Chapter Text
“Chingu Dynamite, ready for the big drop,” Jimin calls.
--the beat drops, he dances--
His hand (their hand) flicks the switch to their right, and Taehyung’s hand (their hand) makes quick adjustments on their left side.
“Copy that, Chingu,” Seokjin’s voice comes through his earpiece (their earpieces). “Hold on tight!”
--”hold my hand!”--
Their stomachs swoop as the cables unlatch and Chingu Dynamite - thousands of tons of bulletproof metal alloys and aggressively lethal weaponry in the shape of a tall, balletic figure - drops from the transport helicopters. They automatically brace - Taehyung’s their leg slightly forward - as they hit the midnight ocean.
--the beach bonfire, the million stars, the midnight ocean--
“Midnight Ocean would be a good Jaeger name,” Taehyung says aloud.
“Noted, Ranger Kim.” Namjoon’s voice in their earpiece this time, a little dry. “For now, that Category Three Kaiju is five kilometres out and closing fast. You’re the only thing standing between this ugly fucker and the city of Busan, boys, so give it hell.”
--the Busan beach, under the blue sky--
There was a time that a Category 3 would warrant a two-Jaeger drop minimum, but Chingu has taken down two Category 3s solo so far. And Busan Shatterdome currently only has 4 active Jaegers. An order of magnitude lower than the numbers it once housed, even as ”only” a support base to the giant Hong Kong Shatterdome, the regional hub. Solo missions are the new norm, ten years into this brutal war.
“Roger that, Marshal,” Jimin answers. They’re striding forward through the dark water, cutting through it like a blade. “We won’t let you down, Sir. Are the people in shelters?”
--”hurry, Jiminie, run!!”--
“We expect civilian evacuation and sheltering procedures to be complete within five minutes, Ranger,” Namjoon says firmly. “But we’ve never let one of these motherfuckers make landfall on our turf and I know my star Jaeger isn’t gonna break that streak tonight. You’ve got this, boys.”
“Yessir,” they say.
--This happened before.
“Two kilometres and closing, Chingu,” Seokjin says. “Ugly-ssi is arcing. It’ll approach from your three-o-clock if it keeps this course.”
“I thought its codename was Cetevore, hyung?” Jimin asks.
This all happened before, and we won.
“How dare you imply I don’t know how to pronounce these ridiculous codenames?” Jin cries. “And that’s Chief Kim to you when you’re on duty, Ranger Park.”
“Kaiju signature within 300 metres of your position, Chingu!” Namjoon cuts in.
We got pushed back to the Miracle Mile and it shook off the cannon blasts, but then we got the sword in its stomach, and we won.
“We see it,” Taehyung says.
“It’s coming in fast,” Jimin agrees.
They shift their enormous weight, their head turning to watch the huge shadow rippling the water, driving right for them. Taehyung’s their hand hits the warmup for the cannons. Jimin’s their arm raises and Taehyung’s their leg slides back, and the sea erupts as the massive bulk of thick muscle and murderous tenacity collides with them.
We got the sword in its stomach and we rerouted the power for a last cannon blast, and we won. We won, but then.
“You’re right, hyung!” Taehyung roars, as they brace their heels in and shove the monster back a step. A terrible shriek cracks from its throat. “This one’s real ugly!”
“It’s Chief, you brats!” Jin protests.
“Cannon, Tae!” Jimin shouts, their arm swinging violently as they follow up.
We won, but then the power surged in the Jaeger. And--
Jimin raises their arm for another blow and steps their weight into a graceful turn, swinging around--
--and sticking the landing. He straightens up with a big smile and his dance teacher nods in approval and turns the--
--music off in the car as he passes through the gates of the campus and approaches the security barrier, excited for his first day--
--out in the fields this harvest, so he’s absolutely starving when his halmeoni calls them in for dinner--
--with his parents and little brother to celebrate him passing his--
--entrance exam for the Pan Pacific Defense Corps today and his stomach--
--flips as the cute boy starts laughing--
--so hard he falls off his chair and lands on the--
--ground shaking beneath their--
--feet running through--
--the routine one--
--more than--
--he ever--
--wants--
--his--
--Taehyungie!” Jimin yells, fear pitching his voice jagged. “Taehyungie, what’s wrong? Taehyungie! Please!”
Taehyung sees his own face through Jimin’s their eyes. Taehyung’s eyes have rolled up, sickeningly white even in the chaotic overlapping lights of the Jaeger cockpit. Until one of his eyes suddenly blooms with red.
Jimin swears, reaching for Taehyung with his their left hand. Taehyung’s limp left hand moves too, puppeted.
“--do that, the neural load will be too much for Jiminie,” Seokjin is saying, his voice tight and clipped.
“If Taehyung is unconscious, the neural handshake should have broken, so why--”
This already happened. This isn’t happening again. The world is terrible and unfair and riddled with monsters, but it couldn’t possibly do this to them again.
This is a memory.
“No, Tae, hush!” Jimin is whispering, grabbing his face with their hands his hands our hands. “It’s not real, Tae. Focus on me, okay? I’m right here!”
This is a memory. This is the drift.
“I’m so sorry, boys,” Namjoon is saying.
Jimin is holding Taehyung’s hand with his their our my his small hand, gripping painfully tight. They’re standing side by side in Namjoon’s strange and beautiful office. Jimin is on his our their whose right, just like in their our his my my my our Jaeger. The Jaeger that’s been decommissioned.
“You don’t have to apologise, hyung,” Taehyung said quietly. “It’s no one’s fault, and of course Chingu and I both have to be taken out of the field. We almost killed Jiminie.”
“You know I don’t--” Jimin started hotly, but Namjoon reached to put a hand on each of their shoulders and Jimin stopped instantly.
Time doesn’t mean much, in the drift. He vaguely wonders how long it’s been. When Jimin will notice.
“Is it bad?” Jimin was whispering, his their our his face tucked close to Taehyung’s in the narrow bunk, his their his his newly-dyed silver hair brushing Taehyung’s skin, his his their sturdy, compact body so warm and real remembered imagined real.
“Just... disorienting,” Taehyung said slowly. “And you know, pretty annoying. Like, I lost my job because of it.”
Jimin huffed a little laugh that broke in a sob. And then he was crying their tears for Taehyung.
Taehyung!
Taehyungie!
Taehyungie!
“Taehyungie!”
Taehyung blinks, and his arm instinctively curls around Jimin. He’s standing on the scaffold, at the barrier, in front of the sort-of-new, yet-unnamed Mark 4 Jaeger. His eyes had been glued to a double-trapezoid on its chestplate, unseeing.
“Who are you?” he asks. A lazy one, but he’s tired today.
“I’m Son Jimin, the famous footballer!” Jimin says cheerfully, letting go to offer a casual bow and a wave, before flicking the lapels of his leather jacket. “You want me to sign something for you, kiddo?”
Taehyung laughs, smacking Jimin’s arm. He’s never heard that answer before. This isn’t a memory. This is real. He lets his hand linger on Jimin’s leather jacket... move up to brush the dogtags hanging against Jimin’s t-shirt... drift down to brush Jimin’s belt and the denim of his dark jeans. Then he touches his own baggy shirt... his slacks... he shuffles his feet in his slides.... runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair. Real. Real and only him.
Jimin waits quietly, watching, but not in a way that ever makes Taehyung feel rushed or awkward. Just watching. Cause he’s Jiminie.
“Was I drifting long?” Taehyung asks once he’s satisfied.
“Couldn’t have been more than half an hour. We had lunch less than an hour ago,” Jimin says, linking their hands. “Come on, I have to meet the Marshal in a few minutes. Walk me there?”
They have to let go of each other’s hands to climb down the stairs that are barely more than ladders, but they automatically link together again to walk across the wide floor. Passing in front of the hulking promise of the nameless Mark 4.
Jimin’s posture is razor sharp, except that his left hand is clenched, like he’s still holding Taehyung’s.
“It’s what’s necessary to protect this city, this whole coastline, Park,” Namjoon says. Or rather, Marshal Kim says, his tone firm and calm.
“With all my respect, Sir,” Jimin answers, hoping desperately that his voice doesn’t betray him. “I don’t believe I’m the right person for the job. I don’t think I can pilot with anyone other than Taehyungie.”
Namjoon sighs heavily, turning away. He crosses the walkway between the two shallow pools in his office, stopping in front of the huge window in the opposite wall. He looks so tall and commanding in his uniform, Jimin thinks, but his shoulders are starting to hunch with the strain of the obscenely massive load he carries.
“My options are extremely limited,” Namjoon says. “I have a handful of potential pilots, none of whom have any experience. None of whom I would have signed off on piloting yet, if I had their stats on my desk a year ago. But a year ago, I had four Jaegers and nine pilots. Three years ago I had twenty three Jaegers and forty seven pilots. Now I have one Jaeger. And one pilot. That’s you, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin trembles, clenching his fist tight enough to hurt.
“I know what it feels like to watch your drift partner, the one person you feel comfortable with letting in your head, be locked out of a Jaeger,” Namjoon continues softly. Definitely Namjoon now, not Marshal Kim. “And what we went through wasn’t as... disorienting as what you and Taehyungie went though. Are still going through. I know I’m asking too much of you. But if the next Kaiju comes towards Busan, Jimin-ah, the shelters are gonna be filled with terrified people hoping for a saviour from Hong Kong that may never arrive. So if that motherfucker is coming, where do you wanna be waiting for it, Park Jimin? In one of those shelters? Or in a Jaeger?”
Twenty minutes later, after briefly reviewing the potential co-pilots, Jimin leaves Namjoon’s office in a frustrated daze, walking fast but purposelessly. Taehyung is nowhere to be seen. Hopefully not stuck in a drift somewhere, Jimin thinks automatically. But he just brought him out of one an hour ago. There seems to be a cooldown period between drift episodes, and yes, his episodes are getting more frequent but he’s never had two in one day. So Tae’s actually probably out for a walk in the city, while he’s least likely to randomly freeze.
The bays look even more huge when they’re empty. Jimin can’t get used to how barren the Shatterdome is these days. Cavernous, empty bays and skeleton crews. It’s terrifying.
They lost Breaker and her crew ten months ago, in a nasty incident; she was running backup for a Hong Kong crew against a Category 4 and it took two Jaegers out before a third finally put it down. Triptych and her trio crew went down four months ago, a self-sacrifice solo win against a Category 3. And Stigma was damaged beyond salvage three weeks ago taking down a Category 4. Her crew made it, barely. Namjoon flew to Seoul to give them medals in their hospital beds.
So Jimin’s the only active duty pilot left. He hasn’t even jockeyed in eleven months, not since the fight with Ugly that ended so badly.
They won. And then.
He’s the wrong person for this job. But every other option is worse. He can’t expect a pair of brand new recruits with zero experience to get into that Jaeger and be the first, last, and only line of defence this city has. There are barely a handful of people in the Shatterdome (in the country ) with piloting experience left. Including him and Taehyung, there are five in the Shatterdome. Except Taehyung is completely out of the question. So four. And of the four, Jimin’s the youngest, the strongest, the one who’s most recently jockeyed, and the only one who’s been in combat in a Mark 4. The only one who doesn’t have to pass a medical exam they’d probably fail.
His feet take him to Bay 7, of course.
The new Mark 4 Jaeger waits in Bay 1, buzzing with almost the entire technical and engineering staff still left at the Shatterdome. Sad, empty Mark 4 Chingu Dynamite stands dark in Bay 2. The metal husk of Mark 3 Arson Horizon lurks in Bay 3, stripped of a small nation’s worth of alloys and wiring and weaponry. There are no other Jaegers left in the 10 bays. Bay 7, directly opposite Bay 2, is the only one that isn’t a cavernous, gaping hole. Instead, it’s half-obscured by a giant sheet of tarpaulin painted with the non-word SOPE and what’s visible beyond is a dragon’s treasure hoard. Assuming the dragon is really obsessed with scrap pieces of Jaeger.
Jimin slips through the bead curtain hanging in the “doorway” of the giant tarp and lets out a piercing whistle to announce himself. Immediately regrets it when he belatedly notices the small black cat startling and darting away into the scrap.
“Is that my Jiminie-baby?!” cries a happy voice.
Hoseok appears from within a pile of what looks like plasma-cannon pieces a little way beyond the incongruous little “office”. The office is the only gap in the piles of scrap. It’s got two desks, a hammock, a couch, and a big sun lamp, all clustered beside a surprisingly durable little orange tree growing contentedly in a discarded Jaeger hand cupped around a cubic metre of sandy soil.
“Hi, Hobi-hyungie!”
“Hyung, wake up!” Hoseok cries, hurrying over and wiping his hands on his patchwork dungarees, his brown hair pulled back with a headband. He kicks one of the desks as he passes it on his way to Jimin. “Our cutie is here to visit!”
Jimin hugs Hoseok gratefully. It feels like Hoseok squeezes a little tighter than usual and Jimin wonders how Hoseok knows he needs it. He is slightly distracted, though, by the sight over Hoseok’s shoulder. A bleach-blonde head of hair appears from under the desk with a low, rasping little grumble.
“Hi, Suga-hyungnim,” Jimin calls as Hoseok lets him go, grinning to watch Yoongi drag himself fully out from under the desk, blinking grumpily at the bright light.
Yoongi’s hair is freshly bleached again, gleaming white-blonde in the plainly offensive light.
Jimin runs his hand through his own awkward hair. Tae had insisted from his hospital bed that Jimin keep up his tradition and change his hair colour after the kill. So Jimin’d gone from blue to silver. He’d kept the silver maintained beautifully for months. Seven weeks ago, Taehyung’s medical leave ended in an honourable discharge, and one of those medals Namjoon gives to the pilots too tragically lucky to die in the fight that ends their career. And now Jimin has 3 cm of black hopelessness bleeding into his shiny steel. (And technically, a civilian living illegally in his quarters.)
“Honestly, hyung, we have a couch and a hammock!” Hoseok is scolding.
“Did you seriously wake me up just to see Jiminie, whom we see multiple times a day every fucking day?” Yoongi rasps, picking up a mug from the desk at random and taking a mouthful.
“Of course I did! He’s your favourite pilot!”
Yoongi spits the mouthful into the giant-hand plant-pot and tosses the contents of the mug in after.
“He’s the only pilot.”
“Do you not want to see me, hyungnim?” Jimin whines.
Yoongi picks up another mug and squints into it, before dumping it into the soil untasted.
“Gonna make some new coffee,” he says, turning away to turn on a very high-end coffee machine with a warranty that’s been voided to hell and back by the experimental customisation it’s clearly undergone.
Jimin pouts to himself. Grumpy engineer is still grumpy today shouldn’t bother him, but Jimin would much rather face a terrifying 150 metre tall acid-spitting crab-monster than face Min Yoongi looking genuinely irritated by Jimin’s presence.
“The other day when you swung by for a few minutes while he was welding in the back and didn’t notice, he sulked,” Hoseok whispers in Jimin’s ear. “Like. All afternoon.”
Jimin giggles, suddenly feeling a lot better. Even if Hoseok’s probably embellishing to cheer him up. He’ll take it. He’ll take anything today.
Ten minutes later, Jimin’s scrambling up a pile of broken Jaeger armour pieces, carrying two mugs of coffee and giggling as Hoseok gingerly climbs behind him, yelping and wailing every time something shifts in the pile. Yoongi carries his own mug ahead of Jimin, climbing carefully but steadily, till he deems a long stretch of roughly-horizontal Jaeger-gauntlet an appropriate coffee break spot and sits with a groan. Jimin sits beside him, putting down the mugs gently. He thinks he catches sight of the cat a little further on, but maybe he imagined her.
“Aii! Aiiii!” comes from behind him.
“Here,” Yoongi says, and slips a carefully-wrapped little package from the pocket of the worn-out black fatigues he’s wearing somewhere under his baggy t-shirt. He hands it over without looking at Jimin.
“Waaah!” Hoseok’s getting closer. “Ah! Ah-hahaha!”
“Hm?” Jimin unwraps the bundle eagerly, curious, and finds two small, neat homemade little cookies inside. “Oh my god, hyungnim! Where did you get these?!”
“Where d'you think?” Yoongi grumbles, eyes on his coffee. “Baked ‘em.”
“Phewww!” Hoseok collapses beside Jimin and sits clutching his heart. “Made it! Oh! Cookies?! Hyung, you told me you didn’t have any left!”
“I didn’t,” Yoongi says. “Those two were for Jiminie.”
Jimin slowly eats one of the cookies as he sips his coffee. Their perch is high enough to see over the sweeping curve of the tarpaulin to the three Jaegers opposite. One lit with work lamps and glowing sparks and hope. One - Jimin’s and Taehyung’s, in the centre - dark and hopeless. And one, the third and oldest, just a ghostly sketch of what it used to be.
“Joonie asked you to pilot her?” Hoseok murmurs gently, nodding at the new Mark 4.
“He ordered me to pilot her.”
“Are you angry with him?” Hoseok asks bluntly.
Jimin sighs. He wraps up the second cookie and tucks it away in his own pocket, and leans back on his hands.
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m just angry with... everything. I didn’t want us to die out there, in a huge metal shell, fighting a horrible monstrous lizard, but I was ready for it, if we had to. We.”
“I get it,” Hoseok nods. “I felt the same way, about dying. Let’s not, but if we must, let’s go together.”
“Hyungie...” Jimin whispers, putting an arm around him.
“I feel a bit ridiculous, actually,” Hoseok says, with a slightly nervous laugh. “I mean, Taehyungie has completely outdone me here! I should have tried to get written off for something more dramatic!”
“Don’t say that, hyungie!” Jimin chides, hugging him closer. “It’s not a competition.”
“And if it was, Jiminie would be the one winning,” Yoongi interjects dryly.
“Doesn’t feel like winning,” Jimin says sulkily. “Going out in a Jaeger again without my soulmate. Facing that together-death with some stranger. Leaving Tae here, when he’s...”
Jimin waves a hand with a grimace. Hoseok hugs him close again.
“You met the recruits yet?”
“Nope,” Jimin sighs. “We’re having tryouts tomorrow first thing. I dunno, hyungie, I know I have to step up, but...”
There’s a long moment of quiet between the three of them above the hum and buzz of two hundred people tweaking and polishing a giant killing machine that has no pilot crew yet.
“It might work out,” Yoongi says suddenly.
Unlike the other two, he’s not watching the sparks and hustle around the Mark 4. His eyes are on the ghostly third Jaeger. Arson Horizon. His. Theirs.
“You would say that,” Jimin blurts out. “Namjoon-hyung said--”
He cuts himself off, embarrassed and anxious. Hoseok is grimacing. But Yoongi’s expression doesn’t even flicker. He hums softly, shrugs his good shoulder.
“Joonie said he knows what it’s like,” Yoongi says easily, confidently. “Mmh. He knows what being told Taehyungie could no longer pilot is like. But he doesn’t know what finding a new drift partner is like, because he never got the chance to do that.”
Hoseok reaches, behind Jimin’s back, to lace his narrow fingers over Yoongi’s long ones.
Yoongi turns his head and actually meets Jimin’s eyes.
“But I do,” he continues. “And I can’t imagine not having had that loudmouth beside you in my head for three years.”
Yoongi looks away again quickly. Apparently overwhelmed by the look in Jimin’s eyes, which is probably pretty close to teary awe. Or maybe he’s just overwhelmed by making eye contact at all. Instead, he gazes at Arson again. His voice is a little gruff when he continues.
“It’s worth opening yourself to loss, Jimin-ah. It has to be. Go find your own Hope.”