifeclaw’s prehensile tail. They’ll try to lure the Kaiju out and towards the open shoreline to minimize damage to the city. 

They look around and pick up a shipping boat. Soap swings it from the left hand to settle it in the right hand like a baseball bat. Viper stalks between the buildings glinting with neon lights and tall skyscrapers, stepping over bridges and carefully maneuvering around the buildings. 

They find Knifeclaw digging into the entryway of an underground bunker and people scrambling to get away from it. Knifeclaw turns its attention to them. 

“I never played much baseball as a kid,” Soap says. “Was a football goalie myself. Think he knows how to throw a good pitch?” Knifeclaw lashes its tail and charges.  

“Let’s worry about you, Johnny,” Ghost replies, grunting with effort to slam the shipping boat against the face of the Kaiju. Knifeclaw shrieks and grabs the boat with a hand, and they play a bit of tug of war before Viper wins and gets another hit across Knifeclaw’s head and back. It unfortunately destroys the shipping boat, but they’ve managed to lure the Kaiju out towards the shipping docks and the open space where Rascal’s body is.  

Knifeclaw closes the distance and they get hit by the tail, crashing into a building, before their momentum changes because the Kaiju wraps its tail around Viper’s torso and drags the Jaeger towards its mouth. The acid organ inside the mouth expands.  

Soap moves their arms to try to reach at Knifeclaw’s mouth or neck. “So y’do like me?”  

Ghost thinks, duck, and they swing Viper down and to the right and narrowly miss the jet of acid coming their way. “I like you alive.” 

The tail of Knifeclaw unwraps from their torso and re-wraps itself around Viper’s left arm, preventing it from punching. The ends snap at Viper’s head. “Soap, vent the coolant on the left side,” Ghost says. “Let me hold the tail and you freeze it off.” 

“Yes, sir.” Soap moves his left arm to press the controls. They hear the A.I. announce the left vent is open; Ghost does his best to drag the tail to where the jets spray coolant, and they feel the tail slow down and freeze where the spray meets the body. 

They jerk their arm and the tail crumbles at the frozen point and falls off.  

“Fucking beautiful, sir,” Soap shouts, over the pained scream of Knifeclaw. While the mouth is open, Viper shoves their now free left hand into the mouth to grab the acid organ. Their right hand pushes against the side of the Kaiju’s head to give them leverage as they rip off the organ. 

Triumph pulses through the Drift. All they have to do now is –  

Knifeclaw unfurls its two wings, kept hidden by being pressed close to the arms as they fought. 

“Steamin' bloody Jesus,” Soap groans, and Viper catches two feet to their torso and arms because their hands are still up. Ghost can hear the screech of metal crumpling and his ribs are in pain when Knifeclaw’s talons grip onto the Jaeger and slam them into the ground, before Knifeclaw takes them up into the sky. This is the first time a Kaiju has had wings on its body. 

LOCCENT communications cannot be heard over the beat of Knifeclaw’s wings and the sound of wind rushing by. Ghost watches the A.I. display their altitude on the screen; it climbs terrifyingly fast, all the way up to 50,000 feet. 

Viper swings their arms and fists as hard as they can to claw at the body and face of Knifeclaw. There’s been major damage to their Jaeger’s abdomen and their arms. Spots dance in Ghost’s vision. “Oxygen’s low, Soap,” he calls out. “Our plasma cannons are done.” 

“We’re not done here just yet, L.T.,” Soap replies. Then, incredibly: “Deploying sword!” 

Out of Viper’s left arm, where Ghost had assumed there was only the barbs, a chain sword unfurls and locks itself into a rigid formation. Ghost thinks he’s always known it was there, lovingly added by Johnny to the blueprints of Viper, but Soap has kept it in the unconscious during the battle in the city and shoreline because how much Kaiju blue they’re about to scatter would have Hong Kong’s population dying from contamination in two weeks. 

Ma, Da, Ghost hears Soap think. This is for you.  

“Fucking Braveheart,” Ghost says, and Johnny’s shout of delighted laughter glows like a candle in the Drift. They shove the sword into the body and yell in unison to slice the Kaiju in half.  

Familiar as always is the sensation of falling. 

Their A.I. chirps their altitude descent as accurately as when they were rising into the stratosphere. They make the effort to flip and fall face first; when they successfully turn, Price’s voice comes clear across the comms. 

“Get those shock absorbers as loose as possible and purge the fuel, Viper,” Price barks. “Slow down as much as you can.” 

 When they hit 20,000 feet, Ghost purges the fuel from the reactor on the front of Viper to try to slow their fall. His stomach lurches at the momentum change when they’re snapped back in the other direction and then once more when Viper resumes their descent. The Jaeger heats up with the friction of the air rushing past them. 

“Fuck, too fast,” Ghost shouts. “Brace for impact, Johnny.” 

Viper comes crashing down a distance away from where they were deployed. They do their best to land on two feet but their momentum skids them forward on all fours and on their knees. Thankfully, it’s not in the water, but their damage to city buildings is large. Smoke from the impact billows around them.  

Ghost thinks he’ll feel this fall for at least a week. “Johnny, how copy,” Ghost says, looking to his left. Soap shifts, and together, Viper Enigma stands tall. 

Soap blows out a breath before replying. “Solid.” 

Ghost feels the ache ricochet in his knees and spine. They’re alive, so that’s what matters. “You said you wanted a win, Johnny – congratulations, you’re a winner.” He reaches up and grabs the center console to help him stay upright; he ends up closing his hand over the back of Soap’s, who’s already holding onto the center console.  

“Away an’ bile yer heid,” Soap hisses. He’s bent over from pain.  

Ghost knows what that means, but he says anyway, “English, MacTavish.”  

“Sorry sir, allow me to translate,” Soap says, faux-polite when he looks up at Ghost. Ghost feels cheerful spite filter through their connection. “Go fuck yourself.”  

Ghost huffs a laugh. “Much better.” 

“Viper Enigma,” Price’s voice says over their comms. “Choppers incoming to retrieve you. Report to the main floor of the Shatterdome once you’re out of your Jaeger.” 

The Shatterdome roars with cheering as Soap and Ghost get shuttled down to the main floor. The sheer number of Shadows and staff crowding up against them rankles against Ghost’s nerves, so he follows directly behind Soap, who accepts claps on the shoulder and handshakes with ease, his ears a bit red from the attention. Ghost only nods at the crowd and keeps one hand’s fingertips at the center of Soap’s back to guide him forward through the throng. 

“Ghost, MacTavish,” Price calls out. The crowd parts. “Nicely done. Gave the Kaiju the likes of what they – and I – have never seen before.” 

His voice softens. “I’m proud of you.” Soap’s rush of pride floods Ghost’s brain. Price moves past them to raise his voice. 

“As much as we want to celebrate, there is no time,” Price continues, looking around at everyone. “Solar Rebel and Romeo Vortex have taken extensive damage. So have their pilots. Alejandro and Rodolfo have chemical burns; Farah and Alex are being monitored for secondary drowning. Shadows, prioritize Shadow Rogue and Viper Enigma. I want these two back to one-hundred percent functionality before Solar and Romeo.” 

His voice rings out strong, but when Price breaks through the crowd and turns to look back, his nose is bleeding from one nostril. 

Ghost feels Johnny’s brain go blank, the first time it’s ever been so empty. Soap raises one hand silently to his nose. 

Price pulls a handkerchief to dab at his face. When it’s clean, he says, “Reset that clock.”  

Ghost looks at Johnny for an explanation. The blankness in their connection crumbles and reveals only grief. 

Before the doctors can grab them, Ghost pushes away and follows after Price to his office. He knocks and announces himself. “Marshal, this is Ghost.” 

“Enter.” 

Ghost opens the door to Price loosening his tie and taking a fresh dress shirt from a stack on a shelf. 

“How long,” Ghost says. 

Price gives a casual shrug before unbuttoning the bloodied shirt. “Does it matter? Radiation poisoning. The Mark I Jaegers didn’t have any shielding, with how fast we put them together. Deployed seven times, and Laswell and I’s lucky seventh was San Francisco.” 

“Trespasser?”  

Price nods. “You and I are the only two who have ever run solo combat, Simon. You might think I didn’t have any other options, but I thought of you first.” 

He washes his bloody hands in the sink. "I got it done, but I burned in there for hours. Medical caught it after that.” Price slides the clean shirt over his shoulders. “Laswell wasn’t the only one who needed to retire. They told us both if we ever got back into a Jaeger again, it’d kill us.” 

It explains the sudden shift of career when Price and Laswell could’ve piloted Bravo Sierra at least a few more times before retirement.  

Price’s screen blinks with a call. He taps it. “Gaz, go ahead.” 

“Two signatures detected at the Breach,” Gaz says. He sounds exhausted. “Both Category Four. They aren’t moving inland. Hadir says they’re protecting the Breach.” 

Price nods. “Get Shadow and Viper on deck.” 

“Sir, Erikson’s arm is broken,” Gaz says, confused. “Shadow doesn’t have a co-pilot.” 

“You heard me,” Price replies, and hangs up. He turns away from Ghost. The breath he takes next is full of resolve. 

Dread curls into Ghost’s stomach. “Sir,” he says.  

“On deck, Ranger,” Price says, and walks out. 

Ghost doesn’t know how to hold the knowledge that Price will pilot for the final time of his life, how to communicate it to Soap. Johnny is standing by Gaz at the LOCCENT station. He’s eyeing the signatures of the two Kaiju hovering above the Breach. 

Ghost makes his way to Johnny. Soap turns to him, the scowl on his face at the Kaiju positions relaxing into a sad, gentle smile. 

“He told you, then?” Soap asks. Ghost nods, and is about to tell Soap, but Graves beats him to speaking. 

“Gaz,” Graves says, and Gaz interrupts him. “You’re not suited up. Price said suit up, so suit up.” 

Graves waves him off. “Nice catch, bud. Erikson’s arm is in three pieces. You know I can’t pilot Shadow on my own, so who’s my co-pilot?”  

One set of Shatterdome doors crank open. Price, in full Drivesuit gear, stands with Laswell by his side. They still walk side by side in sync, even now. 

“John,” Ghost can hear her say. “Once you’re getting in that Jaeger, you’re not getting out. It will kill you.” 

“Not getting into it will kill us all. Listen –”  

“The doctor’s prognosis for me was not nearly as dire as yours,” she says, urgent. “Let me suit up.” They come to a stop. Price shakes his head, places his hands on Laswell’s shoulders and faces her. 

“Kate, I don’t know how this is going to go. It could be perfect and it could be a perfect shitshow. Sarah would never forgive me if it was the latter.” Laswell’s wedding band glints in the light of the Shatterdome. “What I need you to do for me is what you’ve always been: a fixed point. A pillar. The last one standing. Copy?” 

Laswell searches Price’s face for a few seconds, torn, before something changes and she straightens her spine and nods. “Be careful, John.”  

Laswell, still solid as a rock, Ghost thinks. Soap shifts at his side and Ghost reaches out to Soap in his head. Fear, grief, and resolve tangle with each other on Johnny’s end. 

Price smiles at her, heaves a big sigh and shifts a bit in the Drivesuit. “Don’t remember this thing being so tight.” 

“You’ve told Solar and Romeo?” Laswell tilts her head at Price’s chuckle.  

“I did. Farah nearly ripped her IV out trying to snatch my helmet so I couldn’t go. Alex did. I demoted him for putting his hands on a superior officer.” Laswell snorts, knowing that order’s not sticking. Price turns towards them. “This is me telling the rest of the problem children I’ve collected as Marshal.” He raises his eyebrows at Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. Johnny and Gaz nod, but Ghost can see their jaws clench with emotion. 

Price is well loved. But war does not care about love. 

“Listen up,” he calls to the staff in the Shatterdome. The room quiets. 

“Some of you may be wondering what’s the plan.” He looks around. “Shock and awe.” He smiles wryly when some of the crowd whoop and cheer. “At the end of the day, someone has to make the enemy scared of the dark. Today, we’re here to do exactly that. We get dirty, and the world stays clean. That’s the mission. The mission where we save the world – the mission where we cancel the apocalypse!” 

His voice booms over the crowd, who erupt into a roar just as loud.  

“We stand together,” Price continues, “for us all. You know what to do.” 

Graves pushes through when the Shadows disperse. “Sir, how – how exactly are you and I going to match up once we’re hooked into Shadow?” 

Price glances at Laswell and then shrugs. “I carry nothing into the Drift. No memories, no fears, no embarrassment. Nothing at all.” He shifts his helmet from one hand to the other and leans in towards Graves. 

"You're a cocky sonofabitch with a chip on his shoulder, who doesn't know when to quit. A dog with a bone.” Graves swallows, and for the first time, has nothing to say. “A two-piece puzzle I put together when you got here. But you are your Shadow's pride. You're always looking to the future." Price reaches out with one hand, and Graves grasps it tightly. "Together, we'll ensure one." 

“It’s an honour, sir,” Graves replies. Price looks past Graves to see Erikson standing a few metres away, his arm in a sling. Price nods at him, and Erikson gives him a salute with tears in his eyes. 

“Everyone to their stations,” Price calls. He turns to enter the hangar where Shadow Rogue stands, so that Graves can take a final moment with Erikson. Their heads come close together and they speak to each other in low voices. 

In their hangar, Ghost and Soap work in silence as Viper’s harness lowers for them and the Shadows strap them in. Gaz’s voice is subdued as he initiates their neural handshake and Jaeger calibration. 

Soap’s gaze is unfocused as he hits buttons on the center console. They rock forwards as the head of Viper shoots down the hangar to meet its body. 

The silence is heavy as Viper is carried over the ocean towards the Breach. Ghost says, “Two goldfish are in a tank.”  

Johnny raises one eyebrow. “Go on.” 

“One says to the other, ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” 

The silence that follows is fucking hilarious. 

“Little army humor,” Ghost says, with a shrug that says well, I liked it.   

Soap’s disdain is tangible. “ Very little.” 

Ghost glances over. Johnny is already looking at him. After a beat, his mouth twitches. 

“Bastard,” Johnny says through a laugh, and Ghost feels smug satisfaction. 

“All ports sealed, ready to submerge,” Ghost says, and they hit the water.  

It’s darker than being buried six feet under. Ghost feels the darkness press in on the two Jaegers, as if it could pinch out the lights from Viper and Shadow like extinguishing a candle. 

“Switching to instruments,” Ghost says, tapping on their console. “Visibility is zero.” 

“Less than zero,” Soap mutters. Several screens pop up with sonar and radar signals pinging their surroundings.  

“Two active signatures still present in their formation,” says Laswell over their comms. “Codenames are Disruption and Scrapper, both category fours.” 

“Three kilometers to the cliff edge,” Price calls out. “We jump when we reach the cliff.” 

“Viper, movement at seven o’clock,” Gaz says. “It’s fast.” 

“I don’t see anythin’,” Soap replies. Ghost and Soap whip their heads back and forth but don’t see much.  

“Really fast,” Gaz corrects. “Shit. Right side now – definitely fastest on record.” 

“It’s moving too fast,” Soap says. “We can’t see it, LOCCENT.” They push on, water growing murkier as they move. 

“500 meters from the jump,” Graves calls. “Stay focused, Viper.” 

Price speaks next. “300 meters. Preparing for the jump.”  

Hadir, suddenly, shouts over the microphone. “Negative! Marshal, the plan won’t work.” 

Price’s voice is dangerous over the line. “Tell me why.” 

“The Breach is open but that doesn’t mean anything can go through,” Hadir explains. “The Breach needs Kaiju DNA to open it. You have to get hold of a Kaiju and ride it into the Breach so it thinks you’re one. That’s the only way you’ll get it through the Breach, otherwise it’ll bounce off, just like the times we tried before.” 

Gaz’s voice is next over the line, extremely panicked. “Third signature from the Breach. Category five. Triple event.” 

The Breach, brighter than lava, begins to open. What emerges from it is easily three times as large as a regular Jaeger, with a bulbous body and limbs and a tail with several longer prehensile branches. 

“Codename: Cataclysm. Engaging,” Price says, and Shadow swings their arms to unsheathe the swords that lie parallel to each forearm.  

Ghost taps on the controls. “We have a signal on our left, we’ll try to flank Cataclysm when we can at your three o’clock. Keep him busy if you can, Shadow,” and then he is cut off when they’re charged by Scrapper. The Kaiju’s mouth tries to bite at their neck but Viper manages to smack it in the head and grapple by the neck to push it away. The tail of Scrapper winds around to hit them and they get slapped across the face; the momentum and their grip on Scrapper makes them tumble and Viper fights and gets their weight on top of the Kaiju.  

They deploy the sword from the left arm after they headbutt the Kaiju as it’s struggling in their grasp. Their A.I. announces movement detected on the left, and Disruption bites down on their wrist. 

Viper’s sensors go haywire and blare in alarm when the hand and sword are bitten off. Pain spikes through their connection. 

“Got one for you, L.T.,” Soap says, an effort to calm them down.  

Through a groan, Ghost replies, “Let’s hear it.” 

“Why –” Soap pauses to shake Disruption off their left arm and left leg. “– don’t shrimp share?” 

“Why?” Disruption crashes into a nearby cliff wall and they resume wrestling with Scrapper to keep it under them. 

“They’re a little shellfish!” 

After a few punches to Scrapper, Ghost says, “Not bad. We could do this all night.” 

Soap whacks at the body with the stump of an arm. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

“Elbow,” Ghost shouts, and they drive the barb at the end of the right elbow straight through the skull of Scrapper. They yank the arm and twist on the way out to make sure it causes the most damage when exiting. Ghost can feel the skull splintering underneath them, but it isn’t dead yet. 

“There’s a vent – let's burn this fucker!” Soap yells, and they drag the body and hold it over the heat. The Kaiju struggles with its full body weight against Viper and the tail hits them again, knocking Viper off balance, and Scrapper pushes them off and retreats. Viper swings out their forearm sword that’s similar to Shadow’s from their right arm. 

They’re trying to get to their feet when Gaz shouts at them. “Viper, twelve o’clock, straight on. Disruption is at full speed, get down!” 

“Slice him in half,” Ghost says instead, and they brace themselves in their half kneeling position and drive the right hand’s sword down Disruption’s throat, mouth wide open to shriek at them. The sheer mass of the Category Four Kaiju nearly bowls them over as it pushes against their arm. Kaiju Blue swirls around them. In the distance, Cataclysm is furiously clawing at Shadow. 

“Disruption's down. Kill confirmed,” Laswell says. “Scrapper is headed for Shadow, eight o’clock, Cataclysm at twelve o’clock.” 

“Fuck, we can’t handle both,” Graves yells. “Cataclysm has taken out almost half our systems, we can’t deliver the payload on the release; it's gonna take a manual override, and that means we need time!” 

Urgency pulses through Viper Enigma’s Drift. “We’re coming for you,” Ghost calls out to them. Soap lets out a shout of anger and determination as they struggle to stand with their damaged left half. 

“Do not, and that’s an order, Viper,” Price says. “We know your Jaeger’s nuclear. Take her to the Breach.” 

“Sir,” Ghost says, a protest in the single syllable. 

“Simon,” Price grinds out. “Take her to the Breach. Do – you – copy?” 

 A flurry of voices shout over the comms line; Laswell, Gaz, Hadir, Soap. All of it is the same; they’re begging Price to find a different way.  

“Copy,” says Ghost, and the devastation is clear on Johnny’s face. 

“Everyone,” Price says. “We need to finish this, so let’s finish this!” 

Scrapper and Cataclysm circle and descend on Shadow Rogue. 

“Prepare for the boom,” says Graves. “I love that shit. It was a goddamn pleasure, Marshal.” 

Viper Enigma drives their sword into the ground and braces for it. 

The explosion's shockwave is enough to push aside thousands of tonnes of water to create a vacuum.  

“Hold,” Ghost calls to Soap, who’s looking around for a Kaiju body to lock onto. The water that was pushed away comes rushing right back, slamming and shoving Viper’s body towards the Breach. They sweep past the carcass of Scrapper and snatch a limb with their right hand. 

All of Viper's emergency warning signals are alarming from the impact; in comparison, losing their left arm and having their left leg compromised seems ideal now. The entire cockpit is awash with red light.  

“LOCCENT, Kaiju carcass acquired,” Ghost says. “Heading for the Breach.” 

“Cataclysm isn’t here,” Soap curses. “Where –”  

Said Kaiju rises above the Breach, bleeding profusely, but alive. It propels itself towards Viper. 

“Rear jets on my count,” says Ghost. “Three, two, one,” and he and Johnny shout ‘now’ at the same time, dropping Scrapper’s body to shove their arm sword through the roof of Cataclysm’s open mouth as they tackle the Kaiju into the Breach. Cataclysm claws at Viper wherever it can reach, and its multiple tails stab at Viper and compromise Soap’s oxygen supply. He shouts in shock; their A.I. counts down the percentage alarmingly fast. 

Anger flares into Ghost hotter than ever before. He purges the nuclear reactor, just like they did to slow their fall from the sky, and Cataclysm burns, burns the way Simon did, the way Price did, until it stops moving. 

Viper falls into the Breach. 

Ghost would call it beautiful if he wasn’t so fucking pissed. It almost looks like the blue of the Drift, crackling with unknown electricity. It looks like the inside of a brain. 

He reaches out for Soap, who looks dazed. His body slackens with oxygen depletion, arms lowering. 

Ghost detaches his supply and swaps it for Johnny’s. If Roba couldn’t break Ghost with oxygen deprivation, neither can the Precursors. 

“I’ve got you, Johnny,” Ghost murmurs. “You’ve done it. I can take it from here.” He reaches up to brush his hand against Soap’s helmet, imagining scruff under his palm, imagining a smile. 

Ghost presses the buttons for Soap’s escape pod to activate. He doesn’t watch the pod leave.  

“Ghost,” Gaz says. “Your oxygen levels are critical. Start that core meltdown and get the fuck out! ” 

Ghost breathes as shallowly as he can as he detaches himself from the harness and taps the centre console for core meltdown. It gives him nothing but a request for manual override, and Ghost swears colourfully as he skids around the edge of the cockpit towards the reactor mechanism without falling into the torso of Viper. His suit is slick with water and it’s a pain to get a grip on the mechanism and engage the manual override. 

“LOCCENT, if you can hear this, manual override initiated,” he pants. “T-minus sixty to core meltdown.” He steps into and almost slips off the platform to initiate his evacuation pod. 

As the pod closes around his body, his last thought is that it looks remarkably like a coffin. 

He isn’t sure if he can get out of this one this time. 

It’s bright when he resumes consciousness. Ghost feels like there’s been a mistake; he should be nowhere near Heaven. 

“No,” he hears. “Please, no. Don’t go.” 

Ghost feels a cold hand grip him by the chin to hold his head still. His balaclava is dragged up by the other hand, past his mouth, all the way off. His head lolls backwards as he’s grabbed by the shoulders to sit upright. His weight pitches forward onto the person in front of him.  

“Simon,” someone says. It’s Soap. Ghost is straining to open his eyes, and that damned mohawk is the first thing he sees.  

Consciousness comes back to him in pieces. Soap is clawing at his neck, one arm pulling Ghost against his own chest, and the other hand worming into the collar of his suit. The seal around the neck is tight and Johnny ends up prodding him right on a pressure point trying to check for a pulse. 

“Och, Johnny,” Ghost says. His voice rasps out rougher than sandpaper. “Let go. You’re squeezin’ too hard.” 

“Och,” Soap grins, brighter than the sun. He leans back and takes Ghost in. “All I had t’do was make ya take a dip and you’d turn out Scottish? It’s that easy?” 

Ghost looks into that smile and sees the future, for the first time in a long time. “Call it a new wave baptism.” 

“Kaiju religion is out now that we’ve killed ‘em all.” 

“Pledged myself to Poseidon. Think I didn’t see Atlantis down there while you were cruising back up to the surface, Johnny?” 

Soap’s face goes from laughing to solemn in a blink at the mention of surpassing the Breach. 

Ghost doesn’t want to think about that. Not when Soap has made it back. Not when Ghost has made it back, a second time, from the dead. 

“Johnny,” Ghost says, his focus a haze from breathing in full lungfuls of oxygen. He’ll remember the way Soap’s pupils dilate at the nickname for the rest of his life. “You made it.” 

“We made it, L.T.,” Soap says. His smile is soft and affectionate. Ghost made a good effort, but it doesn’t stick. Soap’s brow furrows and his mouth shifts into a frown.  

“Y’almost didn’t make it back at all, sir, givin’ me your O2. Are you out of your mind? What were y’thinkin –” 

Ghost groans and drops his entire upper half onto Johnny. Their suits clack and scrape together to make a terrible noise, but the part of his brain still in the Drift hums with a pleased whirr at the proximity of Soap, his partner, his other half, so close after being miles apart. A whole Breach apart. 

Ghost closes his eyes and feels a headache building. “Shut the fuck up, we’re not doing this right now.” 

Soap gives him a little shake. “If you die before de-brief, I’ll kill you myself.” 

“‘M not dying, Johnny. I’m tired.” 

In the distance, Ghost hears the whack of the chopper blades against air. They’re being retrieved. Ghost’s vision swims from the pressure differential and the explosion rattling his pod. 

“See?” He says. “Shut up and let me nap. Tell the pilot not to fucking drop me.” 

“Can’t make a concussion worse,” Soap says, and Ghost swears and reaches for Soap’s head with the last of the strength he has left to give him a concussion himself. 

“Sleepin’ beauty,” Johnny teases, already laughing, “What’s it gonna take to keep y’awake, huh?” He doesn’t go far with Ghost’s half-hearted shoving and bats away Ghost’s hands. The wet digits of his suit gloves meet Ghost’s temples. The cold of them from the ocean is shockingly soothing, and without thinking, Simon leans into Soap’s hands. 

He would roll his eyes if they didn’t ache inside of his skull. “A hot shower.” 

“What about a kiss?” Johnny says, and that gets Simon to open his eyes. 

Soap looks at him with mock surprise. The sky is a perfect blue; it’s the exact same shade as Johnny’s eyes. “Oh? Is it a deal, Simon? Probably not as good as a hot shower, considerin’ I took one in the ocean just now.” 

“Do you ever shut up,” says Simon, and leans down for that kiss. 

“This is Marshal Kate Laswell. The Breach has been sealed – stop the clock!” shouts Laswell over LOCCENT, and Simon feels Johnny smile against his mouth.  

There is so much to think about – de-brief, medical, grief. Graves. Price. Victory. Viper, past the bottom of the ocean. 

Johnny pulls back and presses his forehead against Simon’s, his hands holding so tightly onto Simon’s suit his gloves squeak. Through their connection he can feel a warm glow.  

Simon doesn’t know if they’ll ever Drift again, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it.

Kissing Johnny might be the next closest thing.